by Tawna Fenske
Cami watched his hands on the honey jar, not sure what he was planning to do with it, but pretty sure she was beyond caring if it stained her sofa.
As if reading her thoughts, Paul grinned. “I promise, not a drop will land on your furniture. I’ll make sure none of it goes to waste.”
With that, he pushed her back against the leather and tipped the jar onto her breasts. Honey drizzled out like sticky nectar, and Cami gasped as it slithered across her nipples. In an instant, his mouth was on her, devouring, licking, sucking.
She cried out and twined her fingers in his hair, gasping as he suckled one breast, then the other, then the other, until she was so dizzy she honestly wasn’t sure how many breasts she had. It felt like six or seven.
“Just a little more,” Paul whispered, and tipped the honey jar again. This time, the golden liquid oozed down her sternum and pooled in her belly button. Paul set the jar on the floor and slid his tongue up her abdomen, laving the edges of her ribcage before trailing back down again. He buried his tongue in her naval, swirling in slow circles before moving back up. Cami gasped as he detoured again to her nipples, making lazy swirls there until she thought she might pass out. He licked his way back down to her belly and then dipped lower, lower . . .
“More,” Cami gasped, clenching her thighs to hold his head in place.
“More,” Paul agreed, freeing himself to reach for the honey again. He drizzled it lower this time, and Cami gasped as the sticky liquid began a slow, languid trickle across her most sensitive flesh. Paul’s mouth was on her in an instant, licking softly at first as Cami squirmed and bucked and cried out. He circled his tongue over her, in her, making her mindless.
All she could feel was euphoric sensation, the pressure of his tongue, the warmth between her legs, the liquid heat. Paul gripped her thighs with both hands, pushing them apart. Cami had long since lost the urge to feel self-conscious, and instead gave in to the decadence of his tongue moving over her, tasting, probing.
“Oh, God!” she cried out as something exploded behind her eyelids and everything inside her burst in a honey-hued explosion of light and heat and color and sensation.
When she stopped panting, she brought her hips back down to the sofa and blinked at Paul through heavy eyelids. “Jesus,” was all she could manage to say.
Paul grinned and kissed the inside of her thigh. “Nope, just a chef.”
He reached for the top of the jar and twisted it back on. Then he stood and reached for his belt. “A chef whose condoms have likely thawed out by now.”
“Let me,” Cami gasped and grabbed hold of his belt buckle. She fumbled to unhook it with fingers made clumsy by eagerness and post-orgasm stupor. She tugged his zipper down and slid her hands up to the elastic of his boxer briefs. With one slick shove, she pushed them down his hips and over his thighs. Before Paul could kick them free, Cami grasped his hips in her palms and leaned forward.
“My turn,” she murmured, and took him in her mouth.
She had planned to reach for the honey, but the smooth heat of his flesh and the taste of him on the back of her tongue changed her mind. He tasted so good, and she took him deeper, sliding him against the roof of her mouth. Paul gasped and touched her hair, his fingers brushing lightly through the tangled curls. Cami swirled her tongue around him, savoring the velvety feel of his flesh. She dug her nails into his hips, pulling him to her so she could take more of him. She sucked gently, building pressure, teasing the tip of him with her tongue. Paul gasped and gripped her shoulder.
“Cami, stop. Or we won’t need those condoms.”
She sat back and grinned, pleased with herself. “Wouldn’t want those to go to waste.”
Paul grabbed the box where he’d dropped it on the arm of the sofa and began fumbling with it. Cami stood up and took the box from him. “Sit,” she commanded.
Paul sat, looking dazed, and Cami wondered what else she could order him to do. In this state, probably anything.
She got the box open and pulled out a condom, tearing into it as she dropped the rest of the box on the floor. She dropped to her knees and planted another long, slow, wet kiss on the tip of him before unrolling the condom in place. Then she stood up and pressed her left knee into the couch, slipping the right one on the other side of him. She straddled him neatly, just inches from feeling him inside her.
Paul closed his eyes and grasped her hips. Cami smiled and went still, wanting to savor the moment just a little longer. Paul opened his eyes again, the green flashing with a mixture of hunger and pleasure, and Cami felt something stir deep in her belly. She reached between them and gripped him with sure, gentle fingers. She raised herself up, hovering over him, just a breath of space between them now.
Then she slid over him, gasping as he filled her completely.
“Oh, God,” Paul groaned, gripping her hips tighter.
Cami tipped her head back and began to move, slowly at first. She circled her hips, savoring the feel of him deep, deep inside her. She pressed her belly against his and groaned from the sensory overload. Sweat-slick flesh, the sweet smell of honey, the taste of salt on his lips, the rush of his breathing. His beard brushed her collarbones, and Cami sighed with gratification. She circled her hips again, grinding against him.
