by Mindy Klasky
Bed. She shouldn’t be thinking of a bed with Josh standing there looking like sin in a suit. She shouldn’t be thinking of a bed when her sweater was rasping across her sensitive breasts with every breath she took. And she definitely shouldn’t be thinking of a bed when the mere word made her thighs supernaturally aware of the scrap of lace she’d been foolish enough to call panties.
Josh didn’t have to pass that close to her as he walked by. He didn’t have to stare at her sweater that way, just long enough that he had to know she was braless. He didn’t have to smile that slow, lazy grin as he handed her an envelope, one with her name and address typed on a bright white label. “Ready to see what the station has in store for you?”
“We’ll open them at the same time?”
“Let’s make it official.” He dug in his pocket for his camera and slipped an arm around her to take a selfie. “Here. You hold both the envelopes, so no one can accuse us of breaking the rules.”
She laughed at the absurdity—no one would care about the bobbled envelopes. Nevertheless, she smiled when he took the picture.
He put the camera on the counter and slipped a finger under the seal on his. She followed suit, and they each pulled out a single sheet of paper. He looked at his and laughed. “What?” she asked.
He held up the page. “Cumin,” he said.
Immediately, she thought of half a dozen main courses she could make, how she could use the flavor-enhancing spice to deepen the flavor of almost anything. Something with a Mexican base would be perfect. Or something Indian. Maybe Brazilian.
Now it was her turn. She stared at her paper in disbelief. “Red cabbage,” she said.
How the hell was she going to turn red cabbage into something elegant enough to share with the judges? The only thing she could think of was cole slaw—boring and mundane, and that didn’t even begin to account for how the red coloring would bleed into anything else she served.
“I’ll trade you,” she said, finally looking up to see him laughing at her.
“Not on your life.” But he picked up a sturdy goblet and poured wine from the decanter on the center island. “Here,” he said. “Drown your sorrows.”
They clinked the rims of their glasses together, and she rolled her eyes as he insisted on one last picture to memorialize the unveiling of their special ingredients. “Enough,” she insisted. “What is it with you and pictures?” She watched until he put the phone back in his pocket.
Then she drank the wine—oak at the back of her tongue along with the brightness of berries, all smoothed over with a soft wash of vanilla. “That’s a nice barbera,” she said.
“I figured we should get a chance to finish one, since our earlier bottle was interrupted.” He took his own sip before he said, “You’ve got a good palate.”
“That’s what cooking school’ll do for you.”
“I thought they focused on technique.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of that. But there’s also a lot of tasting. Wines, fruits, vegetables. We couldn’t test out of our first year classes until we could identify all sorts of things blindfolded.”
She saw the glint in his eyes, felt the answering tug far below her belly. Blindfolded… Now that could prove interesting… She wasn’t disappointed when he said, “Let’s see what you can do.”
“Here?” She looked around the kitchen like she’d never been in one before. “Now?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have a blindfold, but I trust you to keep your eyes closed. Unless you’re afraid,” he teased.
“Never.” But she took another sip of wine to fortify herself, even though she knew it would play havoc with her tastebuds. She licked her lips and nodded. “I’ll need a glass of water. But show me what you’ve got.”
He snorted at that, not even bothering to disguise his lingering glance at her short hemline, at the four-inch heels she’d strapped on before she left home. She took satisfaction in knowing that he was every bit as turned on as she was. He’d engineered this entire encounter, after all. He could have just turned on his heel back in the studio, exchanged envelopes and been done with the charade.
She watched him fill a glass, drop in a couple of cubes of ice. He set it close by her hand, and then he said, “All right. Close your eyes.”
She did, making a show of straightening her spine, of raising her chin. She heard him open the refrigerator. He shifted things around—some plastic containers, it sounded like, and a couple of plates. He pulled open one of the crisper drawers, rummaged for something, then shoved it closed. He repeated the process with another drawer.
