Turning Up the Heat (Friends With Benefits)

by Tanya Michaels

  Now Phoebe did blush, a rosy stain spreading across her face. She glanced past him at the stove, where oil hissed and sizzled in the pan. “You should turn down the heat.”

  He obligingly flicked the control knob before adding the scallops. “I thought our purpose was to turn up the heat. You wanted to know if you could be more seductive, right? Exciting?” Those had been her exact words. Heath had the sudden urge to offer her all the excitement she could handle. “What’s the most exciting sexual thing you’ve done?”

  “Lose my virginity? Although exciting isn’t the first adjective I’d pick to describe that encounter.” Frustration pinched her expression. “People like you and Gwen don’t get it—some of us aren’t exciting. That’s why I’m here.”

  If her love life hadn’t been exhilarating enough, then her sexual partners were also to blame. But he didn’t point that out, not wanting to reintroduce Cam in the conversation. “All right, what adventurous things have you thought about doing? ’Fess up. If you didn’t have a wicked streak, you wouldn’t have sought my help.”

  “I guess that’s true.” After a moment’s consideration, her lips curved in a small secret smile that left him hard. It was the naughtiest expression he’d ever seen on her face, a glimpse at the mischievous Phoebe he’d known was there but who was seldom allowed to come out and play. Damn, she was sexy. If Heath’s shirt hadn’t been untucked, the situation might be embarrassing.

  “Phoebe Mars. What dirty thing are you imagining?” And are you in need of a volunteer?

  “When Gwen and I first moved into our apartment, back before I met Ca—back when I was single,” she amended, “we lived across from a guy who worked at a local gym. He was so toned.” She paused for a moment, appreciating the memory. “Anyway, my desk is pushed up against my bedroom window—almost blocking it, but not completely. I was searching recipes on the computer and when I glanced up, I realized his blinds were partially open. He was undressing in his room, and he was, um, erect.”

  Yeah, there was a lot of that going around.

  “Before he disappeared from view, I saw him reach down and grip his erection.” Her breathing was audible, her face flushed.

  “And you wanted to watch him get off?”

  “No—well, maybe,” she reflected. “But for a second, I thought he might have seen me through the window and my imagination ran wild. I imagined him catching me naked. Imagined what it would be like for him to watch me...touch myself.”

  Working in a kitchen required being good with one’s hands. Heath had seen her knead and stir and frost countless times. Now his gaze flew to those talented hands, and he was assailed by the erotic image of her fingers cupped over the red-gold curls between her thighs, furiously working her sex. Or would she take her time with leisurely caresses, drawing out her pleasure? He’d thought he was hard before? His dick was like steel.

  She bit her lip, and he tried not to imagine the scrape of her teeth across his skin. “I shocked you, didn’t I?”

  Hell, yes. In the best possible way. “Of course not. This is me. I’m unshockable.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not uncommon to have exhibitionist or voyeurism fantasies.” He would be having several later tonight.

  Her expression brightened with so much joy that one would think she’d just been named the ACF Pastry Chef of the Year. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime. But I’m not sure what I did to deserve gratitude.”

  She looked down, concentrating on her wineglass rather than meeting his gaze. “My mom got pregnant as a teen, and she worked really hard to make sure that never happened to me. Most of my life, I was half convinced kissing was evil, never mind fantasies about...”

  “Masturbating in front of a sexy stranger?”

  The blunt words heightened the color in her cheeks, but she nodded. “You’re a relief to be around. I mean, you’re cocky and frequently a pain in the ass—”

  “Guilty.”

  “But you aren’t judgmental and I don’t constantly worry that I’m going to disappoint you. You’re a good friend, Heath.”

  A better friend would help her win back the man she loved without picturing her naked. “No, I’m a selfish hedonist. But the benefit of having no shame is that I don’t let it bother me.”

