Can't Stand The Heat

by Louisa Edwards

  Adam thought maybe she needed a little push to get her there. It made his heart pound a fast drumbeat to think that maybe he could be the guy to do it.

  He flexed his fingers, still buried in her heat, and took her mouth at the same time as he took her deeper. Two long fingers slid into her fist-tight sheath, his thumb searching out the supersensitive bundle of nerves at the top of her slit.

  Rubbing rhythmically just to the side of her clit, he plumbed the depths of her clenching pussy and sucked her groan of pleasure into his mouth. Her hands fisted on his shoulders, nails clawing him through his shirt.

  Miranda writhed on his hand and he pumped her harder, passing his thumb directly over her clit to make her jump. A delicate touch right there, then a harder caress in a circle all around it, then back again until his probing fingers felt the first flutter of Miranda’s orgasm in the walls surrounding them.

  Her inner walls clamped down on his invading fingers. She stiffened as if paralyzed. A rush of slick warmth and a pained cry, and Miranda unraveled in Adam’s hands.

  Adam crushed the iron rod of his cock into the edge of the counter and came in his pants for the first time since Monica Pettuci shocked the hell out of him by actually touching his dick.

  * * *

  Polishing glassware was oddly soothing. The soft cloth, the hot steam from the kettle, the repetitive motion, the instantly sparkling results—Jess never minded being put on glass duty.

  Perched on a stool with one foot hooked over the top rung, he could sit comfortably for hours, polishing and stacking the finished glasses carefully atop the bar. As he watched the cloth go around and around, his mind followed the circles in a dreamy pastiche of disconnected images and impressions.

  He thought of the bright yellow peonies in the blue ceramic vase on Miranda’s table and the bunch of multicolored flowers with the same burst of small petals that always used to sit on the mantel in the living room of the house they grew up in. That led him to the talcum-powder-and-cinnamon smell he associated with his mother and the memory of soft white arms enfolding him, tucking him into bed at night. The darkness of his old room, painted navy blue with glow-in-the-dark star stickers all over the ceiling, courtesy of a short-lived astronaut phase, made him think of the inky blackness of the alley behind Market. Out there, you couldn’t see many stars at all when you looked up. Only the very brightest could compete with the lights of the city that never sleeps.

  With a shiver, Jess let his mind flow to the image he’d been wanting to picture all morning.

  Frankie Boyd, all low-slung black denim and insolence, leaning one slender hip against the rough brick wall and squinting through his own cigarette smoke up into the hazy night sky.

  How Jess wished he’d had a camera in his hands. His fingers itched to capture that moment for all eternity, to get it out of his head and onto photographic paper so maybe he could find some peace with it. Instead, the only place that picture existed was inside of Jess, haunting him.

  A lean forearm reached past him, fingers outstretched to trace delicately around the rim of the glass he was polishing, breaking Jess’s reverie. The arm was pale, dusted with black hair, and corded with tendons that flexed slightly with every rub of the glass. A thin leather strap wound around the bony wrist enough times to form a cuff, the brown hide scored with marks and burns. Jess had discovered days ago, from careful observation, that the strap had belonged to a WWII soldier, a medic who’d fought in the Battle of Britain.

  The arm belonged to Frankie.

  When that arm pressed in to rest lightly against Jess’s elbow, he shivered so hard he nearly dropped the glass, but Frankie tightened his fingers and steadied it.

  “Cold, are we then, Bit?” Frankie husked. There was a laugh in his voice, but when Jess canted his head far enough to look at him, his face revealed nothing but grave inquiry.

  Some imp prompted Jess to reply, “Nope. Feeling kinda warm, actually.”

  Frankie narrowed his eyes, fiendish delight suffusing his expression. “Why, Bit,” he drawled. “I do believe you just flirted with me.”

  Jess felt the despised flush heating his cheeks and turning the tips of his ears red, but he looked Frankie dead in the eye, heart pounding like a bass drum, and said, “Maybe a little. There’s no law against it.”

