by Zane
“Nice to see you again, Fiona.”
Every year we seemed to play the same game of cat and mouse. Though it was also my job to flirt with the customers, to sweet-talk them into buying more than they came for, Chris always got more than his fair share of flirting.
Rumor had it he was from Tennessee, where he did something in the music business. He usually spent the festival weekend eating himself silly on peach cobbler (usually mine) or peach ice cream and the remainder of his vacation fishing and drinking beer with the friends he brings with him.
This year was different, however. Not only had he come sans an entourage, he’d come sans a woman. I’m not much of one for poaching, so beyond the usual chitchat about his vacation, I’d never managed to learn much about him. No one had. The man liked his privacy and I could respect that, but I had every intention of getting in his bed this weekend. Or getting him into mine.
I threw the last of my strawberry in a nearby trash can and slowly licked my fingers clean. “Did you decide?”
“How about just a bowl of fruit?”
With a smile, I filled a bowl with chilled peaches, cantaloupes, and strawberries and handed it over to him. He accepted it and returned my smile with one that crinkled the corners of his brilliant green eyes. Even dressed in nothing fancier than denim cutoffs that showed his thickly muscled thighs to perfection and a faded T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, he was yummier than any damn peach. My nipples puckered under the covering of my own baby-blue shirt as I accepted the bills he handed me.
Thankful for a lull in the crowd, I leaned over and rested my arms on the pitted wooden countertop, giving him a peek at my cleavage.
“Where are your friends?”
“I came alone this year. Wanted some privacy.” He popped a slice of cantaloupe between his lips and chewed thoughtfully.
“Good?”
“Worth waiting all year for.” He gave me that grin again, the one that turned my insides into a puddle.
“My cousin brought them up from The Valley. Just picked this week.” Texas’s Rio Grande Valley was nearly as famous for its fruit as were Florida and California.
“No wonder they’re so good,” he muttered, slipping another piece into his mouth. “Let’s talk…cobbler.” His voice dipped dramatically on the last word.
In Carthage my peach cobbler was nearly as famous as my cleavage. The women stopped by my booth to chitchat and try to wrangle my secret cobbler recipe out of me—the men, well, they came for my cleavage. I flicked a long dark curl behind one ear and gave him a smile I knew bordered on a smirk. “I made six this year. I hear three are gone and the bidding is fierce over the last three.”
“I know…those assholes outbid me!” He leaned in so close I could nearly count his eyelashes, his freckles, and every shade of green that made up the brilliant hue of his eyes. “I dream about your cobbler. All. Year. Long.”
“Poor baby.” I laughed, then pursed my lips thoughtfully. “Is that all you dream about?”
“I’ll never tell.” His eyes lingered on my cleavage before meeting mine again. The husky tease of his voice made my skin tingle. The late-afternoon breeze ruffled his hair and plastered his T-shirt to his chest. “I think you should come home with me and make one for me every day.”
“Come home?” I quirked one eyebrow and chuckled. “To your little fishing cabin?”
“No, Nashville. Since you won’t give me the recipe for my cook.”
“You don’t need me, querido, if you got a cook,” I purred, leaning closer.
“Querido?” he repeated with a frown.
“Darling,” I translated with a smile and added, “or dear, if you prefer.”
“Ah, I see. So, my little peach, what would it take?” He fished a slice of strawberry from the bowl and slid it into his mouth, then licked his fingers just as slowly and provocatively as I’d done earlier.
“I like a man who knows how to use his tongue.”
Even as Chris howled with laughter, a deep sound that drew more than one censorious stare, I heard a gasp from behind him. It was my seventeen-year-old assistant, who I’d surely corrupt if she spent any more time in my company. Poor Fankie took naive to a whole new level. I should’ve behaved myself, but I wasn’t a woman to let something like that stop me, and I wasn’t afraid to go after what I wanted.