  Her lips twitched, and she raised her glass. “To shameless pleasure.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  * * *

  PHOEBE LEANED BACK against the cool leather of the couch, her feet tucked beneath her while her sandals lay askew on the floor. Dinner had been yummy and their discussion hadn’t been quite as charged as she’d feared. After what she’d revealed earlier, she hadn’t known what to expect and had experienced a moment of apprehension when they sat down together.

  Almost as if sensing her nerves, Heath had kicked off an innocuous conversation about how they’d tweak the Braves lineup if they had the power to trade players. Later, when she’d brought up wanting to add some new savory pastries to James’s menu, Heath had waggled his brows and teased her about experimentation. But, by Heath standards, he’d behaved. Now she was enjoying the nighttime view through the window while he washed dishes, which he’d insisted on doing himself. The city lights twinkled, combining with the two glasses of wine she’d had to make her feel utterly relaxed.

  Liar.

  If she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge the buzz of awareness that crackled beneath the surface of mellow contentment. When Heath’s green eyes landed on her or he moved close to refill her glass, it was not relaxing. She felt tense—not in the stressed-out, frazzled kind of way, but high-strung just the same. All her senses were on full alert, and her skin tingled. It was a reaction that had caught her off guard when she arrived earlier and continued to take her by surprise, even though one would think she’d have adjusted after the first time. But it was disorienting to react so strongly to Heath. Sure, he was attractive—maybe one of the best-looking men in Atlanta—but he always had been. They’d worked together for over a year and she’d never felt this way.

  Of course, that had been before he kissed her. What had she told Gwen? That it hadn’t been a real kiss? Please. If that kiss had been any more real, you would have exploded in a fiery blaze of spontaneous combustion.

  Mentally and emotionally, Phoebe was in a vulnerable place right now, and she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Physically, she was less ambivalent. Her body had responded to Heath’s kiss with a swift, primal certainty she was having trouble forgetting. She drained the last of her wine, although what she probably needed was to splash some cold water on her face.

  “Want any more wine?” Heath asked from the edge of the kitchen. Finished with the dishes, he padded into the living room, moving with deceptively lazy grace. Although he projected a carefree vibe, she’d seen him hustle on busy nights and bust his ass to fix disasters.

  Like your love life?

  “I’d better not,” she said. “If I have a third glass, I’ll have to sleep here on your sofa.”

  He sat next to her, his grin devilish. “My bed’s more comfortable.”

  She kicked him in reprimand—or, more accurately, she nudged his thigh with her bare foot.

  He captured her toes in his hand, and she tried to pull away, suddenly alarmed. She was so unbearably ticklish that even sitting through pedicures was torturous. After a short-lived tickle fight in college, which had ended abruptly when her shrieks had brought the RA running, she’d wondered if the reason her skin was so sensitive to touch was because she was so unaccustomed to being touched. There hadn’t been a lot of hugs and kisses in her household.

  But there was nothing ticklish about the way Heath cupped her foot and applied firm pressure on the arch. He rotated his thumb with just the right force, and she nearly moaned. Her job required hours of standing, and even though she was smart enough to wear practical shoes to work, her feet still got sore. This was heaven.

  “You are so good at that,” she breathed.
r />   “Practice makes perfect.”

  Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she heard the seductive smile in his voice, hinting at skills far beyond foot massage. The man’s middle name was probably Innuendo. He could talk about menu fonts and find a way to turn it into temptation.

  Swinging both of her feet to the ground, she sat forward. “How do you make it sound like you’re thinking about sex all the time?”

  “By thinking about sex all the time.” He grinned. “Well, and food. Sometimes I think about ways to incorporate the two.”

  “I’m serious. Women throw themselves at you.” His appeal wasn’t just limited to the opposite sex. People in general were drawn into his orbit, with Gwen being the exception that proved the rule. If Heath had been a waiter instead of the restaurant’s managing partner, he’d make more tips than the rest of the staff combined. “You have—”

  “Irresistible sex appeal? Raw animal magnetism?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Charisma. Can that be taught?” I need a charisma coach.

