Forbidden Fruit

by Eden Bradley

She turned her head and caught his pleased smile.

  Pleased, seductive.

  God.

  “How about a glass of wine? I’m serving a white with dinner, but I have this great Cabernet from Chile.”

  “Sure. Yes. I’d love some wine. Anything is fine.”

  She was still overwhelmed by his kitchen, by the lovely aesthetic of his living space. By this glimpse into who he was.

  Jagger was no ordinary college student. But that much had been obvious from the start. And she realized she was probably in more trouble than she’d thought. He was too smart, too hot, too everything. And she was too unsure of her own motives in being here. But she didn’t want to think about that now.

  Jagger gestured to a pair of padded iron bar stools at the high counter that separated the kitchen space from the dining area. “Come and sit at the bar while I cook, talk to me. I love to have company in the kitchen.”

  Mia slid onto one of the stools as Jagger poured her wine, handed it to her. While he pulled ingredients from the commercial-size refrigerator, she glanced around the kitchen, a huge space with the same vaulted ceilings she’d seen everywhere in the apartment. The counters were the poured concrete becoming so popular in modern homes, the cabinets a dark, rich wood, the appliances allbrushed steel. The overall effect was clean, masculine. And seemed to fit him perfectly.

  She watched him work in his kitchen, the way he moved with utter efficiency, totallconfidence, as he set colorful, heavy pottery bowls out on the counters, pulled out bottles with oils and spices. She was beginning to feella little weak and loose all over, just from seeing him handling the food. She took a sip of the deep red wine, swallowed, sipped some more.

  The wine was either going to calm her down or make it worse.

  “I hope you like spicy, Mia Rose.”

  Why did that sound sexual? She simply nodded.

  He went on while he rinsed the tiny bay scallops at the sink. “I like to cook with spices, love that smallbite of flavor. Spices need to be subtle. Use too much and it overwhelms the dish. Too little and it’s bland. It’s all about striking that perfect balance. Tellme what you like to cook.”

  “Oh, well, I like Italian cuisine, and I cook a lot of Asian dishes.”

  “Ah, then you know something about spices.”

  He smiled at her. And once more, she had that sense of sexuallinsinuation. She couldn’t tell at this point if it was him or her overactive imagination. She was too stirred up, every nerve in her body coming awake, heating.

  He was concentrating on what he was doing for a few minutes: seasoning and searing the scallops in a sputtering pan, steaming a pot of fresh asparagus spears. But she really lost it when he began the sauce.

  It had always been that sort of thing for her, those fragrant liquids. Her sex gave a squeeze as he browned butter, whisked ingredients into a pan. She focused on his hands, his long fingers moving quickly. And her body surged with lust.

  “You’re going to love this, Mia Rose.”

  Oh yes, she would.

  His hands were a blur of motion while the scent of the food surrounded her, filled her mind. Her breasts began to ache, her sex to fill with need. She could barely manage to sit still.

  “Jagger, do you mind if I look around a little?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  She slipped off the stoolland wandered into the living area, went to stand in front of the shelves and pulled in deep breath after deep breath. When she’d calmed a little she searched the titles of the books there, which she’d been itching to do since she walked into the apartment. Plenty of classicallliterature, books on music, history, art, dozens and dozens of cookbooks, of course. And on a bottom shelf, a copy of the Kama Sutra next to a row of classic erotica: Story of O, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, collections of erotic poetry.

  She shivered, bit down on her lip.

  “Are you a fan of reading, Mia Rose?”

  His voice startled her. “What? Yes. I love to read.

  You have an interesting collection. Eclectic.”

  “Everything interests me. Literally everything. One of my favorite ways to spend a weekend is in bed with a stack of books. Just being lazy and reading for hours. What do you like to read?”

  “I love reading everything, too. Books were a luxury when I was growing up.” She moved down the shelves, running her fingers over the bindings.

