Read Online No strings attached by Alison Kent - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alison Kent
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the ones that told her the most about him.
In what had to be the space where Eric spent most of his time, the only room on the first floor that looked lived in, a plush sectional in brushed blue corduroy formed a half-moon in front of a big screen TV.
The walls displayed a dozen framed prints, brightly colored abstract visions of sports figures in action, computer enhanced to simulate motion. Copies of Sports Illustrated and Men’s Health were fanned haphazardly over the surface of a low, square coffee table.
Behind the curve of the sectional sofa was what had to be Eric’s home gym. A space-age treadmill and all-in-one weight-and-resistance apparatus faced a massive stereo system. Chloe smiled, because she could so relate. Blasting music made it a hell of a lot easier to force the body through the burn.
But the kitchen where she now stood wasn’t what she’d expected to find in the home of a guy Eric’s age. Though, for Eric, the stainless-steel luxury made perfect sense. She knew he was responsible for a lot of the specialty items served on Haydon’s menu, though he continually tried to talk everyone he knew into doing his cooking for him. So, picturing him in this room, slicing and dicing, simmering and frying, required no stretch of the imagination.
It was a chef’s wet dream—gleaming silver-toned appliances, cabinet and drawer fronts in shiny black, countertops in white marble. It was also unbelievably spotless. Chloe wasn’t sure even her kitchen would measure up, though she rarely used the grand space she did have for more than toasting bagels and chopping fresh veggies. Her food routine could use a little shake-up; she just never seemed to have the time.
She’d have to see about talking Eric into cooking for her one of these days, she thought, peering into his refrigerator to check out the contents. She had skipped lunch, after all, burning the energy of a carb bar while on the volleyball court. A little nourishment wouldn’t hurt. Especially with her body screaming, “Feed me!”
“See anything you’d like?”
At Eric’s question, Chloe slowly straightened and turned. She’d been about to ask if he had time to whip up a late afternoon lunch, or an early evening dinner,but he stood there wearing nothing but a head of wet hair and a knee-length towel around his waist.
Her hunger shifted, stirring her blood and her interest.
She saw a lot worth liking. He was fantasy delicious, with his hair endearingly spiky and messy, as if he’d tumbled straight out of bed. His chest was lightly sculpted and bare of hair, with more than a few drops of leftover water she longed to lap from his skin.
That reaction surprised her, coming as it did from a place she hadn’t thought she was ready to visit. A place, in fact, she’d told herself to avoid. But now that he was standing here half-naked, she had trouble remembering why enjoying his body was such a taboo.
His towel was actually nothing more than a wraparound length of terry cloth held in place by a wide strip of Velcro. The imaginary rip of the two sides separating zipped down nerve endings already tingling and charged.
She gestured at the refrigerator, the door standing open, the air cool on her back. Cool was nice. Cool she needed. “A couple of things look pretty good. I could go for that lemon cheesecake.”
Or the bottle of chocolate syrup and your skin.
Eric moved a step closer, his smile white and beaming, his bare feet a sexy slap against the floor’s black-flecked white tiles. He kept his gaze locked on hers, the distance between them growing sliver-width slim until with every breath she inhaled Chloe learned Eric’s scent.
Beyond soap and shampoo, she smelled warmth and the intimate essence of skin. He lifted a hand, reached behind her into the fridge, so close she could count the freshly scrubbed whiskers he hadn’t bothered toshave and, when she looked down, the thatch of hair in his armpit.
He grabbed the bottle of water he was
In what had to be the space where Eric spent most of his time, the only room on the first floor that looked lived in, a plush sectional in brushed blue corduroy formed a half-moon in front of a big screen TV.
The walls displayed a dozen framed prints, brightly colored abstract visions of sports figures in action, computer enhanced to simulate motion. Copies of Sports Illustrated and Men’s Health were fanned haphazardly over the surface of a low, square coffee table.
Behind the curve of the sectional sofa was what had to be Eric’s home gym. A space-age treadmill and all-in-one weight-and-resistance apparatus faced a massive stereo system. Chloe smiled, because she could so relate. Blasting music made it a hell of a lot easier to force the body through the burn.
But the kitchen where she now stood wasn’t what she’d expected to find in the home of a guy Eric’s age. Though, for Eric, the stainless-steel luxury made perfect sense. She knew he was responsible for a lot of the specialty items served on Haydon’s menu, though he continually tried to talk everyone he knew into doing his cooking for him. So, picturing him in this room, slicing and dicing, simmering and frying, required no stretch of the imagination.
It was a chef’s wet dream—gleaming silver-toned appliances, cabinet and drawer fronts in shiny black, countertops in white marble. It was also unbelievably spotless. Chloe wasn’t sure even her kitchen would measure up, though she rarely used the grand space she did have for more than toasting bagels and chopping fresh veggies. Her food routine could use a little shake-up; she just never seemed to have the time.
She’d have to see about talking Eric into cooking for her one of these days, she thought, peering into his refrigerator to check out the contents. She had skipped lunch, after all, burning the energy of a carb bar while on the volleyball court. A little nourishment wouldn’t hurt. Especially with her body screaming, “Feed me!”
“See anything you’d like?”
At Eric’s question, Chloe slowly straightened and turned. She’d been about to ask if he had time to whip up a late afternoon lunch, or an early evening dinner,but he stood there wearing nothing but a head of wet hair and a knee-length towel around his waist.
Her hunger shifted, stirring her blood and her interest.
She saw a lot worth liking. He was fantasy delicious, with his hair endearingly spiky and messy, as if he’d tumbled straight out of bed. His chest was lightly sculpted and bare of hair, with more than a few drops of leftover water she longed to lap from his skin.
That reaction surprised her, coming as it did from a place she hadn’t thought she was ready to visit. A place, in fact, she’d told herself to avoid. But now that he was standing here half-naked, she had trouble remembering why enjoying his body was such a taboo.
His towel was actually nothing more than a wraparound length of terry cloth held in place by a wide strip of Velcro. The imaginary rip of the two sides separating zipped down nerve endings already tingling and charged.
She gestured at the refrigerator, the door standing open, the air cool on her back. Cool was nice. Cool she needed. “A couple of things look pretty good. I could go for that lemon cheesecake.”
Or the bottle of chocolate syrup and your skin.
Eric moved a step closer, his smile white and beaming, his bare feet a sexy slap against the floor’s black-flecked white tiles. He kept his gaze locked on hers, the distance between them growing sliver-width slim until with every breath she inhaled Chloe learned Eric’s scent.
Beyond soap and shampoo, she smelled warmth and the intimate essence of skin. He lifted a hand, reached behind her into the fridge, so close she could count the freshly scrubbed whiskers he hadn’t bothered toshave and, when she looked down, the thatch of hair in his armpit.
He grabbed the bottle of water he was
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