Sensuality (13 page)

“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 learn. 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.

I forced myself to stop teasing him long enough to pull a casserole dish out from under the island and set it next to the cooktop. Once I was back behind Chris, I let one hand trail down the warm plane of his stomach to the waistband of his shorts. Chris leaned into the counter’s edge, pinning my fingers in place so I couldn’t explore any…lower.

“Pour it in the dish,” I softly instructed. I shut the burner off with my free hand and wiggled my fingers where he’d trapped them against the countertop.

“Not till I finish, Miss Bossy.”

Once he was done, Chris clamped a firm hand down on
my wrist, turned, and pulled me against him. Our eyes locked and we smiled at each other as he casually draped his other arm over my shoulder. “We could finish this later,” he whispered against my cheek.

The feel of his hand delving under my skirt, the warm firm pressure of his fingers on my damp curls tempted me.

“Put the peaches in the oven,” I murmured, pressing my face into his chest to smother my groan of frustration. I was ready to put the entire cobbler in the oven so we could move on to bigger and better things. “They need to stay warm.”

His movement freed my hands to quickly measure out the ingredients for the crust and dump them in a bowl. From another drawer I pulled out a pastry blender and handed it to him with my most serious expression on my face. “Now the crust.”

“I thought we were done?”

“Not quite,
querido.
”

While Chris cut in the crust with almost determined precision, I went for the pantry and the brandy.

He glanced at me, one dark eyebrow arched. “Beer’s not enough? Or do you just need that so you can handle me?”

“Please!” I giggled.
As if I couldn’t handle him.
“Don’t ask questions. Just take notes. You have to remember all this so you can tell your cook in Tennessee how to make it for you…or maybe you could make it for her?”

“Or maybe you could come back home with me and make it every day.”

“You want me to move to Tennessee just so I can make cobbler for you every day?” I took the pie cutter away from him and added milk, handing him another spatula. “Stir.”

“I told you, I dream about your cobbler.”

“You have a one-track mind
and
you’re crazy,” I said with a laugh. “Now mix that up real good.”

“I might be crazy, but they’ve never been able to prove I’m insane.”

His words gave me pause as I turned toward the oven and pulled the warm peaches out.

“I’m kidding…it’s the job that makes me crazy,” he said. “Now you gonna drink that brandy or what?”

With a grin and a shake of my head, I measured out a liberal amount and slowly poured it over the peaches. “How’s the crust?”

“Take a look for yourself.” He held the bowl up so I could see.

“Perfect.” I nudged the brandy-covered peaches toward him with a nod. “We’ll make a cook out of you yet. Now, drop spoonfuls of dough on top and then we can bake it.”

I sounded like Julia Fucking Child. While Chris finished the cobbler, I sipped my beer, contemplating my next move. The countertop was too high for sex. But the old pine table that ran the width of the kitchen was perfect.

“So it’s the brandy?”

“Shhhh.” I grinned and held a finger to my lips. “Put it in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.”

“So what do we do for the next thirty minutes?” he asked once he was done.

“I’m sure we can think of something.” I took my beer and sashayed across to the table, turned, and leaned against it with my legs crossed. Now that the business of baking had been taken care of, it was time to get to more important matters. “Still got my panties?”

Chris followed my path across the kitchen, pulling the panties out of his pocket as he got closer. Smiling, he held them to his nose for a heartbeat or two before tossing them on the table beside my beer. My granny would have had a fit…if she were still alive.

“Lose the shirt.” He nodded his head with a determined gleam in his eye.

“Ha! You lose yours.”

He gave me a hard once-over, then peeled off his shirt, revealing the heavy pecs I’d fondled earlier. They were covered with a light dusting of dark brown hair that tapered down to a thin line and disappeared into his shorts.

“Now the shorts.” My mouth was practically watering. He was tanned a light golden brown and while he didn’t exactly have a six-pack, he
definitely
had nothing to be ashamed of.

Chuckling softly, he unsnapped the button fly on his shorts but left them on.

“Tighty whities,” I teased, peeling off my own shirt and dropping it to the floor beside me.

“Those are nice,” he said, indicating my breasts.

“I like ’em,” I said, winking.