“You don’t need to set up an entire salad bar,” she said.
“Losing confidence, are you?” He laughed, and she heard a wooden cutting board settle on the granite of the center island. A knife whispered from the cutting block.
“Just afraid you’ll feed me cabbage.”
“Don’t have any in the house,” he said. She heard the knife slice through something with a firm skin, heard a second crunch as he pared off a slice. She could smell the vegetable before she opened her mouth, and her lips curled into a smile.
“Cucumber, of course. Persian.”
“Of course,” he agreed, amusement obvious in his tone.
Mores slicing, more crunch.
“Bell pepper,” she said, after he placed the first narrow spear on her tongue. She chewed and swallowed and said, “Green.”
She took a sip of water to clear her palate, and then he was back, almost immediately, with his next sample. This time, as he put the food in her mouth he let the ball of his thumb brush against her lower lip. It could have been accidental, an innocent coincidence, but she couldn’t keep from catching her breath. She barely resisted the urge to turn toward him, to lean forward to give her breasts the pressure they craved.
“Pepper again,” she forced herself to breathe. “Red.”
“Well done,” he said, and her only satisfaction was that his own voice was husky. His fingers closed over hers as she raised the water glass to her lips, and she might have dropped it if he hadn’t kept her steady.
He reached for the next thing, staying so close to her side that she almost leaned against him. This time, two of his fingers brushed her lips. She couldn’t help herself. She moaned.
“Is this how cooking school went?” he murmured. “You just distracted your instructors until they gave you the highest scores possible?”
She stiffened at his insinuation. He couldn’t know the truth. He didn’t understand that he was saying. She forced herself to offer the easy laugh she’d shared with so many guys, the carefree flirtation that had brought her to plenty of beds, that had always carried her back to her own safe home by morning. “You’re dangerously close to saying I slept my way to success, Cantor.”
He chuckled. “I’ve seen what you can cook. I know that’s not the case.”
And before she could glory in relief that he didn’t know her embarrassing past, he slipped something past her lips, a morsel that was sweet and tart, with seeds that exploded across her tongue. “Golden raspberry,” she whispered, wishing there was more to consume.
“Excellent,” he breathed into her ear. A shudder cascaded down her spine, and this time she needed his hands on her wrists, she needed him to steady her wobbly knees. His hips matched hers, and she leaned close for a firmer anchor. His erection was obvious, and she could picture the fine charcoal wool of his trousers straining against the pressure.
He twisted his chest away from her, bending toward the cutting board. She tried to concentrate on the sounds around her, measuring the tone of the knife through whatever he was slicing. It was wet, she could hear that. And her nose was immediately tickled by tropical scents—guava. No. Mango. No, that had to be mangosteen. At least she thought it was, she’d only actually eaten the fruit once.
When she tasted his offering, just a bite, she recognized it immediately. “Papaya,” she said after she swallowed. He’d left his fingers against her lips—
his slick fingers, coated with the juice of mango, and guava and, yes, mangosteen, and she knew he’d sliced through more than one fruit in a wily attempt to fool her. She slipped her tongue out to taste the tropical essence and then, before he could pull his hand away, she closed her lips around his fingers.
It felt good to suck on his hand. Good to lick away the sweetness. Good to hear him catch his breath, to feel the twitch of his cock against the waistband of her skirt. She looked up at him through her eyelashes as she flicked her tongue against the V of flesh between his index and middle fingers.
“You’re cheating,” he said. “Eyes closed.”
She let him pull his hand away, and she leaned back just enough to see the tropical carnage on the cutting board. “You cheated, cutting all those things at once.” She reached past him to the mango, using her fingers to pry loose a pulpy bite.
He bent his head to take it from her, never taking his gaze from hers. She felt that cobalt stare through her belly, through the flower of heat that blossomed between her thighs. When his tongue flicked against her palm, she wanted to feed him every juicy bite that trailed across the counter.