  “Not officially, no, but you had me wondering if there might not be a rule about it written somewhere inside that pretty head of yours. S’why I haven’t pushed.” Frankie caught the point of his tongue with his teeth and grinned. “Much.”

  Setting the glass down before he crushed it in his too-tight grasp, Jess swiveled the barstool until he and Frankie were eye to eye. Or close to it, anyway—even with the added height of the stool, Frankie’s long legs ensured Jess still had to tilt his head back a bit to get the full effect.

  It was worth it. Frankie’s hair was the usual mass of spikes and tufts, his pale, night-loving skin glowing in the gold light reflecting off the bar’s mirrored back. His eyebrows were slashes of shocking black in that ivory complexion, demonically arched and insinuating. His grin was openly seductive, teasing Jess with that hint of tongue, but there was something unexpected around his eyes—something soft that made Jess soften in return.

  He thought about Brandewine, and about Miranda and her expectations of him. Her wishes for him and the way she thought his life should be, and the fact that Frankie was a self-confessed slut who hit on any Market employee who caught his fancy. Then Jess thought about what an entirely sucky job he’d done of ignoring Frankie and the part of himself that Frankie tempted.

  “I do have rules,” he admitted, keeping his voice deliberately quiet. “Good reasons for them, too.” He took a deep, fortifying breath and got a whiff of essence of Frankie: smoke and tobacco and whiskey. It gave him the courage to continue.

  “Sometimes, though, you have to break your own rules.”

  Frankie nodded. “How you know you’re alive, innit? I’ve broken damn near every rule society, the Church, or my own mum could come up with at one point or another—taken every drug, drunk myself into a stupor, danced with the devil himself, and come out grinning. But it’s not for everyone, Bit.”

  That cautionary note in Frankie’s tone gave Jess the good shivers, because it meant Frankie was trying, in his own way, to protect Jess. Even if it meant denying himself what he wanted.

  And man, didn’t that thought send a zing of pleasure straight through Jess.

  Frankie wants me. Me. Maybe even likes me a little.

  “I wouldn’t break my own rules for just anyone,” Jess said, choosing his words with care.

  Naked lust and something else flared in Frankie’s black eyes and he inched closer, his body a burning line of sinew and muscle at Jess’s side. Jess was vividly aware of his own rising desire and the almost uncontrollable urge to wriggle on the tall barstool. He itched under his skin, his whole body jumpy and ready for something, anything.

  And then Frankie bent his head and slowly, deliberately, thumbed aside the open collar of Jess’s green work shirt and pushed his nose into the divot of Jess’s collarbone. Jess jumped at the light, searching touch, the rasp of Frankie’s stubble on skin he’d never realized was so sensitive.

  “This spot,” Frankie breathed, rubbing his prickly chin along the line of the bone where the thin skin burned and quivered, suddenly alive with sensation. “This spot here has been taunting me for days.”

  And he licked Jess’s collarbone.

  One hot, wet swipe of rough tongue and Jess nearly fell off the barstool.

  Frankie’s hand clamped on his shoulder, steadying him, just in time to hear the dismayed, “Oh, crap” from across the room.

  Jess jerked upright and stared at Adam in absolute horror. Adam’s expression wasn’t much better, total exasperation mixed with resignation. His hair was even more tousled than usual and his shirt was a wrinkled mess.

  “Christ Almighty, Frankie, what did I tell you about that kid? Were you even listening?”
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  Jess tensed, his mind whirling with the ugly possibilities of what Adam might have told Frankie, but before he could get himself too worked up Frankie replied coolly, “I heard you, mate. And you knew then it was a waste of breath, so don’t bother repeating yourself now.”

  “Shit.” Adam sounded unhappy, but although Frankie’s eyes never left Adam’s, he relaxed against Jess enough to start fingering the collar of his shirt again. He tugged at the point, nudging the fabric over the still-damp patch of skin on Jess’s collarbone. Jess shivered and batted at the offending hand, not quite able to look Adam in the eye.

  Until a terrible thought popped into his head.

  “Chef?” Jess said, hating the quaver in his voice. “Where’s my sister?”

  Frankie and Adam broke off their staring contest to zero in on Jess.

