Saffron Nights Read Online Free

mentioned how pretty your feet are. Or how pretty you are, period. I’m sorry.”
    What was happening to him? Usually so confident, here he was stammering around Maeve like a schoolboy.
    He held the bowl up to his mouth to drink the last drop, his tongue licking his lips in utter abandonment.
    He held up his fingers and wiggled. “You don’t know this about me, but I give an incredible foot massage.”
    She slammed her bowl down. “Are you coming on to me?”
    “No! No. Look, I can rub your feet without being sexual. C’mon, we’re partners, right?” His hand found her thigh, nonchalantly, spreading his fingers across it.
    “Yes,” she said, moving his hand off her thigh. “I’ve never had a colleague ask to rub my feet before.” Her eyebrows lifted and her arms folded across her chest.
    “I think you’ll agree that I’m no ordinary colleague,” he said leaning into her.
    She folded her arms crossed and leaned away from him. Her crossed arms lifted her breasts a bit. He tried not to look.
    “What are you doing? Really?” she said, twisting a tendril of her long auburn hair.
    Like so many women that Jackson knew, her body language and her words said one thing—but her eyes said something else. Even though she would deny it, he recognized the glisten of a woman who was beginning to smolder. Should he? Just how far could he push this? And what the hell was he doing? He felt himself slipping into a muddled haze, almost a buzz, but he’d only had what? Two glasses of wine?
    “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said and sighed, mockingly. “You know, I’m not sure you could handle it.”
    She laughed, flicking her hair back off her shoulder. “C’mon. Get over yourself. You’re starting to believe your own press, dude.”
    “Okay. Pass up the most incredible foot massage you’ve ever had because you think I’m trying to hit on you. Humph. Who needs to get over herself?”
    She quieted and sank back into the sofa. “Okay. Jackson, I’m just not into someone—anyone—anyone—touching my feet. Sorry.”
    He shrugged.
    Maeve laid her head and back on some pillows and laid back, closing her eyes. She wiggled her toes and watched his reaction—both burst into a fit of giggles—and she picked up a brown checked pillow and threw it at him. He made a mental note to talk to her about her really bad taste in pillows, which should be one color and muted, perhaps silky. What was this country-gingham bullshit?
    Still, the curve of her lips, the slope of her cheekbone, the way that necklace dipped between her breasts made his blood rush. What the hell am I doing? He stood abruptly.
    “What’s wrong?” Maeve asked him, sitting up and taking another sip of wine. “What’s going on?”
    “I think I better leave before, before—” he sat back down on the floor, placing a pillow over his crotch. He didn’t know what she was thinking—but he saw lust moving through her. It was almost as if her skin was steaming.
    She sat up, looking a bit sleepy or maybe drunk. He joined her on the couch once more. She touched his face. “Jackson, why do I feel like this? All of a sudden, I feel—”
    “Me, too. I wonder if it’s the saffron or the mix of the saffron and the wine,” he said, sitting down, looking deeply into her amber eyes. It was as if those words gave him permission to do what he really wanted. What the heck, he thought, it was worth a try. He would not be a man if he didn’t at least give it a try. The next moment, he pulled her closer to him, grabbed her face, and kissed her. Maeve met his kiss with a shocking passion, a swiveling tongue, which sent him reeling. Then she pulled away.
    “Jackson, we need to stop,” she breathed.
    But her erect, tense posture had vanished. He was getting mixed signals. She said one thing, but she was slinking, softening, and yielding. Jackson’s pulse was heightened, but his mind was sharply focused on lifting her skirt, getting his fingers, mouth, and tongue