by Tawna Fenske
His eyes went wide. “What?”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Cami said. She put a hand on his shoulder, intent on steering him toward the door.
Great shoulders, she thought with a twist of wistful lust. Then she pushed him away.
“I really can’t get involved with a client—”
“I’ll quit yoga.”
“And even if I could, this whole thing is moving so fast—”
“I’m notoriously slow,” Paul countered, stumbling toward the door. “Old women honk at me on the parkway.”
“And this really isn’t a good time for a relationship—”
“I’m happy to be your cheap fling.”
They’d reached the front of the house, and Cami pulled the door open with one hand, reluctant to remove the other from Paul’s shoulder. She took a shaky breath and released her grip on him.
“Goodbye, Paul.”
He blinked and stepped through the door. “If this is really what you want.”
“It is.”
It isn’t. It really, really isn’t.
But Cami bit her tongue and closed the door. She turned around so she wouldn’t have to watch him walk away.
So he wouldn’t see her crying.
…
Somewhere on the drive between Cami’s house and the restaurant, a light went on in Paul’s head.
“It’s her,” he said out loud, banging a hand on the steering wheel. “It’s Cami in the damn photo.”
Jesus. That explained everything. Her fondness for fitness, her calorie-counting habit, her obsessive need to indulge in a guilty pleasure like Tater Tots.
“Screw that,” Paul said, tires squealing as he banked hard into the parking lot of his favorite gourmet food market.
He moved quickly, filling his basket with the necessities. Fresh basil, plump sea scallops, a pint of bright crimson strawberries, and Arborio rice. He paid for his purchases and hustled home, scrambling to change clothes, collect a few kitchen necessities, and clip two sprigs of rosemary off the plant on his windowsill in less time than it would take most men to reapply deodorant.
He was breathless by the time he got back to Cami’s house, and he stopped on the walkway to get his bearings before he knocked. He combed his fingers through his hair, feeling a pang of longing at the memory of Cami’s hands rumpling it. He smoothed the front of his shirt and wished he’d bothered to iron it. The door flew open and Cami stared blankly.
“What are you doing?”
Paul looked up and shrugged. “At the moment? Sniffing myself to make sure I’m not too sweaty.”
One corner of Cami’s mouth turned up and Paul felt a surge of hope she wasn’t angry.
“I didn’t mean right that second, though thanks for the information. I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Paul said, taking a step forward. “May I come in?”
“What for?”
“I’m cooking you dinner.”
Cami blinked. “Dinner?”
“It’s the last meal of the day, generally preceded by lunch and followed by dessert.”
Cami didn’t reply, but didn’t shut the door in his face. Paul took another step forward.
“I’m not here to seduce you. Not like that, anyway. I want to seduce your palate.”
“What?”
“I have groceries.” He hefted his bags. “It would be a shame to have them go to waste.”
Cami licked her lips. “That’s me in the photo. The girl you thought was my sister? That’s me. I used to weigh—”
“I don’t care, Cami. The only scale allowed in my kitchen is for measuring dry ingredients.”
She bit her lip. The corner of it quirked up a bit. “I have—food issues. Getting involved with a chef—a gourmet chef—would be stupid.”
“I’d hardly call a love of Tater Tots a food issue. And who’s getting involved? We’re just having dinner.”
Her mouth quirked again. Paul took another step forward.
“Look, Cami. I know my comment about the photo upset you and sent you down some sort of path of self-doubt and food denial, and I wish I could take the whole thing back. I can’t promise I won’t put my foot in my mouth again, but I can promise to put something really good in your mouth.”
Cami burst out laughing, and Paul grimaced. “That sounded a lot filthier than I meant it to.”
Something about the laughter must have weakened her defenses, and Cami stepped aside. “Fine. You can come in. But I really shouldn’t eat that. Er, whatever it is.”
Paul didn’t answer, but he headed straight for the kitchen and began unloading things from his grocery bags. Cami stepped up beside him and watched with a fascinated expression.
“Butter?” she said. “I haven’t had real butter for ages.”
“You’ve had fake butter?”
“I’ve had hydrolyzed soy protein, or, occasionally, pureed prunes as a healthful, dairy-free, low-calorie alternative to butter.”
Paul frowned. “Are you lactose intolerant?”
“No. But my mother says—”
“Screw your mother. Not literally.” Paul frowned and shook his head. “There should be real butter in everyone’s life. In the culinary sense, not like in the anal rape scene from Last Tango in Paris, but—”
“Mmm, avocados. Of course, the fat content in an avocado—”
“Knock it off,” he said, snatching the oblong green shape from her hand. “We’re having strawberry-avocado salad with pecans and cinnamon-spice dressing, and you’re going to love it. Do you know why?”
Cami bit her lip. “Why?”
“Because strawberries and avocados are known aphrodisiacs. So are the scallops and basil in my recipe for grilled scallops with basil and lavender essence. And I promise you’ll swoon as soon as you taste my herbed risotto with blanched asparagus and rosemary.”
“Aphrodisiacs? I thought you weren’t trying to seduce me.”
“I’m seducing your palate. You have untapped valleys of food lust, and I’ve been sent by authorities to help you channel that lust in positive directions.”