  He considered that. “I think it’s more something you discover than learn. But I know for a fact it can be honed. What color’s your bra?”

  “Excuse me?” She crossed her arms over her chest as if he suddenly had X-ray vision.

  “I’m going for a metaphor-type thing here. You want people to see you as an exciting seductress, right? The kind of woman who might wear, I don’t know, red lace. Or leather bondage gear. But do you see yourself as that woman?”

  “I...” Hearing the word bondage come out of Heath’s mouth short-circuited too many neurons for her to immediately respond. Oh, the mental images! “Um. What was the question?”

  He leaned close, his eyes glittering with humor and something more predatory. Her stomach clenched with the same anticipation she’d felt on every roller coaster Gwen had ever made her ride. She recognized the way her lungs tightened at the top of the hill—before the adrenaline-spiking, heart-clutching plunge over the edge.

  His fingers stroked up her arm to her shoulder, the touch electric. “The question, Phoebe, was about your bra.” Hooking his index finger beneath her tank top, he tugged on the slim bra strap beneath. Then he sat back with a nod. “Black cotton. Not a bad start.”

  She stood, feeling suddenly restless and defensive. “I’m sure you’ve had experience with many bras, but I don’t think you can actually tell that much about me from—”

  “It has nothing to do with my opinion. No judgment, remember? It’s about your self-image. Charisma is confidence—or at least being able to fake confidence exceptionally well.” Getting to his feet, he held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  “We’re not going lingerie shopping, are we?” Most stores would be closed, but there was always online retail. Besides, she’d bet next month’s rent that he could charm a female manager into keeping a store open late for him.

  “No. Although, if you want an expert opinion the next time you—ow.” He made a show of rubbing his ribs where she’d jabbed him. “Was that really necessary?”

  She gave him a sunny smile. “It really was.”

  “Brute.” He walked to the opposite side of the room and at first she thought he was heading down the hallway. Toward his bedroom?

  Her heart fluttered wildly, and she couldn’t pin down whether the reaction was panic that Heath might make a move on her, or hopeful excitement. She knew he would never try to talk her in to something she didn’t want to do. The problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted. A wicked inner voice whispered, Rebound fling. Wasn’t that a time-honored response to breakups? But flinging with a longtime friend—one who was Cam’s business partner, no less—would be fraught with complications she didn’t need.

  Then she realized Heath wasn’t going into the hall. He’d stopped in front of a large oval mirror in a gold-leaf frame that hung in the corner of the living room.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Full-length mirror in the living room. Narcissism?”

  He laughed. “Good feng shui, supposedly. It was a gift from an interior decorator I briefly dated.”

  Naturally. If Phoebe had a dollar for every woman he’d “briefly dated,” she could open her own bakery in Paris.

  Motioning her closer to the mirror, he changed the subject. “Did I tell you I’m one of this year’s Over-Under honorees?”

  It was an annual list of five people in the city’s restaurant industry playfully deemed “overachievers under thirty.”

  “No! I can’t believe you haven’t mentioned it until now.” She was thrilled for him, but a little embarrassed they’d spent so much time on her issues that it hadn’t come up. “Congratulations, that’s fantastic news.”

  He hitched one shoulder in an uncharacteristically modest shrug. “I appreciate the free publicity for Piri, but this award has always felt a bit like a popularity contest. It’s not the most valid recognition out there.”

  “Of course you’re blasé about popularity contests,” she teased. “You’ve probably been winning them since kindergarten.”

  “Ha! Shows what you know. I—” He frowned. His abrupt halt was unlike him. In the event that he lost his train of thought, he was usually smooth enough to cover it.

  “You what?” she prompted.

  He flashed a brief smile. “I’ve been winning them since preschool. Now focus.” His hands settled on her hips all too briefly as he slid her to his right so that she took up most of their shared reflection. “The reason I brought up being an honoree was because I wanted to tell you about the beautiful woman I’m asking to the awards luncheon.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment left a sour taste in her mouth—so much for his being willing to curtail his romantic activities long enough to let people think they were dating.

