Olivia Lewis had been on her feet all day. Valentine’s Day made Tavern of the Grace, the bar she owned and operated in the small, bayside town of Fairhope, Alabama, swing from opening to closing. After booting straggling patrons out into the night and cleaning the place from top to bottom, her arches were screaming for some downtime.

As she walked into her place, she started to unzip one knee-high black leather boot then stopped to frown. Her apartment above the tavern had felt small when she’d lived there alone. Add in the clutter and presence of another—and his giant Irish wolfhound—and it had started to seem miniscule. As neither she nor her significant other were tidy, the rooms were normally strewn with the everyday debris of their joint lives.

It looked different tonight. Not only was it clean. Jars of candles were lit around the room. A crystal vase she’d never seen before overflowed with bluebonnets on the coffee table. And the scent of something zesty tickled her nostrils. Following the sound of classical music, she turned into the kitchen.

Olivia wasn’t surprised by much anymore. But her jaw dropped. Standing at the counter, wine glass at his elbow, bestselling author and renegade British earl, Gerald Leighton poured marinade over a pair of thick Angus steaks.

It wasn’t the fact that he was cooking that struck her. The man—her lover, her fiance, for Christ’s sake—liked to cook when the idea tickled his fancy. Which was fortunate because Olivia detested the chore. Gerald had studied the art of various things over the course of his life. Culinary skills was blessedly one of them.

What made her stop in her tracks was the sight of his long, naked back tied at the waist with apron strings and the kilt underneath.

He was an Englishman who prided himself on his strong ancestral ties to Scotland much more than he did the aristocratic peerage he’d fled across the pond from years ago.

Olivia had learned many things about the Scots. They liked their whiskey. They liked their plaid. And underneath…well, they didn’t wear much of anything.

She eyed the nice, tight curve of Gerald’s buttocks through the kilt and allowed her imagination to take flight. “Gerald,” she greeted.

He jumped slightly, his head rotating. The absentminded expression she’d come to love faded off as he beamed. “Hello, traveler. At last you’ve arrived.”

“The journey wasn’t exactly treacherous,” she acknowledged. “I just climbed the stairs.”

“An effort, after the night you’ve had,” he said, picking up a hand towel and rubbing his long fingers clean. He turned, bracing his hips against the counter and crossing his legs at the ankles. He gave her a once over. “Still, you look good enough to eat.”

She made a noise in her throat because the sight of the words KISS THE COOK surrounded by lipstick kisses on the front of the apron amused her greatly. “Nice apron.”

His grin widened. “I thought you’d like it.”

“What brought this on?” she asked, gesturing to the steak.

“You never came up for a break,” he pointed out. “I figured you were hungry.”

She hadn’t thought she’d be alert enough to fix something. In fact, she’d anticipated nothing more than tossing her clothes on the floor and joining his long, warm form under the blankets of her bed. “It’s after midnight.”

“Yes?”

She rubbed her lips together. As an author, he didn’t keep normal hours. As a bartender, neither did she. They suited one another, all too well—in more ways than one. She supposed that was why they’d be tying the knot in a few months and moving into a house together tomorrow. “You didn’t pack anymore boxes.”

He pulled a face. “Rex wanted a walk. And I felt the inclination to write.”

“Did you?” she asked. It thrilled her that he crafted his stories at her kitchen table. She glanced toward the oversized teak tabletop on the other end of the room and noted that his laptop was absent. So were the empty mugs of tea he left lying around on days his muse spoke to him. She loved reading his work. He’d dedicated his latest novel to her. To Olivia, he had written. My touchstone.

She glowed just thinking about it. She did a lot of that around him. For someone who’d been allergic to long-term relationships for so long, everything about her life with Gerald felt perfectly fascinating and oddly wonderful. “Where is he, by the way?” she wondered.

“Who?”

“The very hairy prince,” she indicated, circling her finger in the air to note the absence of canine.

“Ah,” he grasped. “Off to Adrian’s for the night. She and Kyle were happy to dogsit.”

“All night?”

There was a twinkle in his green eyes. “That’s right, love. All night.”

She shivered in anticipation. She liked Rex. She may have come to love the brute since Gerald had rescued him from the roadside. But the dog weighed over one-hundred pounds and took up a large amount of space in their bed.