“I noticed.” He reached up and unhooked my white cotton bra, pushing it off my shoulders. “You just don’t seem like a girl who’d wear cotton.”

“It’s not about the boring cotton,
querido,
but what’s in it.” With a grin, I delved inside his shorts and cupped the firm cheeks of his ass, pulling him against me.

“I promise there ain’t nothing boring in my cotton, sugar,” he whispered against my neck. His stubble tickled,
but I didn’t move as he pressed a soft wet kiss under my ear. “You have the softest hair…the softest skin. Come back to Tennessee with me and make us both happy.”

I leaned back, reclining the length of the table, my skin so hyperaware of everything that I swear I could feel every scar and pit in that old table. “Take off my skirt.”

“You didn’t answer me.” He obliged, working the skirt over my hips and letting it fall somewhere below me.

I continued to ignore his insistence about Tennessee, because frankly, I didn’t take him seriously. Instead, I focused on what I wanted. I watched him through half-closed eyes as my hands skimmed across my rib cage and the flat plains of my stomach to between my thighs. “Touch me, lover.”

In response, he pushed his shorts off his hips and slowly ground his cotton-clad crotch against my naked pussy.

“You want me to fuck you?” he growled, my legs held firmly in his grasp.

I shook my head and smiled. “Not yet. I’d much rather you touch me…with your mouth. That sweet mouth. Yes?”

“You are enjoying watching me suffer way too much.” He frowned in obvious frustration and splayed his hands across my ribs.

“Be a good boy and I’ll give you hot cobbler with ice cream later.”

His frown turned into a grin and he chuckled as he propped my legs open wide. He nodded and planted a soft kiss in my belly button before trailing lower. On a happy sigh, I closed my eyes and bit my lip in anticipation and he didn’t disappoint. Chris’s tongue was good for more than eating fruit. My hips arched upward as he deftly teased my
clit and licked every inch of me. I refused to wiggle or give in to the ever-increasing need to pull him in deeper, by his hair even, and come all over his face. Instead, I forced myself to breathe though the tension coiled tighter and tighter low in my belly until I almost couldn’t stand it.

“Stop…stop it, Chris!” I pushed at his shoulders and wiggled away.

He finally came up for air, planting another soft kiss on my belly. “What’s the matter?” he asked, frowning.

“There’s more of me that needs attention.” I lifted one leg and traced the length of his chest with my big toe, being sure to pay special attention to the one nipple I could reach.

Smiling, he grabbed my foot and nipped the fleshy part near my toe. “You are a demanding mistress.”

“I can be.” I sighed as he pressed a soft kiss to the arch, then my ankle.

“Maybe I won’t take you back to Tennessee with me.” He sank his teeth into the tender flesh behind my knee.

“Then you wouldn’t get any more peaches and cream.” I tugged my leg from his grasp and sat up, pulling his head down to mine. “And then what would you do?”

“Guess I’d just have to come back to Texas for a regular fix.” He sealed my mouth with his own cool, firm lips and delved inside. He tasted like peaches and brandy and me. I pushed his jockeys down, pausing long enough to assess the size and girth of his cock, before I released it and landed a smack on his bottom.

“Mmm!” He scowled down at me, one of my wrists firmly clamped in his hand. “What the hell was that for?”

“You got in the peaches!”

“So!” His scowl morphed into an outrageously shameless grin.

“I should spank you. Or maybe something worse?” I reached down and cupped his sac, smiling as it twitched ever so slightly in my hand.

“How many licks do I get?” he asked, snickering.

“How many peaches did you sneak?” I gave his balls another squeeze, firm enough so that he knew I meant business, but not painful. Then I leaned over and gave the head of his cock a light lick. When I looked back up at him, he had his lower lip caught between his teeth, and I couldn’t resist giving him another swat on the ass.

“I ate three,” he said with a grunt, “and they were
so
good. Now do that some more.”

“What’s the magic word?” I could taste him and I wanted more.

“Please,” he whispered, nodding and tangling a hand in my hair.

I propped one foot in a chair for support and leaned over, drawing his cock into my mouth. My hands trailed down the length of his back and across his ass, landing another smack that echoed through the cozy kitchen. His breath hitched and he grunted, bucking in my mouth.