His hands were too fast for her, though. One palm spread across the back of her head. His free fingers fiddled with the lacquered chopstick she’d used to secure her French twist. She heard the wooden stick clatter on the floor as he breathed against her lips, “God, I’ve wanted to do that from the first moment I saw you.”
~~~
Josh dragged his fingers through her hair, freeing it from its rigid confines. It was softer than he’d thought it would be. Longer, too—it reached past her shoulders. He wanted to bury his nose in it, to smother himself in her aroma of fresh bread and vanilla.
But more than that, he wanted to feel her mouth on his, to melt into the kiss he’d imagined as he’d stroked himself on Wednesday night.
She was better than he’d dreamed of. She was softer and warmer and even more reactive to his touch. He slipped his finger to a sensitive spot on the edge of her jaw, just below her ear, and her purring exhale made his balls grow tight.
He couldn’t help himself. He pushed her back against the center island. He didn’t care if her palm landed in mango juice, if her fingers squeezed bright orange fruit. He had to feel her thighs pressing against his, had to feel her ribs through her sweater.
And what a tease she was, with that sweater. He slipped one hand underneath, tracing his palm up her firm belly. He already knew what he’d find there; no bra, nothing to keep him from pinching her generous nipples, first one and then the other.
She squirmed, and he released her immediately. But before he could slip his hand free, she whispered against his lips, “No. Don’t stop.” As if to emphasize her instruction, she shifted her weight, spreading her legs to balance better on those fuck-me shoes, shifting her hips against his.
He shoved her sweater up roughly then, and she moaned his name as he used both hands to pinch her back to full attention. Her fingers on the back of his neck became demanding, forcing him away from her mouth, guiding him to one stiff peak.
He tongued it, hard, and then he grazed his teeth against her. She yelped at that, but her hand kept him there. He nipped again, harder, only to soothe the pain by suckling. She was panting now, like she’d been running wind sprints, and he transferred his attention to her other breast, if only to keep her from coming then and there.
He forced his lips to be gentle, made his tongue soft. He circled his goal, teasing, kind, and she thrashed her head from one side to the other as if he’d tied her up with chains. He brushed against the nipple, pretending he was making a mistake, but the clutch of her fingers against his neck gave him no choice but to pounce.
As he sucked, hard, she shifted her hips, rising and falling with the rhythm of his lips. She whined deep in her throat, a sound of pure need that shot through his cock like an iron rod.
He returned his mouth to hers. This time, he didn’t bother to be gentle, didn’t waste time with seduction. Instead, he leaned his chest into hers, twisting enough to scrape his pearl buttons against those magnificent tits. He plunged his tongue past hers, drinking as deeply as he could, tasting papaya and wine, all mixed with the heady smell of the crushed fruit on the counter.
He couldn’t get enough of her. Not here, not standing up. And somehow, just enough of his brain was functioning to know that the November kitchen floor would be like ice.
In one move, he swept her off her feet, slipping one arm around her naked back, the other beneath her knees. She threw her arms around his neck, leaning into him, light and easy and willing. Her lips were hot at the base of his throat; she was sucking hard enough that he knew she was going to leave a mark.
His cock fought to break free of his trousers, and he carried her through the kitchen, past the living room, down the hallway to his rumpled king-size bed. He tossed her onto the sheets and pulled her sweater over her head before she could get any idea of taking the lead. Her hands snagged in the sleeves, and he realized he could use that to advantage; he let her stretch her arms up, back, neatly tied by the tangle of damp red wool.
Straddling her waist, he lost no time tracing the lines of her body. From her bound wrists to her elbows, his fingers were just firm enough to tickle. He lowered his mouth to suck at the sensitive patch of flesh inside her right elbow, darting with his tongue against the pulse that pounded there.
“My God, Josh,” she moaned, and in another woman that might have meant that she was ready, that he could push her over the edge. But he wasn’t going to finish like that, not so easy, not so soon.