  Even in the midst of his own burgeoning meltdown, Jess noted that Adam’s cheeks stained a dull red at the mention of Miranda.

  “Uh, she was tired after the cooking lesson so I sent her home to, um, freshen up before service tonight.”

  “Right,” drawled Frankie.

  “Shut your damn mouth.” Adam rounded on him fiercely.

  “Could you . . .” Jess faltered when the chef turned blazing eyes back on him. “I mean. Could you not mention this to her?”

  The fire left Adam’s face, to be replaced by dawning comprehension.

  “She doesn’t know you’re . . .” Adam gestured toward Frankie’s encroaching fingers, now still against Jess’s shirt, and Jess wanted to sink into the ground.

  “Um, no. She doesn’t. And I’d really like to be the one to tell her.”

  Adam groaned, sounding even less happy than before. He muttered something that sounded like “the death of me” before giving Jess a hard look.

  “Soon. Because I don’t like secrets. And I won’t out and out lie to Miranda. So make with the true confessions, kid, before she finds out some other way.”

  “But not from you, right, mate?” Frankie pushed, as serious as Jess had ever heard him.

  Adam gave Frankie another look, sort of a quizzical head-cocked one, and whatever he saw made him smile. “Nah, not from me. Just be careful, boys. You’re not the only ones with something riding on this.”

  And with that cryptic comment, he headed into the kitchen, shaking his head the whole way as if he couldn’t believe what he’d agreed to.

  “There now,” Frankie purred in smug satisfaction. “Where were we?”

  He lowered his head to Jess’s neck, but before he could do more than breathe one scandalously hot sigh over Jess’s skin, Jess grabbed hold of his hair and pulled him back. Stoically ignoring the clingy way Frankie’s tangled spikes wrapped around his fingers, Jess said, “Will he keep his promise? If he tells Miranda, my life will be seriously fucked.”

  “Well, it’s a good job you’re not too dramatic.”

  Jess made as if to hop down from the barstool, and Frankie hastened to soothe.

  “Now, now. Said he’d keep it close, didn’t he? He meant it. Adam’s as straight as they come, in every sense of the word. Unlike us.”

  Frankie’s devilish grin was infectious. Jess scrunched his fingers in Frankie’s hair and grinned back when he bumped his head up into the touch like a cat.

  “Unlike us,” Jess agreed.

  “Yeah, we’re quite bent, us,” Frankie said.

  Jess laughed, the near-miss adrenaline mixing with relief and the thrum of electricity that always ran through him like a current whenever Frankie was around.

  “I like that. Bent. Is that a technical term?”

  Frankie shrugged. “Better than the alternatives, innit? Now, if that’s settled . . .”

  The dark, caressing tone in his voice made a quick chill run over Jess’s skin. He relaxed his hold on Frankie’s hair, allowing it to become more petting than restraining, and Frankie made a hum of enjoyment that melted Jess’s bones.

  A cacophonous clatter of a large pan dropping and a shout of raucous laughter from the kitchen freaked Jess into a startled jump.

  The move knocked Frankie back a step and broke the moment. Frankie half smirked at him while Jess fought to control his galloping heart rate.

  “New rule,” he said firmly, very aware of what he was starting. “Never inside the restaurant. Agreed?”

  Frankie surveyed him for a moment like a man presented with a feast, unable to decide where he’d like to begin. “Agreed. For the moment.”

  “For the moment?”

  “What can I say, Bit.” Frankie trailed his long fingers across Jess’s shoulder and turned to go. He tossed the last words over his shoulder, the picture of insouciance.

  “I’ve never been much of one for rules.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Miranda slid into the booth at the back of the empty bar down the street from Market, wincing as the cracked vinyl of the seat scratched at her thighs.

  “You’re late,” Robin Meeks accused, his pointed face pinched into an expression of discontent.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, trying not to show how flustered she felt. It was an uncomfortable sensation. She could still feel the imprint of Adam’s hands on her skin as she stared across the table at the man who, for the last week, had eagerly spilled every tidbit of gossip or innuendo he could think of about the Market crew.