“You want my recipe? What’s it worth to you?” I murmured while quickly assessing the crowd. We only had an hour or so before we closed down for the day, and all of downtown became a dance floor. Surely Fankie could handle the last hour by herself.
“The sun, the moon, the stars—all my earthly riches for just a taste—”
I licked my lips, aware of those eyes focused on my mouth. “Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
His eyes warmed noticeably. “What did you have in mind?”
“You’ll see,” was all I’d say.
Instructing Fankie to finish cleaning up, I untied my apron and tossed it on the hook by the door. Stepping outside the almost claustrophobic confines of the booth, I took a deep, cleansing breath and crooked a finger at Chris, assuming curiosity would propel him to follow.
I managed to wade through the sea of peach-happy humanity while occasionally checking over my shoulder to be sure Chris was behind me. He was. Finally, I reached the corner of Main and Vine and slowed down enough to allow him to catch up. With an extra swing to my hips that made my skirt swish against my knees, I kept moving, but at a slower pace. The heat of the late-afternoon sun quickly soaked into my scalp as the heat of anticipation built between my thighs. I was already walking a fine line with the townspeople. If I got caught…I’d just have to make sure I didn’t.
“Where the hell are you taking me, Fiona?” he demanded, grabbing my hand.
“You’ll see.” With a sly smile, I nudged him into an alley. A few more steps brought us to the drugstore’s recessed delivery area. We had a shaded concrete pad covered from the heat of the sun and safety from the prying eyes of anyone who might wander past the alley’s entrance. Prying ears, however, could be a whole other matter, if I wasn’t careful.
“Do you like me as much as you like my cobbler, Chris?”
I spun around and gave him my most seductive smile. My panties were already damp and my insides quaked the tiniest bit at having him within my reach. My nipples were so hard they hurt but I refused to give into the urge and pinch them like I wanted to. Not yet anyway.
He chuckled and stepped closer as if he was finally aware of what I had in mind—of what I wanted.
I took the bowl of fruit he still carried and set it on a chair someone had left outside, then hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Do you?” I whispered.
“Do I what?”
“Like me as much as my cobbler.” The backs of my fingers traveled lightly up his neck and across his stubble-kissed jaw.
“Definitely.”
I sighed in pleasure as he leaned down and caught one finger in his mouth. His teeth exerted just enough pressure to not be ignored while his tongue gently laved at the pad of my finger. He moved closer, close enough so that his denim-clad thighs were pressed against mine and the brick wall bit into the tender flesh of my bottom through the thin material of my skirt. He was hot and hard and the slightest bit rough as he ground against my mound and continued making love to my finger.
Aching to relieve the ever-increasing pressure, I pushed my hips toward him, then shivered and gasped in pleasure as rough denim made contact with my pussy lips.
Finally, he released my finger and pressed his lips to my neck. “Now what exactly do I have to do to get some of that peach cobbler of yours?”
His callused hands were under my skirt, traveling up my thighs, squeezing the cheeks of my ass, probing, spreading them wide and delving lower to tender lips filled with nerves, flushed and swollen and already hungry, and I realized I’d just lost control of him and this.
I pushed him away with
a flirty “behave,” and forced air into my lungs. I’d never given my recipe out. Ever. To anyone. I couldn’t believe I’d consider it now, but Chris was worth it and by the time I was through with him, I doubt if he’d remember how to make it anyway. “You have to be a good boy and do what I say, and in exchange, I will give you some…cobbler.”
“I’m not very good at taking orders. I’m more used to giving them.”
“But this is a vacation—no need for giving orders when you’re on vacation, right, querido?”
With a smile, I hooked my thumb in the waistband of my skirt, pushing it and my skimpy bikini panties off my hips to reveal his prize—if he was good. His eyes immediately dropped to my neatly trimmed snatch, and a hungry smile spread across his face.
I had a feeling he was going to be very, very good.
I leaned against the brick wall, briefly covering my swollen pussy, shielding it from those liquid green eyes, despite the provocative outward thrust of my hips. Then I gave him a playful smile as my hands ever so slowly skimmed across my belly and under my shirt, pushing it over my breasts so I could unhook my bra. “Well?”