Not having Rex to fight for covers or room at Gerald’s side would be a fine nighttime interlude indeed. Hell, she may be able to stretch her legs out all the way. She and Gerald could romp and roll and rock the headboard without him howling in confusion…

Olivia sketched her gaze over Gerald from the golden crown of his head to his aristocratic toes and felt an anticipatory glimmer around her heart and navel. Suddenly, she wasn’t the least bit tired. “How long do those steaks need to marinate?” she asked thoughtfully.

His grin turned sly, as if he knew exactly where her head was at. Pushing off the counter, he crossed the kitchen to her, lowering his brow to hers and his voice with it. “As long as we need, darling.”

She reached up and pulled off her jacket.

He lifted his hand. “Allow me.”

“No need.” She tossed it onto the back of the couch.

He winced a bit, cleared his throat. “I did tidy up…”

“You mean you asked Briar to,” she said knowingly.

“How’d you know?”

“This doesn’t look like you at all.”

He glanced around. “You’re right. It bloody sparkles.”

“How are we going to keep a whole house clean?” she wondered, bewildered as she unbuttoned her blouse. She noted the hungry look in his eyes, too, as they followed the progress of her fingers.

“A maid,” he decided. “Someone no-nonsense to make us both behave.”

“You mean a nanny?” she asked, discarding the blouse in the same fashion. It flew over the couch cushions and slipped to the floor.

“My God, Mrs. Leighton.” He traced the lacy upper cup of her bra. “Where did you purchase this piece of finery?”

“It’s from Roxie’s spring collection,” she told him. “She went a bit darker and edgier this time. I like it. What are your thoughts?”

He teased the curve of her breast with feathering fingertips, peppering the surface of her skin with gooseflesh. “I think it’s a nuisance,” he decided with a nod. “It should come off at once.”

She stepped back when he tried to undo the clasp. “Uh uh,” she warned, taking his hand. She drew him into the candlelit living room. “This is my last night in my apartment.”

“Our apartment,” he reminded her.

“Our apartment,” she conceded. Pivoting, she forced him to do the same until he was the one walking backward. “I want to make the most of it.”

“As do I, love,” he agreed. “Hence, the steaks. And the kilt.”

He was right. He and the kilt were like Superman and his cape. They only appeared together when the occasion warranted it. Where the cape meant trouble, the kilt meant finer things—much finer things. He’d proposed to her in this kilt. She had already requested he marry her in it. Fixing her attention on the knot of the apron string around his waist, she began to untie it. When he quirked a brow, she tilted her head. “You can wear it for me later,” she vowed.

He raised both hands in acquiescence then dipped his head so that she could remove it from his shoulders.

His skin had gone pale with winter. His English breeding again, she knew. Still, he was lean and muscled. As many of Briar’s biscuits as he ate, he had no right to be this fit—this fine. Pressing her hand to his sternum, she gave him a push.

The back of his knees met the cushions of the plush reading chair he’d added to her décor. As he fell into the seat, he chuckled heartily.

“Should I dress to match?” she asked, reaching down for the zipper on her left boot again.

 He leaned forward. “No,” he said quickly.

 “No?” she asked, surprised.

 “I mean, yes,” he replied in a rush. “But I want you to leave the boots on.”

 When he reached around and tickled the back of her knee, she felt the joint go weak. Fire kindled, a nice hot flume, behind his eyes. Lowering her heel back to the floor, she reached for the clasp of the bra.

He sat back slowly, watching. The lift and fall of his chest increased in rhythm as she tugged away the garment. His smile didn’t detract from the tension crammed in his jaw when she hung it around his neck. “You make me ache, woman.”

She ached, too, for the way he spoke to her—just like that. The polite speech and upbeat timbre of his everyday voice falling away into rugged words that dipped deep into his chest and almost broke they were so ardent. It would always be this way with him, she thought not for the first time. It never failed to surprise her, how much she loved him…needed him. How much he loved and needed her.

She sifted her fingers through the long blond reams of her hair and gathered the waves over her right shoulder, watching his breath hitch and his eyes glow. Wiggling a bit at the hips, she coaxed the panties she wore under her denim skirt to slide to the floor. She kicked them aside. He was smiling again, widely, and she did, too, in response. “There,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “Now we’re a pair.”