Cami swallowed and picked up the avocado again. “Food lust?”
“Your thing with the Tater Tots? Hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. A woman with a passion for food—any food—that is a beautiful thing. Hand me that basil.”
Cami looked down at the counter. “Which one’s the basil?”
Paul grinned and pointed with his knife. “The leafy green stuff over there.”
Cami handed it to him and folded her hands in front of her. “I’m nervous.”
“About what?”
“About eating high-calorie food. About having you know my obsession with Tater Tots. About sleeping with you. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Here’s the thing about food,” Paul said as he began to chop the basil with fine, even strokes. “Moderation is important, but satisfying your body’s urges—well, that’s important, too. You’re clearly a woman with strong urges. For food,” he added as Cami flushed and gripped the avocado a bit too firmly. “Certain food. I’m no shrink, but it seems like you’re channeling all your food lust into one, single, solitary guilty pleasure when there are so many other pleasures to be had.”
“Pleasures,” Cami repeated, looking a little dazed.
Paul took the avocado from her gently and handed her the carton of strawberries. “Can you hull these and quarter them?”
Cami nodded and set to work beside the sink, fumbling in one of her drawers for a small paring knife that looked like it might have been used to pry nails out of a wall.
“Here, try this one,” Paul said, pulling a small knife out of the set he’d brought from home. “Sharper.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have more Tater Tots in the oven?”
“No. I don’t think—”
“Don’t think. Taste. And enjoy. Put some more Tater Tots in the oven. They’ll make a perfect appetizer for dinner.”
“They don’t have to be. This meal is all about foods that give you bliss. About figuring out it’s okay to have food make you feel good instead of like a pedophile peering up little girls’ dresses at the bottom of a playground slide.”
“You have a way with words.”
Paul grinned. “And you have a way with a paring knife. Seriously, I’m afraid you’re going to cut your thumb off. Here, try it this way.”
He stepped behind her, half expecting her to stiffen. Instead, she melted back into him, the small of her back fitting snugly against his groin. Paul stifled a groan as he cradled her right hand in his and wrapped his fingers around the knife handle. With the other hand, he guided her fingers around a fat, succulent berry, showing her the right angle to hold it.
“Small strokes,” he murmured against her neck. “Just like when you showed me how to turn the paddleboard.”
“Mmm,” Cami said, leaning back against him. “Like this?”
“Perfect.”
He felt the curve of her perfect backside nestled against him and wanted to drop everything and bend her over the counter.
Patience.
He kept his hands on her for a few beats longer than he really needed to, watching as her fingers cupped the fruit and she made neat little slices into the surface. She was timid at first, handling the extra-sharp paring knife like a snake poised to bite her finger. Soon, though, she got the hang of it. Her fingers were berry-stained and Paul fought the urge to suck the juice off them. Reluctantly, he peeled his body off hers and went back to prepping the rest of the meal.
Cami smiled and picked up a juicy slice of strawberry. She hesitated a moment, then smiled.
“Quality control,” she said, and popped it in her mouth. She closed her eyes as she devoured it, giving a soft little moan of pleasure. She opened her eyes and picked up another. “Holy wow, these are good.”
A hint of berry juice pinkened her bottom lip, and Paul wanted to shove the berries aside and kiss her senseless. She popped another berry in her mouth.
“Last one, I swear.” She groaned again. “Man, these are the best strawberries I’ve ever had. So sweet.”
“Uh-huh,” Paul said like an idiot.
Cami grinned and set her paring knife down. “I’d better get the tots in the oven.”
“Here, try drizzling them with a little truffle oil.” He handed her a small glass vial. “Set the timer a few minutes short and we’ll shave a little parmesan on them before they come out.”
“God, that sounds amazing.”
“Be sure to leave a few plain, too. It’s kinda like sex. The point isn’t to have head-banging, nail-you-up-against-the-wall-with-one-leg-behind-your-neck encounters every single time. The point is to mix it up, with a little missionary, a little cowgirl, a little—”
He didn’t get to finish whatever inane thing he’d been about to say because Cami backed him up against the kitchen counter and kissed him hard. Her lips tasted like strawberries, and Paul dropped his chef’s knife on the counter and reached for her. He pulled her body against his chest, enjoying the softness of her breasts and the angular, molded curves of her hips as he slid his palms over them.
The meal can wait for later, he thought as Cami slid her hand to the front of his slacks and stroked him through the fabric.
She moaned, and Paul forgot his own name. He gave up trying to remember and wondered if any food he’d brought would spoil if he didn’t get it into the fridge within an hour.
“Screw it,” he said, turning to grab everything in one giant armload. He shoved it all in the fridge and turned back to Cami. His breath caught at the blaze of desire in her eyes. He fixed his hands around her hips and hoisted her up.
“We’re going to delay dinner just a bit,” he said as he carried her toward the couch.
“Thank God for heavy appetizers.”
Chapter Four
Cami couldn’t believe she was letting a man carry her.
She also couldn’t believe she was letting a man feed her decadent, high-calorie food while allowing him glimpses of her low-class food lust.