He nodded, never taking his eyes off the set of C-cups I held in my hand.
“You like to watch?”
He nodded again and swallowed hard three times as I pinched the cinnamon-colored tips, then rolled them between my fingers.
“That’s good, ’cause I like it when you watch. Do you like peaches and cream?” My words caught his attention, and his tanned brows puckered in a frown. “Get a piece of peach, lover.” I nodded toward the bowl he’d bought and released my nipples.
With an indulgent smile, he followed my instructions, finally aware of what I wanted. I reached down and pulled the lips of my sex apart, then gasped as the cool juicy treat made contact, sliding between the hot, slippery folds. I couldn’t help myself. I spread my lips wider and arched my hips upward.
“Like that?” Chris asked, moving closer.
I felt the fruit slide inside me the tiniest bit and forced myself to stand still, but that didn’t stop a moan from slipping out as peach juice trickled down my legs. “That’s good…very good, querido.”
“I’ve got something better,” he whispered against my skin, then pressed a kiss to one painfully taut nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
“Not yet. Do that some more.”
From far away I could hear the low-level hum of the crowd, and the sultry scent of peaches and sex tickled my nose. Chris’s wet tongue slid out and circled my nipple while he never took his eyes off my face.
He continued to tease me with the fruit and his fingers, sliding them in and out of me, fucking me until my legs shook and I couldn’t hold off my orgasm any longer. Between his fingers and the peach, I was a goner.
“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop, dammit.” I locked my arms around his neck and latched onto his earlobe as I rolled my hips against the slick fruit tickling my clit. The soft material of his T-shirt chafed at my nipples, pushing me to a fever pitch. I stiffened against him and my hips took on a mind of their own as I climaxed with enough force to steal my breath away and leave me weak-kneed. Thankful for the wall at my back, I pushed myself upright, despite my pounding heart, and gave him a sleepy-eyed smile. “Eat it.”
He never even hesitated. Just slid the peach, coated with my juices, between his lips like a good boy and sucked it clean before cutting it in half with those sharp white teeth. He fed me the rest on my order and watched as I licked the last of my juices from his fingers.
With another deep breath to clear my head, I rehooked my bra and pulled my shirt down. “If you want…some”—I gave him a long hard look, taking in the prominent erection straining against his shorts—“you have to help make it.”
It, of course, being peach cobbler.
Slipping from his arms, I retrieved my skirt and shimmied into it before turning and tucking my panties in the pocket of his shorts.
“You’re gonna kill me, Fiona,” he mumbled with a shake of his head.
“But you’ll die a happy man.” Smiling, I grabbed his hand and led him out of the alley. We turned down the sidewalk, heading away from the commotion of downtown Carthage.
“How far are we going?” he finally asked. We’d only gone a block.
“Not too far, why?” I turned and smiled at him over my shoulder but didn’t stop.
“Baby, I’m hurting,” he groaned softly.
“Just a little bit further,” I coaxed, turning onto my street. Two houses later we were turning into my driveway. I gave a last glance over my shoulder at the neighborhood. All was quiet. The tidy old houses with their tidy little lawns, pristine and sparkling in the early summer sunshine. Not one curtain moved. Good.
“How bad do you ache, querido?” I slowed my pace as we neared my Mustang. “You want it now, or should I make you wait a little longer?”
“Now, inside.” Pushing me against the car, he lifted my skirt and ground against my bare ass. A move that made my belly tighten with need.
“How about now? Right here?” I challenged, smiling to myself. Chris had no idea what he’d gotten himself into.
“What if someone sees us?” he growled against the crook of my neck. He sank his teeth into my skin and the memory of those same teeth cutting the peach in half flashed behind my eyes.
“Right here, or you wait. You have to be good to get what you want—”
“I’m always good,” he softly insisted.
