And there was nothing but her, to take, to drown in, to ravage and to worship until passion spun from its peak and emptied him.

Chapter Eleven

“I’m starving.”

It was full dark, with no moon to shed any trickle of light into the room. The darkness itself was comfortable and easy. They were still naked and tangled on Summer’s bed, but the piano had been silent for an hour. There were no more supper smells in the air. Blake drew her a bit closer and kept his eyes shut, though it wasn’t sleep he sought. Somehow in the silence, in the darkness, he felt closer to her.

“I’m starving,” Summer repeated, a bit sulkily this time.

“You’re the chef.”

“Oh, no, not this time.” Rising on her elbow, Summer glared at him. She could see the silhouette of his profile, the long line of chin, the straight nose, the sweep of brow. She wanted to kiss all of them again, but knew it was time to make a stand. “It’s definitely your turn to cook.”

“My turn?” He opened one eye, cautiously. “I could send out for pizza.”

“Takes too long.” She rolled on top of him to give him a smacking kiss—and a quick jab in the ribs. “I said I was starving. That’s an immediate problem.”

He folded his arms behind his head. He, too, could see only a silhouette—the drape of her hair, slope of her shoulder, the curve of her breasts. It was enough. “I don’t cook.”

“Everyone cooks something,” she insisted.

“Scrambled eggs,” he said, hoping it would discourage her. “That’s about it.”

“That’ll do.” Before he could think of anything to change her mind, she was off the bed and switching on the bedside lamp.

“Summer!” He tossed his arm over his eyes to shield them and tried a halfhearted moan. She grinned at that before she turned to the closet to find a robe.

“I have eggs, and a skillet.”

“I make very bad eggs.”

“That’s okay.” She found his slacks, shook them out briefly, then tossed them on top of him. “Real hunger makes allowances.”

Resigned, Blake put his feet on the floor. “Then I don’t expect a critique afterward.”

While she waited, he slipped into a pair of brief jockey shorts. They were dark blue, cut low at the waist, high at the thigh. Very sexy, she mused, and very discreet. Strange how such an incidental thing could reflect a personality.

“Cooks like to be cooked for,” she told him as he drew on his slacks.

He shrugged into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. “Then don’t interfere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hooking her arm through his, Summer led him to the kitchen. Again, she switched on lights and made him wince. “Make yourself at home,” she invited.

“Aren’t you going to assist?”

“No, indeed.” Summer took the top off the cookie jar and plucked out the familiar sandwich cookie. “I don’t work overtime and I never assist.”

“Union rules?”

“My rules.”