Room Service. Jill Shalvis

nothing of women?”

      “Apparently not.”

      “Just take me to my bed, superhero.”

      Eric’s eyes darkened. “I like the super part.”

      “Eric,” Em warned softly.

      “Right.” He frowned at Liza. “I’ll put you to bed, but that’s all I’m doing.”

      “Oooh, playing hard to get.” Liza sighed and again set her head to his chest, staring up at him adoringly. “You’re good at that.”

      Eric looked over her head at Em helplessly.

      She shook her head.

      Eric’s jaw ticked. “I’ll get her to her room. You going to be okay here by yourself?”

      “I’ll be safer than you,” Em assured him, watching as he led Liza out of the restaurant.

      Alone, Em looked around her and decided if she sat for much longer, she’d just begin obsessing again. Maybe instead, she’d walk around the city for a little bit to clear her head. Make a plan of action that involved more than drooling after the man she needed to talk into saving her sorry butt.

      She got as far as standing up and reaching for her purse when a low, husky voice drawled in her ear, “Leaving without dessert is an insult to the chef.”

      Her heart kicked once hard, and she turned her head, coming eye to chest with Chef Jacob Hill. At the sight of him, the rest of her kicked. The man exuded a raw sexuality that made her feel her own sexuality in ways she hadn’t in a long time, if ever. “You.”

      “Me,” he agreed. “You look beautiful.”

      “Oh…thank you.” She tugged at her black cocktail dress, modestly cut, but snug and—she hoped—relatively sexy. “I wasn’t sure of the dress code here—”

      “I didn’t mean your clothes.” When he smiled, as he did now with a dash of wicked intent, he flashed a single dimple on his right cheek, and she had the sudden, shocking urge to run a fingertip over the spot.

      He hadn’t shaved, and the slight stubble on his jaw was nearly longer than the short hair on his head. She wondered if it would be soft to the touch, then wondered why she wondered.

      Because she was losing her mind, that was why.

      He was younger than she’d imagined, but there was something about the way he held himself, and the way he took her in, that spoke of a much older soul. His mile-long legs were encased in black trousers instead of his Levi’s, his feet in much cleaner, much newer black boots than the ones he’d had on in the elevator.

      Chef Jacob Hill cleaned up real nice.

      “Crème brûlée or white peach cobbler?” he asked. “Or maybe a cheese plate with an imported selection of artisanal?”

      She slid her hand to her belly, which was jumping nervously. Ask him. Ask him to be your TV chef. She was afraid if she opened her mouth she was going to ask him something else entirely.

      Come to my bed.

      “I’m full.”

      “Are you kidding? You’re never too full for dessert.”

      His voice was somehow extremely arousing, which she told herself would be great for the show, and that was why she’d noticed.

      Alie.

      She’d noticed because she was a woman. A woman who’d felt his voice all the way to her toes. In fact, the tingling effect began deep in her womb and spread, and she squirmed some more.

      He noticed. His eyes cut to her body as she wiggled, and then back up to her gaze, something new there besides the curiosity and wry amusement.

      Heat. Lots of heat.

      Oh, boy. Resisting the urge to fan cool air in front of her hot face, she searched around for something else to lock her gaze on, for something to occupy her mind, because ever since that elevator kiss, nothing else but this man had.

      The tables were all hopping with activity, everyone enjoying themselves. Waiters and waitresses moved around, serving with easy charm and personality, all so beautiful Em could have hired any one of them for her show and the cameras would have been thrilled.

      One particularly beautiful waitress was serving a table of elderly gentlemen with professionalism, even when the oldest of the bunch reached out and patted her butt.

      In return she shook her head and patted the top of his head with a smile. The old man adjusted his toupee and smiled with only a hint of regret.

      Oh, good. Everyone had sex on the brain, not just Em. Maybe it was the hotel. She reached for her water and gulped it down.

      “You okay?” he asked her, bringing her attention back to him.

      As if she could possibly forget he was there.

      Not quite sure she trusted herself to speak, she nodded her head. See? See how fine I am? And by the way, will you come with me to Hollywood and save my sorry career?

      “Please, sit,” he urged, putting a hand on her arm.

      Just like in the elevator, his touch electrified.

      “I’d really love to bring you dessert,” he said. He smiled a little. Could he see how he turned her on without even trying? “I owe you.”

      “No, that’s okay. Really. I—”

      He put a finger on her lips, yet again touching her, and yet again causing her every hormone to stand up and take notice.

      “Wait here,” he said in quiet demand.

      Wait here, repeated those hormones, and quivered. She nodded, and he gave her another little knowing smile that told her he realized exactly what he did to her. She watched him stride off, tall, sure…confident that she’d wait simply because he’d commanded it to be so.

      She didn’t understand it, but he had this unsettling way about him of getting her to do what he wanted.

      What was that?

      She had no idea, but she waited. But only because she wanted to.

      4

      HE’D MADE HER SQUIRM, Jacob thought, intrigued. He walked into the restaurant kitchen, grabbed a plate and loaded it himself, intending on sitting with her to watch her eat, and to see if he could make her squirm again because it was damned arousing.

      She was arousing, with her wide, expressive eyes, her full lips that she kept licking nervously. Her voice. Her taste. The way she looked at him. As if he was some forbidden treat tempting her to the ends of her restraints.

      He moved back into the dining area, which was filled with contented diners, and felt that same surge of fulfillment he got every single night. She was still sitting there, watching him approach with both wariness and something else, something he recognized well. Awareness.

      Let the dance begin, he thought, and smiled as he sat. “Try this. Bouche S’mores. House-made marshmallow, fresh graham crackers and imported semisweet chocolate, all melted over an open flame.”

      “House-made marshmallow?”

      “Yes.” He met her gaze. “We get a lot of requests for marshmallows via room service, melted of course.”

      She stared down at the plate, a lovely flush working up her cheeks.

      “People are very fond of melted marshmallow,” he said. “Specifically, they’re fond of licking them.”

      She gave a slow blink. “Oh. Um—”

      “Off of each other,” he clarified. “Not the plate.”

      She reached out to touch the stack of marshmallow. Felt the soft, warm, gooey texture. She cocked her head as if considering