The Chocolate Temptation (Amour et Chocolat)

by Florand, Laura

  “Sarah. I’ve told you this before. You can’t get me wrong.”

  Of course he would think that. He didn’t know what it was like to get something wrong. But his hands felt so soothing. The heat of his body against hers welcomed her weight so well.

  He pulled them so that he sat on the edge of the bed, holding her between his legs so that her face was just a little higher than his. “It’s like the sugar, Sarah,” he said, and she blinked at finding him in her own metaphor. As if, well – they shared the same world. “If you mess up a piece, or shatter it, we can always try again.”

  If she broke her sugar slippers, it wasn’t something wrong with her feet? They would just make a pair that suited her better the next time?

  “It’s not the MOF contest,” Patrick said, “where you work your butt off for a dream and then one wrong move ruins everything. You’re not on trial.”

  MOF. She lifted a finger and traced his collarbone, the strong throat. “Why don’t you wear your MOF collar?”

  He shrugged immediately, her finger riding the ripple of movement, his smile turning the whole idea of the Meilleur Ouvrier de France trials into a joke.

  Because it matters to him, she realized suddenly. Nobody becomes a Meilleur Ouvrier de France unless it matters. Not even Patrick.

  “It’s the stripes,” he said with a vague wave of his hand. “Bleu, blanc, rouge. It makes me look like a damned flag.”

  “Why did you go after it in the first place?” She smiled a little. “Nothing better to do that weekend?”

  His lips closed as if she’d stolen his next words right off the tip of his tongue. His gaze flicked to hers, and then he angled his head enough to squint for his next wave. Except, of course, that the only thing over there was an empty apartment wall. She traced his collarbone, just gentle, not asking again. And waited.

  “Luc couldn’t,” he said suddenly, low.

  Her eyebrows went up.

  “He was too busy, and then he was just too famous. Too good. He started winning those junior world pastry contests by the time he was twenty, and then it was the regular division, and before he had time to even think about the MOF, people were already calling him a god of his field. He could judge others, and, in fact, they had asked him to judge last year, but a god of his field can’t submit himself to the judgment of his peers. Of course he’d get it, if he tried; that’s obvious to everybody. But he can’t try out for their approval. He just can’t. If you know him at all, you’ll see why he can’t. But I could. Kind of like, I don’t know–”

  “His knight?” she suggested. “The king’s champion?”

  A flush rose on his cheekbones. “Sarabelle, sometimes you have the weirdest ideas about me.”

  “His first champion?” she said. “A prince?”

  His flush deepened. He stared up at her, caught. “Sarabelle…”

  “And that’s why you don’t wear it, isn’t it?” She stroked his throat, around which that ultra-rare, ultra-proud badge of honor would go. “Because if you have it, and you wear it, when he can’t, it makes him look bad. But if you have it, and you dismiss it, it means it doesn’t matter. That the title means nothing, compared to what a chef actually does.”

  He could only stare at her, so awkward and vulnerable, shoulders trying to shrug and getting the movement all funny.

  “You get more wonderful all the time,” she said incredulously. “My God.” Her hand shifted to press against the left side of his chest. “What do you hide under there?”

  “Sarah.” The protest came from a voice compressed to the point of anguish.

  She bent forward and kissed him. The very first time she had ever been the one to start the kiss. Not that she had any sudden surge of confidence that she might deserve him, but she just couldn’t help it. He was so special.

  His breath caught. His mouth yielded instantly to the kiss, shaped to hers, and gave her that kiss back, his hands sliding up her body to cup her head. When she straightened, his eyes were brilliant. “Sarah. Stay,” he coaxed. “Let me make you dinner. Spend the night. Stand me just a little bit more.”

  “It’s not you, it’s–” She shrugged, helpless to say what it was exactly. She had always needed time in her own space. Where she could pad around barefoot in old pajamas and just be herself. Not completely overwhelmed.