“I know, but this time you have to be good my way. Remember?” I forced myself to breathe through the feel of his erection against my naked bottom and the heat of the car searing into my thighs as I bent over the hood of the car.
“Dammit, Fiona, I can’t!”
“Then you don’t want it bad enough.” My pussy clenched as I pushed my hips against him in challenge. “Did you like how I taste?”
“Oh God, yeah.”
“Do you want to taste me again?” I bit back a moan and waited to see if I’d break him. Then sighed as a warm breeze caressed my bottom. I fixed my skirt and turned to find him leaning against the side of the house, his chest heaving with every breath.
“No. I do, but not like this.”
“Fine.” I was disappointed, but far from bested. I had all afternoon to reel him in. I led him up the porch steps, aware of the slippery slide of my pussy and the ache between my thighs. Inside, the cool air washed away the day’s heat but not the heat of my need.
“Damn, it smells good in here.”
My kitchen still smelled like peaches and cinnamon.
“Is food all you think about?”
“Absolutely not.” He spun me around and pulled me toward him. His lips were on mine and then his tongue was pushing into my mouth, hot and heavy and demanding. I responded in kind, but this wasn’t his game. It was mine. I let him have his way, gave the tiniest fractional bit of control over to him until he broke the kiss. Kicking off my sandals as if nothing had happened, I circled around the kitchen island to the oversized refrigerator and reached inside, pulling out two beers and a large bowl of sliced peaches.
“Do you know how to cook?” I turned and set the bowl on the island’s black granite countertop and opened both beers, handing him one.
“No way, baby,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t have to cook.”
“You do today,” I said, quirking an eyebrow in challenge. “So come wash your hands.” I took a long pull of my beer and set the bottle down, wincing as the beer burned a path to my stomach. At the sink I flipped the lever upward, while listening for the sound of Chris’s approach over the rushing water. I filled my hands with liquid soap, then smiled at the feel of him pressed against the length of me. His arms circled my waist and his hands joined mine. Warm water sluiced the dark hairs on his arm smooth and carried soap bubbles down the drain.
Who knew handwashing could be foreplay?
The last thing I wanted to do was make another damned cobbler, but Chris had a lesson to lear
n. I was all business as I snatched two towels from the rack above the sink and handed him one, then fished a clean pot out of the dishwasher.
“Pour the peaches in while I get everything ready.”
He propped his hands on his hips and gave me a skeptical look, before he threw the dish towel on top of mine and did as I asked. While he poured, I gathered up sugar, cinnamon, flour, and everything else we’d need, piling them on the island next to him.
“Now what, Miss Bossy?” Despite the doubts lingering in his eyes, he’d obviously decided to play along.
I handed him the measuring spoons and a large glass measuring cup. “Measure out a cup of sugar and a tablespoon of cornstarch.”
While the oven was preheating, I moved up behind him and deliberately cupped one cheek of his ass as I wrapped my other hand around his wrist and helped him pour the sugar over the peaches. “Now the cornstarch.”
“Done,” he said, tapping the measuring spoon on the side of the sauce pot.
“And lemon juice.”
His hand shook as he spun the lid off the juice, slowly, unconsciously learning to follow my orders. Something that could come in handy later. I held his wrist again and slowly added the juice. “Put it on the burner.”
He arched one eyebrow at me in challenge, but silently followed my instructions.
As he set the pan on the cooktop beside us, I dug a spatula from the drawer on our other side and held it out to him. “Now stir.”
While he stirred the fruit, I stirred him. Taking advantage of his captive position, I ran my hands as far down his thighs as I could and then back up to squeeze the rounded cheeks of his bottom again. I yanked his T-shirt free and slipped my hands underneath. The skin of his back was smooth, muscles rippled under my fingers.
“How am I supposed to stir this with you distracting me?”
My hands traveled across his stomach and upward to palm a set of heavily muscled pecs covered with just enough hair to tickle my fingertips. “Looks good. Just a little more,” I said, peeking around his shoulder.
