I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
He walks to the door and cautiously opens it.
“Room service,” the man on the other side announces.
“We didn’t order any room service,” Jayden tells him.
“This was sent on behalf of Gabrielle. She said you would understand.”
Jayden opens the door wider and allows the man, who’s wearing the standard uniform here—a red-and-white Hawaiian shirt—into the room.
He parks the cart, covered with a white tablecloth and a red satin place mat, near the bed. He removes a plate from beneath the cart and sets it on top of the place mat. “Enjoy.”
He then leaves the room.
Jayden lifts the silver dome covering the plate, revealing a single slice of chocolate torte.
And a length of silk rope.
Wrinkles form on his brow. “Why would Gabrielle send us this stuff?”
“Because when she asked us what got us in the mood for sex, I said chocolate. And when I asked you if you would rather lick whipped cream off me or tie me up and have your way with me, you said tie me up.”
“So what? If I had picked whipped cream, she would’ve sent a can of spray whipped cream?”
“Exactly.” I toss the rope at him. “Enjoy! I plan to thoroughly appreciate my chocolate dessert.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” He gestures to the rope in his hand.
“Practice your boy scout knots.”
I raise a forkful of torte to my lips. Jayden’s gaze follows it.
I wrap my lips around the dessert and moan in the same way I did in the restaurant while eating the enchiladas. Only this time the moan is louder, unrestrained. With intent.
“Oh, God. Whoever made this is a saint.” I thought the enchiladas were good.
This is heaven.
The downside? I’m now horny.
I take it back. The chocolatey goodness wasn’t made by a saint. The devil himself created it.
But since I’m not about to snub it—because that would be a crime in itself—I devour another bite.
And make the sound again.
I can’t help it. The dessert is just that good.
Jayden watches me the entire time—which, for some reason, is an even bigger turn-on.
Suddenly the room feels a lot hotter than it did a few minutes ago.
I lift the dessert-laden fork toward him. “You want a bite?”
I expect him to do the polite thing and decline. He doesn’t.
He shortens the distance between us and wraps his lips around the fork. There’s something predatorily sensual about the move, and I almost moan out loud.