  “You know what you should do?” Patrick kissed her palms. “Go take a long, long bath. Use those bath things I got you.” A little wicked glimmer. “Lock the door.” He laughed, and kissed her palm again. “No, really. Lock the door. I promise not to make you come again for at least twelve more hours.” An innocent look. “I wouldn’t want to invade your space.”

  Wait. She wasn’t sure she had wanted that kind of space.

  He laughed again and kissed her one more time as he rose. “Take as long as you like. And I…I’ll go get some groceries for dinner.”

  Chapter 26

  Patrick woke with a cold jerk, his arm flinging out automatically to the empty space in the bed beside him even as he processed the soft sounds of Sarah moving around in the apartment.

  He pressed his hand into the warmth she had left on the sheet, keeping his eyes closed as he tried to marshal his thoughts past adrenaline and the shock of disappointment. He quelled his first thought – that she was sneaking out as some vicious little game because he had let her know how much he wanted her to stay. No. Not Sarah. And given how unlike Sarah that would be, it would be helpful, damn it, if he could get past that instinctive assumption, one day.

  No, she must need space. Desperately enough to go out into the cold at four a.m. And he was so not looking forward to dragging himself out into freezing Paris to escort her home. He sighed heavily, gathering his energy to force himself out of bed and maybe even accompany her without trying to manipulate her into staying, if he could manage to control his instincts to do that, and–

  Sarah slipped back under the comforter, scooting in close to his body with a shiver. Damp hands tucked against his chest with a whiff of soap, her legs bare under the hem of his T-shirt, and he realized she had just been going to the bathroom. No intention to leave him at all.

  Every muscle in him unclenched all at once in blissful reaction. Keeping his body heavy, a man moving in his sleep, he rolled to wrap his arms around her to fight those shivers off her. See, Sarah? That’s one good thing about sharing your space, all that warmth waiting for you when you climb back into bed at night.

  A shaft of pleasure went through him when she snuggled in closer and pressed a kiss to his chest. The kiss was like the tiny prick of a pin that suddenly just pierced right through him and held him like a butterfly. Sarah. I think you might love me.

  He couldn’t breathe as he tried to face it head on, looking down at her tucked head, so black against his skin, her body so much smaller than his and yet so strong. Straight. True.

  What if she did love him? The beauty of the idea didn’t soften with repetition; it still hurt, like being stabbed with starlight.

  All quiet and contained and concentrated, looking at him with that brainy, dark gaze of hers, as if all his shields were shreds of sheer cloth, and she could see right through him and still love him, despite how terrifyingly ragged it made him feel. Unable to hide his hope, which just wanted to burst out of him, show itself, dance.

  He gave her warmth, savoring the satisfaction as her shivers gentled and regretting the moment when his heat finally got to be too much and she withdrew toward her own space. He wished he could cool himself off, just to keep hold of her. He missed her, over there on her cool sheets, imagining that coolness wistfully, that he could never quite reach, because whenever he touched it, he brought too much heat.

  Missed her, when she had only withdrawn a few inches, just because he was afraid of her withdrawing more.

  And then fingertips touched him curiously, just there at the join of his shoulder, exploring as delicately as a whisper over muscle and bone, as if she wanted to discover how he was put together.


  She had such a beautiful, careful touch, with the little calluses giving it texture, from all the times she had burned herself trying to learn to mold sugar, all the times he had wanted to kiss her fingertips to make it better. All the times he couldn’t, he had to tease her, or slide her a macaron as if he wanted a taste test, or pretend not to even notice while he solved some problem that should be more urgent than their intern’s sore fingertips.

  Her fingers grazed towards his throat, so lightly it was clear she didn’t want to wake him, and her calluses explored the hollow as if she was utterly fascinated by it. He found it hard to breathe, pins pricking through him everywhere, and even a lifetime of experience in hiding how much he felt was barely enough to keep his body sleep-heavy.

  He knew she would stop if she realized he was awake, though. In the end, it wasn’t unlike all the times he kept himself lazy, easy, while he ever-so-subtly herded someone into what he wanted, without pouncing, without driving straight toward that want and showing his hand.

