Honeymoon - James Patterson [2]
“From me, to you,” she whispered in his ear, leaning in.
There wasn’t that much to unwrap, but Connor took his time anyway. He gently kissed Nora’s neck, then her shoulders, his lips tracing an imaginary line downward to the jutting curves of her small, pert breasts. There he lingered. One hand stroking her arm, the other reaching around to remove her bra.
Nora shivered, her body tingling. Cute, funny, and very good in bed. What more could a girl ask for?
Connor knelt and kissed Nora’s stomach, his tongue lightly drawing circles around her little wink of a belly button. Then, with a thumb resting on either side of her hips, he began to roll down her panties. He charted the progress with kiss after kiss after kiss.
“That’s . . . very . . . nice,” whispered Nora.
Now it was her turn. As Connor’s tall, muscular frame straightened out before her, she began to undress him. Quickly, deftly, but sensually.
For a few seconds they stood still. Perfectly naked. Gazing at each other, taking in each and every detail. God, what could be better than this?
Suddenly Nora laughed. She gave Connor a quick, playful shove, and he fell back onto the bed. He was fully aroused. A prodigious human sundial lying there on the duvet.
Nora reached into her open suitcase and removed a black Ferragamo belt, pulling it taut in her hands.
Snap!
“Now, what was that about tying somebody up?” she asked.
Chapter 2
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, donning a plush pink terry-cloth robe, Nora descended the sprawling staircase of Connor’s 11,000-square-foot, three-story neoclassic Colonial. Even by the standards of Briarcliff Manor and the other surrounding towns of tony Westchester, his home was impressive.
It was also impeccably furnished—every room a superb blending of form and function, style and comfort. The very best New York City antiques shops meet the best of Connecticut—Eleish-Van Breems, New Canaan Antiques, the Silk Purse, the Cellar. Signature works by Monet, Hudson River School star Thomas Cole, Magritte. A George III secretary in the library that had once been owned by J. P. Morgan. A humidor originally presented to Castro by Richard Nixon, with provenance documentation. A walk-in wine cellar that held four thousand bottles and was nearly full.
True, Connor had hired one of the very best decorators in New York. In fact, he was so impressed with her, he asked her out on a date. Six months later she was tying him up in bed.
And he’d never felt happier, more excited, more alive in his entire life.
Five years before, he’d found love, marveled at it, treasured it, but his fiancée, Moira, had died of cancer. He’d thought he could never find love again, but suddenly there she was, the amazing Nora Sinclair.
Nora walked through the marble foyer and past the dining room. Before she had to leave, there was just enough time to take pity on the appetite she’d worked up in Connor.
She entered the kitchen, her favorite room in the house. Prior to enrolling at the New York School of Interior Design, she’d thought about becoming a chef. Even gone as far as taking courses at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.
Though she chose to decorate homes instead of plates, cooking remained one of Nora’s passions. It relaxed her. Helped clear her mind. Even making something as basic as Connor’s favorite: a big, juicy double cheeseburger with onions—and inside, caviar.
Fifteen minutes later, she called out to him, “Honey, it’s almost ready. Are you?”
Back in cutoff Dockers and Polo shirt, he made his way downstairs and ambled up behind Nora at the stove. “No place else on earth . . .”
“. . . I’d rather be,” she said, taking her cue. It was one of their things. A shared mantra. Little testaments of making the most of their time together, which, given their bustling careers, was always at a premium.
He peered over her shoulder as she sliced into a large onion. “They never make you cry, huh?”
“No, I guess they don’t.”
Connor took a seat at the kitchen