Free Dancing in a Hurricane by Laura Breck

he stayed down there pleasing her with his tongue until he needed air. He'd floated her at the shallow end and finished her off. Closing his eyes, he visualized doing it to Bree. "Shwing." Every time he thought about her, he got hard.
    In the shower, he eased his suffering by rubbing one out. Once he finished, he collapsed against the tile wall, breathing heavily. He wasn't making any progress with Bree. How long could he last before he had to give up and find another woman? One who wanted him?
    ***
    Bree kept five great recipes in her head and that's all she usually ventured to cook, but after Sixto whipped up culinary delights for every meal, she wanted to reciprocate. She showered off the pool water, giggling at the memory of his face when she'd dumped the ice water on him, but sobering quickly as her blood heated at the memory of being held in his arms, carried across the pool deck. His hard bicep pressed across her shoulders, his pecs pressing into her breast. And those beautiful, brown eyes sparkling mischievously.
    What would he have done if she'd let him remove her bikini bottom? Sucking in a breath, a shiver rocked her insides. Damn. She turned the water to cool, shocking her body into remembering all the reasons she shouldn't be drooling after Sixto. They owned a house together, lived together, she wanted long-term, and he wanted "just sex." And now the newest speed bump; he worked for the company she owned.
    Why hadn't he mentioned that before? What was it that she was missing here? Did Sixto know more than he was sharing? Or was he as uninformed as she—and her attorney—remained?
    She dressed quickly and jumped into her car—although it was still hard to think of it as hers—and drove to the grocery store. The other shoppers seemed surprisingly friendly, especially the men. Had she wandered into a grocery store or a social club? She'd have to remember this place on those many alone nights coming up.
    Back home in the kitchen, she submerged the salmon in a spicy Cajun marinade, started the potatoes boiling, and fired up the grill. She tossed a salad with spinach, pine nuts, and craisins, and made a balsamic vinaigrette dressing. In the mixer, she beat egg whites, added the melted chocolate and egg mixture, folded it gently by hand, and poured it into a soufflé pan. In slow motion, she put it in the oven while saying a tiny prayer. Her soufflés only came out perfect about half the time, but her oven in Port Angeles wasn't as fancy as this one.
    She set out the ingredients for the vanilla cream drizzle and put whole garlic cloves on the grill to roast. Hearing music coming from his room, she walked to Sixto's patio door and knocked.
    "Come in."
    She slid open the door and peeked her head in. The scent of his space filled her nostrils. Leather, soap, and a manly musk all his own. His bedroom was the same size as hers but looked smaller because of the big furniture. On one side he had three red leather recliners and a huge television. On the other side stood his impressive dark wood bed. The black satin sheets and a red and black quilt fit his personality. The gray walls showcased his colorful abstract artwork.
    He sat on the bed, propped against the headboard, a textbook open next to him, typing on his laptop. He showered, but only wore red satin basketball shorts. Against the black bedding and dark headboard, he looked feral, smooth, and sexy. She bit her cheek to keep from purring. And clenched the door handle to keep from jumping onto the bed with him.
    "I'm making an apology supper for you."
    He glanced at her. "Yeah?
    "Are you hungry?"
    "Are you going to poison me?"
    "Not intentionally. Interested?"
    He chuckled. "Sure. Right now?"
    "About a half hour. I'll knock when it's ready."
    "Thanks." He smiled. "And thanks for the apology. I wasn't expecting it."
    She grimaced. "I did call you a jerk and pour ice water over your head."
    He shrugged and went back to typing. "It's not the first time it's