Melted and Whipped Read Online Free PDF

glass—especially while I’m eating. Unless he’s planning to kick me out in an hour, I’ll be sober by the end of the night.
    “I think you should stop,” he says evenly.
    My face burns with shame. Was the kiss that bad? At least now I know where he and I stand.
    “I’m not sure what’s going through your mind right now,” Porter says, “but I should be clear about why I’m asking you to stop drinking.” His hand slips under mine, and his fingers tighten, pulling my palm into his. The gesture is intimate. He’s staring at me like he’s weighing something.
    Shaking my head, I say, “Porter, it’s fine. I understand. We have a lot to discuss and—”
    “You don’t understand.” His fingers tighten. “I need you to stop because I want you.”
    I want you. My lips part as I stare at him. His expression is so serious, I must have misunderstood…
    Porter’s fingers tighten around mine. “I want you in my bed, and I want to do things… things that will require your consent. Slow down on the wine for now.”
    A smile of relief relaxes my face. I don’t want him to know how insecure I was about his intentions, so I blurt, “Things that require my consent?”
    “What?” he asks, the corners of his own lips rising. “What’s so funny?”
    If I weren’t buzzed, I wouldn’t say it, but I am, so… “Things that require my consent? Sexual things? Or do you want me to sign a contract? Fill out financial forms?”
    He smiles, but I can tell he’s being polite. A long moment passes while his gaze roams slowly over my face.
    “Sexual things,” he says in his seductive, deep voice.
    Like spanking? I want to ask.
    Oh, God, this is happening… assuming I don’t do something to screw it up.

Chapter Six
    Porter walks into the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water.
    When he sits, he asks what I like about my job.
    I think I give him a coherent answer. It’s difficult to know for sure because I can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen after dinner. I can’t stop smiling, which is stupid, like I’m a teenager, a college freshman all over again.
    Porter doesn’t seem to have any problems concentrating. “What’s your endgame?” he asks. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
    It’s a sobering question, or maybe the wine is wearing off already. He looks very interested in the answer, so I try to pull myself together.
    “It depends on the day of the week,” I say. “When I’m feeling optimistic, I imagine opening my own company, catering to tourists. Leading tours. I’ve got some connections, a few repeat customers who would follow me if I struck out on my own. But even if they all showed up every year, it’s not enough to live on. It would be a struggle.”
    “And on other days?”
    “Isn’t this a bit heavy for Christmas Eve?” I smile.
    “You don’t have to answer,” Porter says.
    I fork up rice drenched in sauce and try to decide if I should tell him. In the end, I figure I’m coming off as needlessly coy. “Other days I think I should invest in a tin cup, a cardboard sign, and fingerless gloves,” I admit. “When I came out here, it was supposed to be temporary while I figured out a better career. I even kept paying rent on my apartment back home for the first five months.”
    Porter leans to the side, his broad shoulders turning to face me, one of his arms draped over the back of his chair. He’s getting comfortable, settling in to listen. It’s a pose I recognize, one I remember from our freshman year of college.
    For all that’s different about him, he’s still Porter.
    “Are you thinking about leaving?”
    I sigh. “I’m addicted to powder. Just like it says on the novelty T-shirts. After my injury, I thought it would be too painful to be in the mountains, but the opposite turned out to be true.” Geez. I sound like someone who doesn’t want to grow up and get a real job.
    Porter is nodding, but I’m feeling over-exposed and