  He could do it. He could hold still for this.

  Her fingers explored carefully down his chest and rested there, intrigued, her index finger pushing down curl after individual curl of hair, testing its spring. That melted him, how long she could spend fascinated by this tiny element of his body. Her fingers drifted carefully to the right, to the very outer edge of his nipple, and circled around it twice, three times, just grazing the edge of that softer skin. His nipples tightened, and he bit down into the inside of his lip – and her fingers finally, finally–

  Retreated, with great lack of daring, down to his ribs, never touching the actual nipple at all, damn it, that hurt, that frustration.

  He put the hurt into the bite into his inner lip, unable to transfer it to any other muscle, not curled fists, not curled toes. She would feel the tension in his body if he did.

  Her fingers snuck over his ribs, which tickled so badly his breath hissed a tiny bit between his teeth, and she lifted her head.

  His lashes were on his cheeks by the time her head lifted all the way, and he drew a heavy breath and sighed it out, shifting, like a man almost woken sinking back into deeper sleep.

  For a moment, he thought she hadn’t fallen for it. That was the trouble with letting a very smart woman get to know you a little bit. Especially if she was quiet. You could fool yourself into thinking she believed you, and then, out of the blue, she made one of her rare comments and you realized she had been seeing straight through you all this time.

  Her hand flattened out on his ribs, the first full touch, one his body could relax into, not nearly so ticklish. A little sigh of pleasure ran through him, but he made it sleepy, no scaring her off.

  He liked his abs, when she stroked them, liked them with a sudden, vivid pleasure in how ripped they were, all that definition of a core that was always, always in intense use. He liked his forearms, the corded strength of so much heavy lifting. And when her fingers slowed at his wrists and traced over his hands as carefully as if she was tracing the most wonderful secret, his heart stopped, and he didn’t know what to like.

  No one was as amazing as she made him feel. No one.

  Well, except her.

  Her fingertips slipped at long, reluctant last off his hands and snuck, with great care, to his hip. And then tiptoed down it, caressing the curve. He fought to control the urge to flinch at the ticklishness and got his reward: one gentle, kitchen-toughened palm slipped to curl over one butt cheek.

  His buttocks tightened in one long, hard urge to thrust, and he rode it out, trying to breathe deep. Just reacting in my dreams, that’s all. Would she be able to tell? Had she ever touched a man in his sleep before? Had he ever been touched in his sleep before? A hot, tangled excitement swept through him, this heady mash of firsts and fear.

  Her hand caressed his left buttock gently, as if she just had to figure out how he was made.

  He began to feel he was spying on her. She was exploring his body in his supposed sleep, and yet he felt as if he was the one cheating. Peering through her window with night goggles to catch her naked.

  He wished he hadn’t thought it would be a nice gesture on his part to wear pajama bottoms. Admittedly, he usually did in the winter – made it a lot easier to get out of bed on a cold dawn – but he sure as hell wouldn’t have with her in the bed with him if he hadn’t thought it would make her feel better.

  Sarah, please, can I tell you how much I like this? Can I sigh into it? Can I let you have that much control?

  ***

  He was so funny, Sarah thought, watching his heavy lashes against his cheeks. He must be awake. He had to be. And yet he kept up the pretense. Why?

  Did it matter to him that much that she touch him, that he had to pretend to sleep through it?

  She wondered suddenly if this was emotional bravery on his part – to let her touch him, to not take her over.

  And if he could be brave by lying quiet, by hiding, then she could be brave by continuing to put herself out there, even knowing he was awake to notice how much she got wrong.

  She ran her hand over those hard, ripped abs, the core of a man who never, ever stopped bending, lifting, twisting, working. Always with that easy amusement, as if his intense physical day was a nap in a hammock.

  You’re so beautiful. The warmth of his skin against her hand ran up through her body, sinking into her soul. I just don’t understand. It’s so hard for me to get things right. How could someone so naturally, so easily perfect want me? Make me feel so easily perfect, too?