  “Precious. I’ll read anything I can get my hands on.”

  “I can’t imagine books being a luxury. They were a necessity in my mother’s house, and my father’s.”

  “You were lucky.” She moved back to the counter, lifted her wineglass, and drank.

  “Yeah, I guess I was. So, were your parents just not into reading?”

  “My mother and I moved around a lot.” She really did not want to get into this. She needed to change the subject. “When did you learn to cook?”

  Not that food was any safer a subject, when she got right down to it. Her gaze was drawn back to Jagger at the stove. The mere sight of him stirring a pot, checking the asparagus for tenderness, made her weak all over. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass as she told herself it was simply a programmed response. One that had been programmed into her long ago. She could ignore it, if she chose.

  “I always cooked. My mom is an amazing cook. She has really great instincts, and she taught me everything. My dad’s a lousy cook, but he’s always loved to eat, so I cooked for him whenever I went to visit him, even as a kid. It made him happy. Not as happy as he would have been if I’d turned out to be a musician, like him.” He let out a hollow laugh, and Mia realized there was some deeper issue there.

  But she wasn’t going to push his buttons; she certainly didn’t want her own pushed.

  “Did you have any formalltraining?” she asked instead.

  “I went to the culinary academy here in San Francisco when I was eighteen, right out of high school.”

  “Ah.” She couldn’t think of anything more to say. She was too fascinated watching his hands as he spooned rice onto a pair of Japanese stoneware plates glazed in a deep red. When he ladled the scallops over the rice, poured the sauce over them, Mia bit back a groan. He crossed the asparagus spears over the top, picked the plates up, and gestured with his chin.

  “Come on, let’s eat.”

  She followed him into the dining area, which was partly hidden behind folding Japanese Shoji screens, where a sleek, modern wood table topped a large block-print rug in shades of orange, gold, and black. Jagger set the plates down on woven grass mats, then moved around to hold her chair for her.

  She slid into her seat. Jagger pushed her chair in, brushed his hand over her shoulder, letting it linger there for one lovely, excruciating moment. She could swear the heat of his hand worked right through her cashmere sweater.

  “Be right back.” He went to the kitchen, returned with a new bottle of white wine and two fresh glasses, opened and poured the wine before seating himself.

  “Take a bite, Mia Rose, and tell me what you think.”

  “Alright.” She picked up her fork, her hand a little shaky. What on earth was wrong with her? She managed to spear one of the small scallops and bring it to her mouth. “It smells wonderful.” She bit into the delicate meat, and flavor filled her mouth.

  “This is incredible. Such layered flavors. Did you use a little balsamic vinegar in there somewhere? It has that rich edge to it.”

  “Ah, you do know food, don’t you?” Jagger smiled before taking a bite himself. “Pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.”

  She smiled back, took another bite. He really was an easy person to be with. Why was she so nervous?

  Maybe because she was keenly aware of the fact that she wanted to do a lot more than talk to him, eat with him. Although eating with him was lovely, sensual, intimate.

  They ate in silence for severallminutes, simply enjoying the food. And Mia let herself enjoy the tightness in her body, her sensitized skin.

  “
So, Mia Rose. Tell me what all that moving around with your mom was about.”

  Her stomach immediately formed a small knot, the sensuallhaze fading fast. “You really don’t want to hear it.”

  “I do want to hear it.” He leaned closer, his gray eyes on hers. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  She shrugged, trying not to let the whirllof emotions inside her show on the outside. Emotions having to do with her past, but also what was happening right here, right now. Because she found herself wanting to tell Jagger about her childhood, something she rarely discussed with anyone. Maybe it was the expression on his face that told her he really was interested. Maybe it was the hint of command in his voice, the assumption that she would simply answer him. But she still struggled with the idea of telling him, of talking about it to anyone.

  “It’s an ugly story, Jagger,” she said softly, picking up her glass to take a drink.

  “Life can be ugly. The important pieces often are.

