"How long before breakfast is ready?" he asked, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"Why?"

He rubbed himself against her and Melanie realized he was naked. And fully aroused.

"Why do you think?" he asked.

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. "You can't be serious."

He leaned back and looked pointedly downward. "Do I look like I'm joking?" He started unbuttoning her shirt.

Melanie peeked down and gulped. Holy smokes. He was serious. "I thought you were hungry."

The shirt hit the floor. He bent his head and fastened his lips on her nipple. "I'm starved," he murmured.

The spatula slipped from Melanie's fingers and clattered on the ceramic tile floor. She somehow had the presence of mind to reach behind her and turn down the stove before he scooped her up and carried her back to the bedroom and gently deposited her on the rumpled sheets.

"I woke up and you were gone," he said, kneeling between her splayed thighs. He ran a single finger between her breasts down to her navel. "I missed you."

Melanie watched him, her heart speeding up as his finger continued on its lazy journey and played with the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

"I thought you wanted breakfast," she murmured, hot desire pooling low in her body.

"I do. Later." He trailed his fingers up her thigh and tangled themselves in the curls at the apex. "Right now I want you."

"Oh, well, all right," Melanie managed to say, her eyes drifting closed when he caressed the moist, swollen flesh between her legs. "If you insist."


* * *

Thirty minutes later, once again clad in Chris's dress shirt, Melanie poked at the congealed mess in the frying pan.

"How do you like your eggs?" she called. "Black or brown?"

Chris walked into the kitchen, dressed in a clean T-shirt, a pair of navy shorts, and his Reeboks. He looked over her shoulder and whistled.

"Yuck," he said, shaking his head. "That looks like stuff you scrape off tires. Good thing I'm heading out to grab us some grub."

Melanie cocked a brow at him. "This would have been a perfectly respectable breakfast if certain people hadn't distracted the cook."

He patted her behind. "Couldn't help it. The cook was mighty distracting."

Melanie turned and found herself face to face with him. Dark stubble shaded his jaw, and his hair looked as if someone-namely her-had been running her fingers through it. He looked incredibly sexy and slightly rumpled, as if he'd just rolled out of bed, which, of course, was precisely the case.

"I think," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, "that you are just easily distracted."

"Funny thing is, I'm usually not."

"Could have fooled me. As far as I can tell, you get aroused by a strong breeze. Not that I'm complaining."

He cupped her face with his hands, his gaze long and searching. "I get the impression," he said, a frown forming between his brows, "that you think what happened between us last night is a normal and frequent occurrence for me."

"Isn't it?" Melanie shook her head in disbelief at her own question. She held up her hands. "No, never mind. I don't want to know. It's none of my business anyway."

"None of your business?" he repeated, an incredulous note in his tone. "Oh, boy. Listen, we are going to talk about this. But later. I'm in serious need of sustenance. Why don't you put on some coffee while I'm gone." He dropped a kiss on her nose. "I'll be right back."

"I'll be right here."

A slow smile curved his lips. "Then it seems I have you right where I want you." He grabbed his keys and left, whistling slightly off key.

Standing in his kitchen, Melanie heard the front door click shut.

He was gone.

But definitely not forgotten.


* * *

When Chris walked into his condo half an hour later, he was greeted by the heady aroma of fresh brewed coffee, the soft sounds of Elton John on the stereo, and the woman of his dreams wearing his favorite dress shirt, setting his table.

He stood in the doorway leading into his kitchen, feasting his eyes on the sight of Melanie giving his counter a swipe with a sponge. From the top of her curly head to her bare feet, she looked disheveled and well loved.

And by God, that's what she was.

Well loved.

She satisfied him more completely, fulfilled him more absolutely than any woman ever had.

The thing that surprised him was how calm he felt about loving her. He'd always thought he'd panic at the first sign of falling in love-find himself in a frenzy to escape and cling to his freedom.

But not with Melanie. He knew without a doubt that she was "the one." The one he wanted to spend his life with, wake up next to every morning, live with, love with, and share everything with. His plan hadn't been to find "the one" for another few years, but what the hell, he was flexible.

Now all he had to do was convince her.

She was understandably gun-shy of relationships, and he didn't want to scare her off. Yet, his pesky inner voice yelled that persuading her to continue their relationship would be damned hard to do if he screwed up her chances of getting her loan.

He firmly told his pesky inner voice to shut up.


* * *

"That was a great breakfast," Melanie said, leaning back and patting her full stomach. "Best cheese danish I've ever eaten."

Chris winked at her. "You should try my cinnamon buns."

She laughed. "I thought I already had."

"Are we still talking about breakfast?"

"Beats me." Melanie pointed to the unpacked grocery bag on the counter. "What's in there?"

Chris stretched out his legs and sipped his coffee. "Cake stuff."

"What do you mean, 'cake stuff'?"

"Stuff to make a cake. It's on your things-I-want-to-do-before-I-die list. Besides, you're a gourmet cook. You should know what cake stuff is."

Curious, Melanie peeked in the bag. There were three boxes inside. She reached in and pulled out a box of Duncan Hines chocolate cake mix. The next box yielded a mix for fluffy fudge frosting. She pulled out the last box and choked back a laugh.

