fulfilled. When you were the porcelain doll in the glass case, there was no reason for ambition or dreams.
You would think someone with her life would be happy and at peace, and if she were normal, that would probably have been the case. But there was something wrong with Sheldon, some piece of her wiring that never connected because she only felt empty. A tinman without a heart, a scarecrow without a brain and a lion without courage—all rolled into one.
The only tangible assets that belonged to Sheldon were a classically sculpted face and a body that made dead men moan. Hall of Famers is what the tabloids termed her cleavage and Sheldon had learned to use it whenever necessary.
Like now.
“You’re complaining?” she drawled.
His strong, capable hands never stopped their mechanical chopping motion. For weeks, she’d had dreams of those hands on her. Steamy, vivid dreams that didn’t disappear when she’d woken up.
“Not complaining, just trying to be helpful.” He smiled at her, a toothy, advertising-type smile, possibly attributed to Toothbrite toothpaste. She suspected that he knew she hated it—both the toothpaste and the smile—which was why he did it.
“Is there something I can do?” she purred, her eyes gleaming when his hand stopped for a second.
He waved her off and continued working. “Hungover this morning?”
She pulled her hair into a ponytail, her chest lifting with the movement.
His gaze drifted down.
Her lips curved upward.
“Are you ever closed for business?” he asked.
Her eyes, normally vacuous and sultry, looked down meekly so that he wouldn’t see the rage. Rage implied a depth that she didn’t want to possess.
She backed away from the kitchen, the knife, and the man with the strong, capable hands, and padded barefoot across the room.
“I think I’ll take a shower,” she stated, slipping the tank over her head. It was a picture designed to freeze a man’s brain, but he wasn’t even watching. She was furious at herself for such an obvious act of desperation, but not so furious that she didn’t slide the signature red panties down over her long, tanned legs as well.
“You don’t mind do you?” she asked louder than necessary, her heart rapping inside her. He did this to her, reduced all her self-confidence to shreds.
Finally, his dark gaze lit over her, and she felt each and every white-hot touch. This time he didn’t smile, only lowered his head and continued the whap-whap-whap against the cutting board.
Dismissed.
She left her clothes in a messy heap in the middle of the floor, and retreated to the loneliness of his shower. She turned on the warm spray and let it wash over her body, slipping between her breasts and thighs like a lover with knowing, capable hands. She shouldn’t have been alone. He should be there, too.
Men didn’t ignore her—ever. Especially men like Jeff. He was no extraordinary example of humanity. He was nice looking, with a hot body. But those dark, devilish eyes weren’t supposed to be steely strong.
He should be weak.
Like her.
Men in the media business never had scruples. She was sure of it.
Life truly wasn’t fair.
JEFF CONTINUED CHOPPING UNTIL all eleven green peppers had been diced into precise triangles. When there were no more peppers left to chop, he exhaled slowly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was a good thing she hadn’t touched him because he knew in his heart, he would’ve jumped all over that.
He clicked on the television, letting the perky morning news shows dull the throbbing ache of his erection. An erection that needed to be inserted into the golden, shimmering skin that nestled beneath her thighs.
Brazilian. Why Brazilian?
Jeff groaned, loud, ragged. A rutting stag deprived of dinner. Would she notice if he spent the next thirty minutes jerking off? Probably. She’d want to help. That was her way.
He threw the peppers into the sauté pan and cranked up the gas burner, watching the thick skins pulse as the heat licked them into submission. Next he poured on the shallots, hacking off a chunk of butter, the butter sizzling from the burn. He took eight eggs from the refrigerator and kicked the door shut with extra force. It didn’t help ease the pain, but these were desperate times that called for dramatic gestures, meaningless or not.
One by one he cracked the eggs, stirring them into a fine glop before pouring over the tenderized vegetables. The heat of the flame melted the two mixtures into a fiery joining of culinary souls tasting the full extent of their passion.
Life really wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to want Sheldon. But there were parts of him that weren’t cooperating. Parts of him that longed to be acquainted with parts of her.
Reacquainted. Because according to Little Miss “I Put My Body Where I Want To,” said cock had already met said bare, naked nethers in a fiery joining of their own. Six weeks ago she’d claimed they’d had wild, untamed sex. Four times. And all he could remember was Sheldon trying to drink him under the table at Club Red. The rest of the night was a gut-rotting blank.
Expertly he flipped the omelet, shredding some Gouda over the smooth, golden body of the eggs.
Eventually, the cheese melted, sliding into each and every crevice of the sensual delicacy. Jeff flipped it onto a plate, ruthlessly sliced it into two halves, and then laid the plates on the bar.
When exposed to the sunlight, it looked liked nothing more than breakfast. His mind latched onto the commonplace thought, pushing aside visions of naked thighs and full breasts being drenched by the water from his shower. Damn it. He thought he was safe. Thought she’d given him a reprieve.
He was wrong.
Sheldon came into the living room, using a towel to dry the long lengths of her white-blond hair. The rest of her was still dripping wet. Nude—and dripping wet. His eyes noticed, his hands began to shake, and his cock…well, at the moment he really didn’t want to think about the tortured appendage that used to be functional.
She walked—walked being a very inadequate word to describe the sensual movement of her body—over to the small pile of underwear, picking up her bra and panties.
“Can’t believe I was such a slob,” she said, her eyes catching at the waistband of his boxers. “My, my, my…” she said, clicking her tongue against her teeth. He hated the celebration in her eyes, but he was a weakened piece of flesh. It was self-preservation alone that kept him motionless.
Her hand reached toward him, and he closed his eyes, steeling himself for her touch. He was strong. He was invincible. And mostly, there were ten million reasons that he could not touch her. Again.
“An omelet? You are talented,” she whispered, her hand flirting near his waist. Yet, she didn’t touch him.
He swallowed.
She noticed.
Her hand fell away, and he told himself that he was relieved, lying bastard that he was. But then, the gates of hell opened before him. She leaned down, the sweet angel of temptation, and touched the tip of her tongue to the engorged, pained, tortured while panting-like-a-happy-puppy tip of his cock.
She popped back up, wearing a smile of victory and nothing else. Then she wiggled her brows at him and strolled into the bathroom. He couldn’t suppress his groan.
“I heard that,” she yelled.
At the moment he didn’t care.
SHELDON’S APARTMENT WAS ON THE Upper West Side. Counting on the crosstown traffic, the trip would add an extra forty-five minutes to his Monday morning commute, but Jeff had no choice. It was time