But it was the carrying that startled her most.
He marched her into the living room and set her on the couch, then stepped back and looked at her for a moment. Cami held her breath.
“You’re so damn sexy,” he said.
He lunged for her, and Cami twisted her fingers in his hair and breathed in the scent of basil and river water and strong, solid man. She gasped as his mouth found the sensitive hollow behind her ear, and she pressed her body against his, craving every inch of him. Paul responded with a moan, and Cami dug her fingers into the back of his head, thankful she hadn’t put the tots in the oven yet.
She wanted more than eighteen minutes.
Using every ounce of strength in her body, she pushed him back against the sofa and straddled his lap. Paul shifted so he was sitting up straight, his hands never leaving her body. Cami moved her mouth to his, devouring him, tasting him, craving more. She ground against him, savoring the heat and hardness and the way he moved against her.
“Oh,” Cami gasped, thankful her thin cotton shorts let her feel every inch of him.
Still, she wanted more. His hands were on her back, probably fumbling for the bra clasp that wasn’t there. Cami broke the kiss and leaned back, smiling.
“Let me help with that.” In one swift motion, she pulled the tank top over her head and tossed it onto the floor. Paul’s eyes went wide, and for the briefest moment, Cami felt self-conscious. She started to cross her arms, but Paul grabbed her elbow.
“Don’t. I want to see you. All of you.”
Paul pressed his mouth to her left breast, and Cami made a sound somewhere between a giggle and a sigh.
“You see with your mouth?”
“I’m a chef. Of course I do.”
He began to swirl his tongue around her nipple, making slow, deliberate circles that left Cami clawing at the couch cushions. She gasped as he moved from one side to the other, lingering for a moment in the hollow between her breasts.
He drew back for an instant and smiled up at her. “You’re officially the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m flattered, considering your profession.”
Paul laughed and buried his face in her breasts again. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, and Cami gave a blissful sigh and leaned back. She slid her fingers up his arms and along his neck, coming to rest on his face. She stroked his beard, relishing the gentle prickles against her fingertips. It was somehow soft and rough all at the same time.
Just like Paul, she thought as his teeth grazed her nipple. Shockwaves of pleasure coursed through her torso, and Cami clenched her thighs tighter around him. Paul drew back, probably coming up for breath.
He smiled. “You’re beautiful.”
“Kiss me,” she urged. “I want your beard against my face.”
“Really?”
She stroked a finger against his cheek. “I like the way it feels.”
“I like the way you feel.”
She giggled as his lips found hers, and then she stopped giggling. He was an amazing kisser, and Cami grew dizzy as his lips brushed hers and his tongue made sensuous circles around hers. She ground against him again, wondering if he noticed how damp her thin cotton shorts had become where their bodies connected. She smiled, thinking how evident it was she wasn’t the only one aroused.
Cami slid her hands down and grasped the hem of his T-shirt. She tugged upward, wanting to feel his flesh against hers, but hesitant to break the kiss. Sensing the dilemma, Paul pulled back for an instant.
“Two seconds,” he said, and yanked the shirt off so fast Cami felt the static in her hair. Then his hands were on her again, his mouth working magic on her throat. Cami traced the lines of his chest with her fingers, threading through the faint dusting of hair before she drew her hands back up and over his biceps.
“You have fabulous collarbones. And fabulous skin. And fabulous breasts. And fabulous—”
“Condoms!”
Paul drew back slightly. “I can’t actually judge those yet.”
“No, condoms. I don’t have any. Do you?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Does it make me presumptuous if I say I grabbed some at the grocery store before coming over?”
“It makes you smart. And prepared. And probably lucky.”
“Excellent.”
Cami kissed him hard, then slid off his lap feeling bold and empowered. She swung her bare feet to the floor and shimmied her shorts off. They fell in a puddle of gray cotton at her feet, and Cami kicked them to the side and looked at Paul through her lashes.
He smiled. “So sexy.”
“Thank you. Now what?” she asked in a breathy voice she barely recognized.
“Now I have to think about whether I shoved the condoms in the fridge with the scallops.” Paul frowned. “This could be uncomfortable.”
“I promise not to judge you by whatever might happen when refrigerated latex touches your—”
“Better grab them now,” he said, jumping off the couch. “I’m pretty sure we can find a way to warm them up.”
He paused long enough to trail his hands over her body, his palms cupping her backside and lingering at the apex of her thighs. He slid them back up and around, stopping to caress her breasts before he pulled away looking a little dazed.
“Condoms. Fridge. Right.”
Cami grinned and sat back on the sofa, giving herself a mental pat on the back for purchasing the stain resistant finish on the leather.
So romantic, her subconscious chided.
He says I’m passionate, so screw you, Cami chided back. And he doesn’t care about my awkwardness or my stupid freshman forty or whether I eat healthful, organic food. He likes me the way I am.
Paul returned bearing a slightly chilly box of condoms and a jar of something gooey and golden. “Honey,” he said.
“Darling? Sweetheart? Baby?” She grinned.
“Smartass.” He dropped to his knees on the carpet and pried the lid off the honey. “Another aphrodisiac, in case you were wondering.”