“Another wacky egg property?” she asked.
“Emulsification,” Adam clarified. “Egg yolk allows us to mix oil with usually unmixy things, like water or vinegar or lemon juice. Mayo lets you see the whole process from start to finish, drop by drop.” He surveyed her face carefully. “You’re one of those people who thinks they don’t like mayonnaise, aren’t you.”
There was nothing questioning in his tone, but Miranda nodded. “It’s grossed me out since I was little.”
Satisfaction gleamed in Adam’s dark brown eyes. “Just wait,” was all he’d say.
With a mental shrug—how different could the homemade version be? Not different enough, she’d bet—Miranda went about the preparations Adam laid out.
She separated the yolks and the whites, pouring the more solid yellow yolk back and forth between the two halves of eggshell, letting the white drain off into a lidded container.
Once she’d done three eggs that way, Adam tamped down the lid on the plastic bowl full of whites and stowed it in the fridge.
“Those are always useful for something down the line. Maybe we’ll make French meringues later, if we have time. Now take your bowl of yolks and add some mustard, lemon juice, white pepper, and salt.”
“How much of each?” Miranda wanted to know. “Is there a recipe I could look at?”
“Shit.” Adam laughed. “Only about a million. But it’s really just about what you like. Here, I’ll help.”
With a quick hand, Adam parceled out the ingredients—more mustard than Miranda would’ve thought. More lemon juice, too. Not that she’d ever thought too much about the components that made up her least favorite condiment, but she wouldn’t have expected so much acid.
“I like it tart,” Adam explained when she mentioned it. “When you make it on your own, you can cut down the lemon juice, or substitute white vinegar if you prefer that flavor. You’re in control. What you aren’t in control of,” he continued, “is the amount of oil. Yeah, you add it, and you control how quickly, but the yolks can only absorb so much, and it varies from egg to egg. So you have to watch out for the cues. You’ll see. Start whisking.”
The light metallic clink of the whisk against the bottom of the heavy ceramic bowl was the only sound in the kitchen for several minutes. Adam started excavating through the pantry for something. Miranda sneaked surreptitious glances at his back.
The view was especially nice when he bent to sift through some items on the floor. Denim stretched taut across the firm globes of his rear in a really pleasing way.
Miranda began to feel warm. Probably from the proximity to the stovetop, or the physical exertion of whisking.
She checked the bowl. Everything was blending together in a highly unappetizing goopy orange-brown mess.
“The bulk of mayonnaise is oil, which is why it’s so delicious and fattening. You can use pretty much any kind of oil you want, but I personally think olive oil makes for a very strong flavor. I like it better in small doses, for seasoning. Use something with a neutral taste, like canola or grapeseed oil, for the rest.”
He tilted the bottle of grapeseed oil carefully, drizzling the stuff in a drop at a time. The oil was immediately absorbed into the egg yolk mixture, thickening and lightening everything by tiny increments. It was startling to see, and Miranda didn’t realize she’d slowed in her whisking until Adam chuckled indulgently and said, “Christ, woman, didn’t anyone ever teach you how to stir? I knew we were going back to basics here, but, geez.”
With no further warning, he stepped up close behind her, surrounding her with his body, and reached his right hand around to grasp hers over the handle of the whisk.
Instead of demonstrating the correct technique, however, they both stilled.
Miranda was intensely aware of the new level of intimacy between them that came from sharing their histories—not to mention the solid strength of him at her back, pressing so close that the hard line of the counter bit into her side. His hand on hers was hard and warm. It was difficult to believe that those blunt fingers were capable of the artistic arranging of food she’d seen him perform with her own eyes as he plated dishes at Market.
She drew in a slow breath that nestled her even deeper into the embrace. She heard a quiet catching of breath in her ear, and those fingers tightened minutely on her own, making her imagine what else they might be capable of.
The air in the kitchen was thick and heavy, as if the steam from the poaching liquid had spread like fog, invading her lungs and making her struggle for every inhalation.