  That’s just part of it.”

  “Why do you want to know?” A little anger was boiling beneath the surface suddenly, and she knew it showed on her face.

  “I want to get to know you. Who you are, where you’ve been. I don’t know why. I just do.”

  If he had touched her at that point, reached out to take her hand, she would have turned away, found some excuse to change the subject. But he sat perfectly still and waited for her.

  “My mother was…a mess. An addict, if you want to know the truth.”

  She looked at him and he just nodded his head.

  There was no judgment in his expression. And no pity.

  Her shoulders loosened a little; she hadn’t even realized how tightly she’d been holding them. She went on. “She worked sometimes. But she didn’t spend her money on the rent. She’d wake me up in the middle of the night and we’d pack up our clothes and go. That was when we were lucky enough to have a place to live. Sometimes it was just her car.”

  His voice was soft. “Shit, Mia Rose.”

  But there was no shock in the way he said it. Just honest sympathy. It made her want to cry. It made her want to tell him more.

  “It ended when I was thirteen. She took me to my grandmother’s house, a woman I’d never met before. But she took us in, as though my mother had never left. As though she hadn’t taken off at eighteen. As though we weren’t filthy dirty and Mom all strung out.” She sipped her wine, watched her fingers stroke the stem of the glass. “Mom was gone in the morning. That’s the last time I saw her.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “She raised me, helped me. She was an amazing person. I couldn’t figure out why my mother would ever have left home, how she could have been the kind of kid who turned to drugs, being raised by this woman. I didn’t know that Mom’s younger sister, Colleen, had been killed in a car accident right before she left home. I didn’t know my mother had ever had a sister. Grandma said my mom never got over it. I guess she didn’t.”

  “At least she gave you over to your grandmother eventually. It sounds like that was the best thing that could’ve happened to you.”

  “It was. It was a gift.”

  “But you mentioned she’s gone now, your grandmother.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s got to be hard on you.”

  Mia nodded. “I still miss her every day. But she left me her house, her roses. I suppose I like to think of her as still being there with me. Silly of me, I guess.”

  “Not at all. You feellcloser to her there.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “We’re all sentimentalists, inside, when it comes to that kind of thing.”

  “Do you think so? What are you sentimentallabout?”

  “If you’re done eating, I’ll show you.”

  She nodded, and he got up, came around to hold her chair for her as she stood. He took her hand and led her into the living room. Next to the fireplace were wide wooden shelves, deep, like shadow boxes. She’d noticed them earlier, the collection of pottery, small sculptures, and art books there. And on one shelf was a guitar. It was art in itself, done in light and dark wood, the frets inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “My dad gave it to me when I was eight years old. I was still young enough that he had hopes I’d follow him into music. It’s an incredible instrument. Too much for a child. But he wanted me to have it. I never even wanted to play the thing, but just knowing he’d given it to me was huge. Even at that age, I knew what it meant to him. It represented his hopes and dreams for me, you know?”

  She wanted to touch it. To feellthat satiny wood beneath her fingertips. And she wanted to touch him.

  But that was nothing new. What was new was this side of him, all cockiness gone, just Jagger being himself, opening up to her.

  “You never wanted to play,” she said quietly, “and yet you’ve held on to this. I understand that. How it’s important.”

  Jagger nodded, his face somber as he ran a hand over the curve of the guitar, gently, as though it were a woman’s body he was caressing. Mia shivered.

  He turned to her, the mood breaking when he smiled.

  “Come on. You’re going to love dessert.”

  He walked back toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Go ahead and sit down again and I’ll bring it out.”

  She went back to her place at the table. It was only a few moments later when he came back with a covered plate and set it down in front of her, stood beside her chair.

  “Close your eyes, Mia Rose.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I want you to really taste this.”

  She started to shake her head.

  “Come on. Just do it.”

  His tone was teasing, yet still held that air of command that made her insides feelllike liquid heat.