She arched from the bed as he traced her biceps, as he tickled her smooth pits. He spread his hands over her ribs, fanning out his fingers with his palms pressed hard against her heaving flanks. Each breath she gasped ground her against his aching cock, winding his own excitement tighter. He wondered if he could tease a climax out of her, if he could make himself come just by exciting her to the breaking point.
But there were other things he wanted to try.
He shifted his weight, so that he was sitting beside her. He slipped his hands up to hers, worked her fingers free of the sweater, let her arms sink back, unfettered. He found the side zipper on her skirt, and he eased it down, tooth by metal tooth.
She helped him. She lifted her hips, even as she gasped at the thumb he rubbed against her navel. He eased her skirt over her hips, past her knees, taking his time and getting rewarded when she whined again in frustration.
“Easy, babe,” he breathed as he bent to the task of slipping the skirt past those killer shoes. When he’d dropped the garment on the floor, he retraced his path with his lips. He gripped her ankles firmly, ready for the way she jumped. Her calves were taut as he climbed past them, and her thighs stretched like bowstrings when he licked behind one knee, when he stroked softly behind the other.
He rubbed his face against her iron thighs, closing his eyes to concentrate on the sensation, on the warm scent of her excitement, on the pure heat beneath his palms. She might be able to tell red peppers from green, yellow raspberries from red, an entire forest of tropical fruit, but he knew when a woman was ripening beneath his hands. He knew how to build her sensation, how to stretch out the delicious tension that spun between them.
Only when he had traced the lines at the juncture of her thighs, when he had explored the taut creases on either side of her damp, desperate triangle with teeth and lips and tongue did he open his eyes.
“Jesus, Ash,” he breathed. He’d never seen an excuse for panties like the ones she wore, revealing far more than they covered, framing her like she was some sort of perfect painting. The black lace trembled as she breathed. He slipped a finger past the soaked silk. She was slick and hot and her muscles twitched, inviting him to add another finger, to fill her with the cock that was about to burst through his boxers.
But he had just enough presence of mind left to slip his hand free. He didn’t want to slam into her, didn’t want to thr
ust a few times and be done, didn’t want to end this unbelievable fantasy before it had truly begun.
He pulled his whole body back. He forced his feet to the ground, even when she whispered his name in protest. He took his time working the buckle on his belt, and he undid each button on his shirt, slowly, carefully, methodically.
She propped herself up on her elbows as he worked. There was something exciting about the way her eyes followed his every move. He was comfortable with his body. Hell, he spent half his life walking around a locker room with a towel tied around his waist. But that was hanging out with the guys. That was being part of the team, doing his job.
It was completely different to be stripping down in front of the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. It was a totally new experience to hear his belt whisper free, to tug his wrists from his sleeves.
He worked the button at the top of his fly, slipped the zipper down with a hell of a lot less care than he’d given to Ashley’s skirt. The sound sent another wire rocketing through his cock, and he had to shift his hands to keep from losing the pants right there. His palm brushed against the sharp edge of his phone in his pocket.
The phone he’d put there to take a picture of Ashley, once he’d poured her a glass of wine.
The phone he’d used, so Angel could have her picture.
Forget that shit. Angel wanted pictures, Angel wanted a great-grandchild. But he couldn’t live for what Angel wanted. He didn’t care if he never saw another one of her recipes, if he had to walk into the Wake Up studios with nothing but a box of corn flakes and a gallon of milk and the announcement that he was serving up Bachelor’s Dinner Delight.
He wasn’t going to use Ashley just to satisfy some desperate desire of his grandmother.
But even as he started to shove his pants past the bulge in his boxers, he imagined taking a picture of Ashley—here, now, with her hair falling to her shoulders and those tits screaming for his mouth. He thought of her slipping her own fingers past that sopping scrap of lace, and he almost exploded there in his shorts.