“How d’you know I’m not wearing any knickers?” he asked experimentally.

“Because you tend to go all out,” she responded. She planted one knee in the cushion next to him. “Candles… Steaks… Wine…” She placed her other knee on the other side of him so that she straddled his lap. His hands came up to meet her ribs, warm and strong on skin that was already titillated. “All that’s missing from this Valentine’s scene is a bare-assed man.”

 He laughed again. Then he stilled as both her hands rose to frame his face.

She searched his gaze. “You’re doing it again,” she murmured.

He blinked. “What, darling?”

 “Mrs. Leighton,” she pointed out. “You called me that. A few moments ago.”

“I did,” he realized. He stroked the point of her chin, tender. “I didn’t realize…” Tipping his head back to the cushion behind him, he tried to read her. “Does it still scare you, Olivia Rose?”

 He knew of her fears in the past. Hell, he’d fought tooth and nail to prove to her that what they had was forever. How he’d known so soon…she’d never understand it. But he had been right. He was right far too often. She thought about the question. “No,” she decided. “No, it doesn’t scare me.”

 He let loose a sigh, a small one with relief behind it just the same. “Would you like me to call you that?” he asked, streaking those long fingers down the length of her throat. “Every night. For the rest of our lives.”

She lost her breath, closed her eyes as he traced her collarbone before taking a trip south to the outer curve of her breast. Shivers came and she hissed. “Every night,” she said. “Every morning. Every afternoon.” She tipped her chin up, head falling back, as his questing touch firmed and his other hand mirrored it as it attended to her other breast. Drawn in, she drew his mouth up to hers. “You can start tomorrow.”

 “We’ve already started,” he whispered before taking the kiss deep. His hands spread over her back. They roved into her hair and fisted there.

Her hips rolled into his and he answered, groaning. “You’re mine,” he bit off. “My own.”

“Yes.” She’d be his, she thought. Because he was hers. Knowing it was the tonic that got her through the day. It made the nights with him sing. His mouth ringed her nipple and her spine arched in reaction, need swimming in her veins.

Her skirt was already up over her waist. Her thighs met the strong line of his. She was thrilled to feel the hard, ready length of him.

“Say it,” he beckoned. He said it with intensity she’d shied away from once.

He kissed her again, making it impossible for her to catch her breath. “Gerald.”

“Say it,” he said again against her mouth, guiding her so she parted just enough over the head of his erection to tease. “Say it for me.”

He wanted her open. Not just her body—her mind, heart, and soul. And although it had long been her habit to reject such vulnerability, to him she gave everything. “I’m yours,” she sighed then cried out as he buried himself to the hilt.

She had imagined riding him to completion. In reality, he steered. Her climax built gradually. He assembled it patiently, block by block, using the angle of his body and their rocking motions to draw the friction up to a staggering point. The dew on her skin made it easy to slide against him so that she could fling herself over the top. She saw his wicked smile, the conquest there, and rallied to draw out his pleasure. She wanted the final say. 

In the end, his climax tore a long, anguished groan from his throat. She draped over him, heavy and replete. He kept her there, his panting breaths making her rise and fall with his chest. Finally, he brushed the hair back from her face, turning his to hers. His lips dappled across hers, light and sweet. “Do you know what we’ve done, Mrs. Leighton?”

“Mm mm,” she denied.

He caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “We’ve gone and christened the new chair.”

She thought about it then laughed. Opening her eyes, she found his soft as they combed her features. “Along with every other scrap of furniture in the place.”

“We’ll need loads more for the house,” he noted.

“My, my.” She raised a brow, intrigued. “Have we got our work cut out for us.”

“I live for a challenge.”

She grinned—a big, sappy grin that wouldn’t fade for some time. “Gerald?”

“Mm?”

“Take me to bed.”

“What about the wine and steaks?” he asked.

“Take me to bed,” she said again. “We can have dinner there. After you put the apron back on.”

“Aye,” he said and after some effort, shifted to standing. She linked her legs around the back of his waist as he strode toward the bedroom. “And for dessert…” He kissed her again, taking the corner blind.

She hummed in affirmation. When he lowered her to the sheets, she felt the rose petals he’d strewn there against her skin.

Their last night in the apartment above Tavern of the Graces would definitely be one for the books.

© Amber Leigh Williams