  Rob shrugged jerkily, his thin shoulders bulked up by the white chef’s jacket he wore. They both had to get to Market to start prep for tonight’s dinner service, but he’d called Miranda’s cell to ask for a quick meeting beforehand.

  “Do you have something for me?” she asked.

  “Right to business, aren’t you?” Rob said, draining his glass. He was drinking something that Miranda at first took to be a soft drink, until she realized there was no ice. Rob gestured to the bartender for another. When the man moved to the tap and began drawing a draft, Miranda raised both eyebrows.

  Catching the expression, Rob scowled. “What difference does it make?” he asked, surly. “Not like I have anything complicated to do in that kitchen. A trained monkey could make stock.”

  Disdaining to remind him of the events of a week ago, when their stock hadn’t been up to Adam’s standards, Miranda pulled out her notebook and patiently attempted to work back to the main point.

  “What’s up, Rob? Why did you ask for this meeting?”

  Rob drank morosely. “I don’t know. I wanted to talk.”

  Miranda suppressed a sigh. Rob didn’t really want to contribute to her book; he wanted a therapist.

  “About last night’s service? I thought it went pretty well.”

  Rob snorted. “You would. Chef let you assist on sauté while I was stuck making that freaking stock and running dishes up to the pass all night. It’s not fair! I’m supposed to be learning, and Chef pays more attention to the damn dishwasher than he does to me.”

  Miranda gripped her pen tightly. Rob was annoying, no question. The frequently whiny quality of his voice grated on the nerves. But that didn’t mean he was making this stuff up. With her own eyes, Miranda had seen Adam pass Rob over, time and again. And Rob was understandably frustrated.

  None of which meant he was an invalid source, Miranda told herself. Information from disgruntled employees was the backbone of many famous news stories. Besides, every night when she got back to her apartment and started to write, she walked a careful line with what could be considered “libel.”

  Like that makes it okay.

  Firmly squashing the strengthening voice of her conscience, Miranda said, “I’m sorry you’re unhappy at Market. But Rob, I can’t drop everything to come meet you like this unless you have something for the book. We’re both supposed to be at Market right now, getting ready for tonight. I can’t afford to have Adam notice our joint absence and start connecting the dots. You can’t afford that, either.”

  “Right,” Rob said, draining his beer and setting it down with a loud clink, as if he’d underestimated the distance between bottle and
table. How many had he had? “Guess that means we don’t have time for my dirt on Chef Temple.”

  His sly tone gave Miranda a chill. This was the first time Rob had intimated that there was anything negative to say about Adam. Miranda gripped her pen a little tighter.

  “What dirt?”

  Fingers playing in the condensation rings left by his beer mug, Rob smirked. The snotty expression didn’t quite cover the unhappiness in his squinty eyes.

  “I saved the best for last,” Rob said. “Everyone thinks Chef Temple is so perfect, we all have to quake in our clogs when we see him coming down the line, but he’s no better than anyone else.”

  Miranda forced a patience she didn’t feel. “Why do you say that?”

  Rob leaned forward, lank hair falling across his forehead. “You know how he got the money to open the restaurant?” he demanded.

  “He has investors,” Miranda said, taken aback. “That’s perfectly normal, isn’t it?” His financial backer was the one who’d forced Adam to let Miranda into his kitchen, Miranda remembered now. Eleanor Bonning. Claire had described her as “brusque.”

  “Chef Temple has one investor. Uno. And he didn’t exactly make an appointment with her and submit a proposal, if you get what I mean.”

  Miranda’s heartbeat fluttered into hummingbird speed. She wasn’t sure why. “No, I don’t.”

  “Now, I’m not condemning the man. You do what you gotta do to get ahead in this business. But it’s pretty shady, all the same. That investor lady? Eleanor Whatsit? I heard she wasn’t going to give him the money, didn’t think he had enough experience or some shit. Then next thing you know, the chef’s wining and dining her, taking her out, they’re all over town together. The chef gets his deal, she signs the papers, and boom! He drops her like a hot skillet.”

  Miranda felt sick. “What are you saying?”