  He tapped a finger against her forehead. “You, Mars. Take a look and tell me I wouldn’t be the luckiest guy there if you went with me.”

  His words melted away the disappointment, yet left a tiny kernel of guilt in its place. Despite his dismissive comment about popularity contests, the Over-Under luncheon was considered prestigious in their community. He should take a real date, not just someone trying to make an ex jealous. Her gaze flew to his. “Are you sure you—”

  “How did you manage culinary school? You don’t follow instructions.” He stepped behind her, cupping her shoulders and turning her back toward the mirror. “You’re supposed to be looking there.”

  “I feel silly.” That was only half true. When she concentrated on her reflection, like she was supposed to be chanting a mantra of “I’m good enough, I’m pretty enough,” she did indeed feel silly. But when she concentrated on how close Heath was standing, on how good he smelled and the warmth of his strong fingers curving over her bare skin...her pulse quickened, and longing sizzled through her.

  This was more tangible than the shivery tingles she’d felt earlier; now it was a full-on craving and she couldn’t stop herself from slightly leaning into him. The movement was small, so barely perceptible he might not have even noticed. But then his eyes arrested hers in the mirror, his pupils dilated, his gaze intensified. He noticed.

  His voice was a soft growl in her ear. “What do you see in the mirror, Phoebe?”

  An incredibly hot man more than capable of giving her a sexual adventure.

  That’s probably not what he means.

  With their bodies so close, could he feel the quiver that went through her? She was turned on, and the longer they stood together, the more the ache of arousal intensified. She was tempted to shut her eyes, as if that would provide some escape, yet she couldn’t look away from the picture they presented. He was broad shouldered and tall, but not enough to loom over her—a good height for kissing without craning her neck or having to stand on her toes. His naturally tan skin was a strong contrast to her pale complexion; their bodies tangled together would be like caramel-swirled cheesecake. Not that she planned to say any of that out loud.

  She gave herself a mental s
hake, trying to regain her composure. Heath was giving her his time and effort to help her develop sensual confidence, and whether she thought this was the way to go about it or not, she owed him her cooperation. She obediently studied her reflection. “I see an attractive—”

  “Beautiful.”

  Her lips twitched. “I thought this was about what I see.”

  “Well, since your vision is obviously fuzzy, I’m helping. Like glasses or contact lenses. Try again.”

  “I see a beautiful redhead with light brown eyes—”

  “Your eyes are like antique gold, treasure capable of making men lose their minds.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered, but it was difficult not to smile at his extravagant words. Was there any truth to them, or was all of the embellishment strictly to elevate her self-image? She looked hard at the mirror, attempting to view herself the way he described, to block out the chipped nail polish on her toes and the five extra pounds she didn’t need and the way her bun had been knocked crooked from resting her head on the couch.

  She reached for the rubber band that held her hair back. “I should have worn my hair down.”

  He caught her fingers. “I would normally agree with you—you have great hair—but you have a graceful neck, too.” As he spoke, he trailed his knuckles across the curve of her neck. “Gives a man ideas. About doing this.”

  Transfixed, she watched him lower his dark head toward her, anticipation coiling tighter until his teeth grazed an excruciatingly sensitive spot below her jaw. Her legs buckled, and his hands came to her hips, holding her steady. The woman in the mirror was flushed, her lips parted, her hardened nipples visible through the silk of the tank top. The skirt she’d judged as practically conservative earlier in the evening now seemed like a tantalizing length. She couldn’t help imagining Heath dropping his hands to the hem, inching the fabric upward so that his fingers could skate over the delicate flesh of her inner thighs. She trembled. He turned his head, his gaze momentarily meeting hers in their reflection, then he trailed openmouthed kisses down the slope of her neck, stirring pleasure inside her that was almost dizzying in its intensity.