  He was smiling at her now.

  “Do it, Mia Rose. You know you want to.”

  She laughed a little selfconsciously, but she closed her eyes for him.

  For him.

  Stop it.

  She heard a little rustling, then Jagger told her, “Open your mouth.”

  She did, feeling a bit foolish. Then he touched the tip of a fork to her lips, and she let him slide it in.

  Chocolate mousse, rich and coollagainst her tongue, followed by something tart and sweet at the same time. Whatever it was, she wanted more.

  Wanted it all over her skin. And it was him feeding this to her. As though they were lovers.

  God.

  She let the chocolate melt on her tongue, squeezed her thighs together, trying to ease the ache there.

  She did not want to admit that the lust raging through her was as much about the food as it was about her attraction to him. That it was the combination that made her want to explode.

  “Jagger—”

  “Shh. Keep tasting. One bite isn’t enough.”

  The fork against her lips again, and this time she opened right up, trying not to groan aloud. Sugar suffused her mouth, desire suffused her body. And then he touched her lips with his fingertip.

  “You have a little of the raspberry here…”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was bent over her, his face only a few inches from hers, his gray eyes gone dark and hazy. He pulled his hand away, licked the drop of sweet red sauce from his fingertip.

  She was shaking. Her gaze went from his mouth to his hand, to his eyes and back again. She was absolutely flooded with need, with heat.

  He leaned in, a fraction of an inch. Her sex gave a sharp squeeze. She bit her lip.

  “Jesus, Mia Rose,” he muttered before he moved in to kiss her.

  chapter five

  LIPS LIKE CHERRIES. WHAT SONG WAS THAT?

  JAGGER HAD heard it so many times. But now he knew exactly what it meant. Mia’s mouth was soft and sweet, with chocolate and the tangy raspberry coulis. With her.

  She was tentative at first, shy almost, but he kept kissing h
er, just a soft press of lips against lips, over and over. In moments she opened for him. He slipped inside, and it was like a shock, that wet warmth, the tangle of her tongue against his, the way she immediately gave herself over to him. He’d never felt anything like it.

  He took her face in his hands and went down on his knees beside her chair. He had to do it. There was no way to kiss this woman and stay on his feet.

  Jesus Christ.

  When she sighed into his mouth he just about came apart. And she went even looser, melting right into him. His cock was as hard as it had ever been in his life. He could barely breathe. But he wasn’t going to stop.

  He was nearly panting by the time she pulled back.

  She looked dazed, her pupils enormous, her cheeks flushed.

  “Jagger…” She pulled his hands from her face and looked away.

  “Ah, don’t.”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t right.”

  “It feels right.”

  It’s just the sex, man. You don’t need it to be anything else.

  “That doesn’t make it so, Jagger.”

  “Fuck. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stood up. So did she.

  “I have to go.” She pushed her dark hair from her face.

  “Look, you don’t have to leave. Stay and finish your dessert.”

  “I can’t.” She moved to the console table by the door and picked up her purse. “I…thank you for the dinner, and…I really have to go. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. I’m not sorry I kissed you, Mia Rose.”

  She shook her head again. “I’m going,” she said quietly, but he knew there was nothing he could do to stop her.

  She pulled the door open and slipped through.

  Damn it. The last thing he’d wanted was to chase her away again. But he’d had to kiss her. And he’d told her the truth. He wasn’t sorry he’d done it.

  That kiss had gone through him like heat lightning.

  Like a jolt of electricity. And now he was burning.

  Fuck.

  He pressed a hand to his aching cock, willing his erection to go away. But if it had been bad earlier, simply thinking about her, it was a hundred times worse now. Now that he’d kissed her, tasted her mouth.

  He ripped his shirt over his head, yanked his pants down as he practically ran to the shower, jerked the handles, running the hot water. Steam quickly filled the room as he stepped under the sting of the spray.