"Condoms?" she asked, raising her brows. "What do condoms have to do with making cakes?"

He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. "We have to do something while the cake is in the oven," he said, nuzzling her neck.

"The cake only has to bake for thirty-five minutes. This is a package of thirty-six condoms."

"So we'll have one left over," he said against her lips.

Melanie laughed. "Maybe we should try to pace ourselves."

"No can do. In case you can't tell, I want you again."

"I can tell, and I must say I'm amazed. And flattered." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his stubbly jaw. "Don't you ever get tired?"

"If you'd asked me that question last week, I would have said yes. Today, the answer is no. It appears that you are to me what spinach is to Popeye." He nibbled on her neck. "One taste of you and I have the strength of a thousand men."

"A thousand men? I think you're gonna need some more condoms, Popeye."

"Now you're talkin'," he said, chuckling. "But first we shower. Then we bake. Then… well, we'll have to see." He shot her an exaggerated leer. "I have a feeling we'll find something to do."

Melanie laughed at his expression and tried to ignore her racing pulse. Again she had to force herself to remember that this was an interlude. An affair. No commitments, no promises. She had to enjoy it while it lasted, then let it go. No more relationships for her. No way. Just fun and games.

Now all she had to do was convince her heart.

In an effort to control the emotions simmering on the surface, she asked, "Shower? Us? You mean like, together?"

"Absolutely." He wrapped his arms around her and stood. "Never let it be said that I haven't done my part in the global water conservation effort." He walked toward the bathroom, kissing her all the while.

"Besides," he added when they reached their destination, "we have to do something to keep up with our tradition of getting wet every time we're together."

"I've never done anything like this," Melanie murmured, watching him turn on the water spray.

The intense, burning look he sent her melted her insides to the consistency of maple syrup. He unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off her shoulders. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear that." Opening the shower door, he held out his hand to her. "Come with me."

"Hmmm. Now there's a phrase that's ripe with possibilities," Melanie said, managing to keep her tone light in spite of the ever growing tightness in her throat. Her heart and mind were battling it out again in the Olympic love-versus-lust war. She had a sinking feeling that heart was going to win.

She slipped her hand into his and stepped into the shower.

Oh, well. Let the Games begin.

Chapter 13

"You look great," Chris said several hours later, leaning back to survey his handiwork. Melanie lay in the middle of his bed, naked except for several well-placed swirls of fluffy fudge frosting. "Fabulous, if I may say so myself."

"This is not how you decorate a cake," she insisted, squirming as he continued to "paint" her abdomen. "I've read dozens of cookbooks, and I've never seen instructions like this. If Betty Crocker even suspected what you're doing with that frosting, she'd fall down in a dead faint."

He drew a heart around her navel. "Who?"

"Never mind. And this may come as a shock," she added in a breathless voice, "but baking is normally done in the kitchen. Not the bedroom."

"This is not baking," Chris countered, dipping his finger into the glass bowl he held and spreading another dab of chocolate icing on Melanie's nipple. "This is decorating. We burned the cake. I wouldn't think of wasting all this great frosting." He leaned forward and sampled the delectable treat he'd just made.

"Delicious," he pronounced.

Melanie leaned up on her elbows. "We did not burn the cake," she informed him in a haughty tone that made Chris smile. "You burned the cake."

"Only because you wouldn't let me take it out of the oven when the timer went off."

"Wouldn't let you! How do you figure that?"

"You were on top," he reminded her in a calm tone. He suppressed a laugh at the bright red blush creeping up her cheeks. "I couldn't move."

She shot him a dirty look. "Oh. Well, you could have moved if you'd wanted to."

"Ah, but I didn't want to," he said, spreading a thin layer of icing on her bottom lip. "I was very happy where I was."

He watched her eyes darken with remembrance of their earlier lovemaking, and his heart squeezed tight in his chest. There it was again-that warm rush of love sweeping over him. It washed through him, nearly stealing his breath and leaving a lump in his throat that he had to struggle to swallow around.

Even though she hadn't said so, he knew she was feeling the same things he was. She had to be. He could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him, feel it in her touch, taste it in her kiss. He wondered how she would react if he told her he loved her.

You idiot. She'd run like a scared rabbit. And that was the last thing he wanted. It was too soon.

Besides, how do you tell a woman something like that? Just blurt it out? Damned if I know. He'd never told a woman he loved her-except his mother and sisters, and they didn't count.

Do you just tell her? Open your mouth and let the words flop out? Yeah. Let 'em flop out. Simple was best.

But he had to wait until she was ready. He'd give her another week. Nodding to himself, he decided that was fair. She could have one more week to realize they were meant to be together. Then he'd tell her that he loved her, she'd tell him the same thing, and that would be that.

A sobering thought burst through his reverie. What if she doesn't love me? A shudder ran through him, and he swatted the disturbing idea aside.

She does. She has to. And if she doesn't yet, she will. I'm not going to marry someone who doesn't love me. Since I'm going to marry her, she just has to love me. Period. That's the bottom line. End of discussion.

He was about to dip his finger into the frosting again when his hand froze. Did I just think what I think I thought?

Sure did, buddy, his inner voice replied. You just thought the dreaded M word.

Marriage. He was thinking about marriage.