  It’s not easy for him to be perfect, she had to remind herself, yet again. He works brutally hard.

  His breathing shifted all the muscles of his torso in slow, deep motions under her hand. Maybe he was falling back asleep after all. She smiled a little, relaxing into the thought, and pressed her palm against his stomach, so flat and hard. His chest hairs tickled her nose, and she realized she had drawn in close to him again, lured by his scent back into that heat that would eventually drive her back to her cool space. And then lure her in from it again.

  Was he really asleep? She pressed her face into his chest, taking a deep breath of him, this man who had knelt at her feet in elegant black with all Paris spread out below them. Who had offered the very sparkles of that night to her in a little box.

  She should put them back on, those earrings, she thought, on a shaft of guilt for where they had been flung, in the corner of her locker. They’re earrings. I can wear mine sometimes and his sometimes. I could even get two piercings and wear them together, if I’m that damn insecure. I can have both.

  Except she only wanted to wear his. Let me drown myself in all your beautiful gold.

  And at the same time, some core of her responded, that steel core maybe that he talked about, that had grown from a tiny iron seed inside a very small child who needed to become herself – not the compensation for her poor brother, not the confirmation that her mother had made the best choice for her family, not the consolation for a loss too great to be consoled, not the desperate nail of American citizenship on which her entire family hung, not the relentlessly excelling proof that America was lucky to have them, that they belonged, not the perfect child, not even the girl so thrilled to please the stepfather who had relaxed the whole house with that gentle calm of his.

  That steel core refused to dissolve in his gold. Said: No. I am me.

  I am me.

  That’s what I want to be.

  My dream is a good dream. Not because I’ll do well at it, or because it’s serious, or will impress people. My dream is a good dream because it’s mine.

  But, oh, if I could have both it and you…

  You beautiful, naked prince…

  She brushed her lips against his chest, shy and sincere. I think I might matter to you, too. I think for all you seem so perfect, like you could have any woman you wanted, for all that charming ease you prefer, if I ran away from the ball in rags, you might come hunting with that shoe until you found me.<
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  The problem was, would she come out of hiding to let him put it on if it meant he would see her in rags? And take over her life and sweep her into his kingdom…

  His impossible kingdom. She wanted her own, one she could believe in. One over which she could actually reign.

  Except that he smelled so good. Except that his body was quite possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever touched. And she had touched a lot of beautiful things since following her dream to Paris: fragile things, breakable things, things she had to manipulate just perfectly to make them turn out right. His body was not remotely fragile, but she touched it as if it was. As if he was the most beautiful, impossible, glorious sculpture of sugar, and she could break him.

  Careful, careful, careful…what beautiful skin he had. How it slid under her fingers, smoothness finely textured with hair that veed down under his pajama bottoms. It was a good thing she had built up all those calluses on her fingertips to help her handle hot things.

  She paused at the waistband of his pajamas, brushing the knit. His stomach tightened subtly and held still, no breath going through his body at all. She snuck a glance up at him. His lashes still lay on his cheeks.

  This was so embarrassing, and yet – he might like it very much. She let her hand slip under the pajama waistband and slide down to – startle.

  He hadn’t worn anything under his pajamas? That was so – deceptive. It was so like him. And now his erection pressed hot and hard and bare into her hand, and she bit her lip and glanced up at him again. Remembering the first time they had made love, before he had become quite so expert at taking control of her, when he had whispered so hungrily, Touch me, just once?

  She wrapped her hand carefully around him. I’m touching you. Do you like it?

  His eyes stayed closed, his breaths coming long and slow again, like a man asleep. Or a man pretending very hard to be asleep.

  Why did he do that? Why couldn’t he yield to her a little bit of himself?

  Like what? Like when he knelt in front of you with all Paris laid at your feet and tried to give its stars to you in a box? Sarah, he fakes the indifference. And he fakes it really damn badly, too. You know this.