Adam’s heart beat out the passing seconds against her shoulder blade, and just when she felt sure he’d snap and do . . . something . . . just when it became inevitable that Adam would touch her and she knew without thinking about it that she’d respond . . . he stiffened and stepped back.
Bracing herself against the counter, Miranda whirled to face him. All the teasing and humor had left his face and she was shocked at the depth of desire that darkened his brown eyes to black. But he held both hands palm up in front of him, attempting to smile.
“My bad. I promised you wouldn’t have to look at those etchings and there I go, wanting to drag them out.”
Miranda took him in, the rueful expression, the no-harm-no-foul gesture—the intensity still lingering in his gaze. The gaze he’d locked on her as if it were the one thing he couldn’t stop. It reminded her of the way he looked at a tricky sauce, totally engrossed and focused. For some reason, that connection propelled Miranda out of her frozen stupor and into Adam’s arms.
Or, more accurately, into Adam’s broad chest, because as soon as she moved, Adam squawked in surprise and lifted his arms clear.
In the next instant, about when Miranda was starting to feel brutally awkward, Adam dropped his hands to her shoulders and stared down at her with wide, dilated eyes.
Miranda wanted him. Badly. Adrenaline zinged through her veins, lighting her up with the same devil-may-care bravado that had gotten her involved with Adam Temple in the first place. It felt so damned good, risky and out there and delicious. She grinned, giddy with the unfamiliar pleasure of throwing caution to the winds.
“Show me,” she whispered. Her voice was so throaty she almost didn’t recognize it, but it seemed to work for Adam. He slid one hand immediately around to the nape of her neck and up into the thick fall of her hair.
“Anything,” he said, his awestruck tone making Miranda feel like a femme fatale. “What do you want me to show you?”
Miranda smiled, knowing it was coy, feeling like Lauren Bacall and Cleopatra and Eve in the freaking Garden of Eden all rolled into one.
“Your etchings,” she said, and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him.
The moment their lips touched, Adam broke free of his self-imposed distance from the proceedings. He dragged her into his body with a subsonic moan that reverberated down Miranda’s spine, heating things down low and making her squirm in his arms.
She was trying to get closer, not to escape, and Adam seemed to know it. He flexed the hand in her hair, his palm hot and encompassing as he cradled the back of her head and dropped the other hand to her hips. One embarrassingly arousing show of brute strength later, Miranda was perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, her head swimming from the vertigo of being unexpectedly lifted.
Tearing her mouth away, she sucked in air, her head dropping back against the cabinet with a thud. Undeterred, Adam took advantage of the suddenly exposed length of her neck, and moved that voracious mouth down to nip playfully at the tender skin beneath her jaw.
Miranda squeaked when he got to that certain place on the side of her neck, the spot that made shivers run up and down her legs and arms in a furious barrage of pleasure. Adam must’ve taken note, because he took his time exploring the area with lips, teeth, and tongue until Miranda was an incoherent mess.
All she could think to do was to link her wrists behind his neck and squeeze her knees around the trim slabs of muscle at his waist. The
tense and release of her thigh muscles made her aware of the damp state of things between her legs, and the totally inadequate job her lacy little thong was doing of covering it up.
Any second now, she thought hysterically, he’s going to touch me and realize how badly I want this.
It was an insane thought to have when she’d practically attacked the man in his own kitchen, and was currently writhing in his arms, but it stopped her cold.
“Wait,” she gasped, shivering at the feel of Adam’s wide hand smoothing up and down her rib cage. “Wait, wait . . .”
“Mmm, what are we waiting for?” Adam asked, nuzzling at the hair behind her ear.
She giggled a touch hysterically. “Um, for my brain to catch up with my body?”
“No,” Adam protested. “You don’t need your brain for this. Let it take a nice rest someplace else. Just for a little while.”
Miranda collapsed forward, resting her forehead against Adam’s hard shoulder.
“I can’t,” she mourned. “My brain won’t stop thinking.”
“Stupid brain,” Adam said, his hands stilling on her ribs. The puff of his quickened breath stirred her hair and made her shiver.
“Maybe . . .” Miranda paused, unable to believe she was contemplating saying it. But how long had it been since she’d acted without counting the cost? Well, when not under the influence of evil, sanity-destroying pink cocktails, at any rate.
“Maybe if you touched me. You know.”
One dimple popped out with Adam’s half-smirk. His thumbs swept slow circles that brushed the undersides of her breasts. “Can you be more specific? There’s lots of you I’m willing—make that dying—to touch.”
She squirmed, embarrassed. They were pressed so closely together that the movement rubbed her tingling mons into the hard, unyielding button fly of his jeans. She shuddered blindly in his arms for a full five seconds, riding out the feeling.
When she looked down at him again through heavy-lidded eyes, Adam’s pupils had dilated hard enough to leave only the thinnest band of whiskey-colored iris. His hands slid to her hips and gripped them like a lifeline. Miranda could feel the indentation of each finger separately through the thin material of her dress, like brands searing through fabric to get to her skin.
“Wow,” he murmured. “I don’t even know which one of us is getting teased.”
The look on his face—Miranda sucked in a breath. He was so completely hers in this moment, and so not trying to hide it. The open, honest lust and admiration in his expression was maybe the sexiest thing about this entire situation.
Except for the way he was sliding his thumbs slowly inward, giving her plenty of time to think about the fact that his palms were caressing the tops of her thighs now, the sides of his thumbs barely brushing the top of her mound through her skirt. The jersey knit had ridden up her thighs when he hoisted her onto the counter and now it had settled into the vee of her legs where her thighs parted to wrap around Adam, leaving very little to the imagination.
Fluttery anticipation invaded Miranda’s stomach. Adam’s touch was sure, deft. Using just the right amount of pressure, he rubbed circles into her skin with the fabric. It was smooth on her thighs, a bit rough in between where the dress fabric caught against the lace of her thong underneath. It was more a suggestion of friction than actual friction, but it still made Miranda moan.
Adam closed his eyes at the sound and leaned forward until his cheek nuzzled into the valley between her breasts. She clasped his head to her and rocked forward helplessly, encouraging the continuous gentle brushes of his thumbs that sent shivers all through her.
His hair smelled like green apples.
“Tell me,” he breathed hotly against her chest, “that this is one of those dresses where you pull one tie and it magically falls to pieces.”
Instead of answering, Miranda found the strings at her side that held the wrap dress closed, and pulled.
“Mother of God,” Adam said reverently. “That is my favorite thing ever.”
She husked out a laugh. “Better than what’s underneath?”
He took the edges of her dress between thumb and forefinger and unwrapped her body as carefully as if her flesh might singe his fingertips.
“I take it back,” he said, his eyes riveted to the bright blue-green lace thong and matching demicup bra that lifted her smallish breasts and plumped them to a respectable roundness.
“Take what back?” Miranda asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious at being next to nude while Adam stood fully clothed right in front of her.
“I have a new favorite. Feel free to wear this number anytime you want.” He nibbled along the lace edging her B cup.
“O-okay,” she gasped. “Thanks.”
“Christ Almighty, sweetheart.” Adam groaned, lifting his fever-bright eyes to her face. “I could make a meal outta you.”
Her heart in her throat, Miranda did her best sultry. “So why don’t you?”
And with that, she tugged his face up to hers for another kiss as the heat raged through her, flames catapulting back and forth between them both as they fought to get closer.
SIXTEEN
Miranda Wake was burning him alive. The silky pale expanse of her flesh was highlighted by the ludicrously sexy underwear that cupped and covered everything Adam wanted to touch. He’d never been so goddamned jealous of a couple scraps of lace.
And her mouth. Hot damn, the girl had a mouth made for sin. That cupid’s bow shape all puffy and kiss-swollen, rubbed redder than usual from his own mouth. The taste of her was like nothing he’d ever encountered. If he could separate out the flavors and figure a way to re-create it, he’d have the hottest dessert the world had ever seen.
Not that he was at all sure he’d care to share that distinctive flavor with his customers, even in sorbet or syrup form. No, this addictive taste was for him alone. He’d take everything she dished out and keep coming back for more, because this was fucking incredible.
Miranda’s small, ink-stained fingers were clenched in his hair, tugging insistently at the nape of his neck to keep him stretched up and kissing her. She ate at his mouth like she was starving for it, or maybe just like she was trying to keep up with Adam and keep him from swallowing her whole. Hunger like he’d never felt crashed through his system. He ripped his mouth away and kissed down her neck to her breasts.
Fumbling behind her to get the clasp of the bra undone, and suddenly Adam was in high school, trying his damnedest to get to second base with Monica Pettuci. Did other guys get suave and debonair with this? The one-handed bra-clasp fumble defeated him every time.
Not that he intended to let it slow him down. Adam distracted Miranda with another searing kiss, and before he could fall so far into it that he distracted himself, too, he got both arms around her and worked some hook-and-eye magic.
She let the bra straps slip off her shoulders but put one arm around her own chest, halting the downward slide of the bra. The image she presented made Adam want to howl.
It should’ve looked prudish, or at least full of sweet maidenly innocence, the way Miranda’s arm covered her lovelies. Instead she was the perfect picture of debauchery and decadence. Her hair was mussed, a deep red cloud around her bare, freckled shoulders. The bra clung to her curves like a virgin clinging to virtue, but there was no denying the course of nature. The pressure of her arm against her breasts made them spill over the top of the bra in glorious, pale abundance, and as Adam watched in rapt fascination, Miranda took a deep breath and one rosy nipple peeked above the aqua lace.
“You’re killing me,” he told her, meeting her gaze. “But I’m going to die happy.”
It must’ve been the right thing to say, because the momentary shyness faded from her eyes and she let her arm, and the bra, drop.
Creamy white perfection crowned with rosy little nipples like raspberries topping sabayon. They were sweet like berries, too, Adam discovered. Sweeter still were the noises Miranda made under his mouth.
Adam’s granite countertops were high enough that when he pulled Miranda forward to rest her ass against the edge, the heavy bulge in his jeans notched right into the lace-covered center of her.
He jerked at the first contact, a hot burst of friction and pressure that shot fireworks off behind his closed eyes. Miranda liked it, too, if the soaking heat against his erection was any indication. Adam inhaled the smell of her desire, musky and rich, and had to get his hands on it.
Dividing his attention between the tight knot of her nipple in his mouth and the tactile feast of lace and the crisp, damp curls over her pussy was like trying to expedite five different tables at once, but he managed it.
But when he thumbed aside the panties and got his fingers right on the wet, silky heart of her, Adam could do nothing but gasp against her breast and zero all his focus down to the first three fingers of his right hand. He petted her softly, learning the shape of her folds and the miraculously smooth texture of her skin down there. Miranda bumped her hips up against his hand, once, twice, as if she couldn’t help herself.
When he glanced up at her face, her eyes were glazed with passion, her red mouth slack and moist. That gorgeous pink flush he loved so much was all over her face and spreading down her neck to the tops of her pretty breasts.
“Gorgeous,” he choked out. “You are so . . . Miranda.” He was at a loss, helpless in the face of so much beauty, all laid out like a banquet for Adam in his own kitchen.
She panted something too low for him to hear.
“What?”
Miranda lifted her head, slowly, as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
“Adam. Show me.”
He dimly remembered some extended joke about etchings, but he didn’t think that’s what Miranda meant. There was something flashing in her wide blue eyes, a flicker he’d seen in her before, but never so strongly. Her whole body was tensed, poised on the brink, as if she were about to take flight and soar up into the unknown.
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