Cami breathed him in, savoring the heady smell of fresh basil and river water. She twisted her fingers in his hair, tipping his head back to kiss him again. His lips were soft and rough all at once, the perfect balance of pleasure.
She moved more quickly, feeling the pressure build inside her. His fingers dug into her hipbones, and Cami arched her back, pressing herself against him. Her nipples grazed the fine hair on his chest and Cami cried out. Every nerve she had was electrified. Her fingertips buzzed, her toes curled, and her mouth went dry. She felt his breath hot against the hollow of her throat and pressed closer. Paul thrust hard into her, matching Cami’s pace. She circled her hips once more, and Paul’s eyes flew wide.
“Christ,” he gasped.
“Yes!” Cami screamed, as everything inside her pulsed with electricity. Jolt after jolt seized her, stealing her breath with endless currents of pleasure. Cami clenched her thighs around Paul’s hips, shrieking again. She could feel him pulsing inside her and Cami sank her teeth into his shoulder as waves of sensation crashed into her again and again and again.
Chapter Five
Less than twelve hours ago, Paul had toyed with the idea of cancelling his paddleboard yoga lesson and taking up mountain biking instead.
This was a way better ride, he thought.
“What’s that?” Cami asked around a mouthful of sea scallop.
Paul blinked, startled to realize he’d spoken aloud. Then he grinned at the sight of her sitting naked at her kitchen table, her lush body covered by nothing but a gray linen napkin and a smudge of lemon cream sauce on her left breast.
“Let me get that,” he said, and leaned forward to lick the spot.
“You took the bait,” she said with soft moan, twisting her fingers into his hair. “I’ll have to resort to strategic sauce-spillage more often.”
“Please do,” Paul said, swirling his tongue around her nipple in a lazy circle before sitting back in his chair. “I’ll appoint myself your full-time cleanup specialist.”
Cami smiled and forked up another bite of salad. “If someone had told me this morning that I’d find myself dining naked with a gourmet chef, I would have laughed until I fell in the river.”
“You did fall in the river.”
“True. We should do that again sometime.”
“Definitely. So is this an add-on you offer with every private lesson?”
“Naked dining with the instructor, of course,” Cami said. “Didn’t you see it on my website?”
“I think I’m glad that’s not a perk you offer with group classes.” Paul grabbed three Tater Tots off the plate in the center of the table. “Open wide.”
“I love when you talk dirty.” She grinned and obeyed. Paul popped one of the tots
in her mouth and watched her lips close around it. She closed her eyes in ecstasy as she chewed, and Paul felt his heart twist.
“I could watch you eat forever.”
Cami’s eyes fluttered open, and Paul realized he’d put his foot in his mouth again.
“I didn’t mean forever, forever,” he amended. “I mean we barely know each other, and I don’t want to imply I’m proposing to you, though obviously, any man would be incredibly lucky to marry you and—mmmph.”
Cami shoved one of the parmesan-covered tots in his mouth and grinned.
“Paul?”
“Mmm?”
“Thank you for getting rid of the photo.”
“My pleasure.”
“And for cleaning up the glass after you broke the frame.”
“Happy to do it.”
“And for telling me it’s okay to eat gourmet food and junk food and health food and all food without being a neurotic idiot about it.”
“Delighted to help.”
“And Paul?”
“Yes?”
Cami grinned. “I could listen to you stick your foot in your mouth forever, too.”
Paul forked up a bite of risotto and put it gently in her mouth. “Not a bad start.”
“Not a bad start at all,” she said, and picked up the empty platter. “More tots?”
“I’m good for now,” he said. “Satisfied. You?”
“Very.” She grinned, then pointed a fork at a platter next to Paul’s elbow. “You going to tell me what’s for dessert?”
“My Pièce de résistance. I call it the mocha nougat fondant. I melted Hershey’s Kisses, some instant coffee, a little hot chocolate mix, and a bit of water to form a paste. Then I sliced up a snickers bar, dipped it in the mocha paste, and dusted each piece with more cocoa. I served the whole thing on a swirl of melted caramel candies. Voila!”
Cami blinked, dumbfounded. “Gourmet junk food?”
“Absolutely. And this side dish here you’ve been devouring?”
“Mmmhmm,” Cami murmured through a spoonful of the delectable noodle dish.
“I call it Tom Khaa Ramen. It’s instant ramen noodles blended with the coconut filling from a Mounds bar and a few tablespoons of ketchup.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Junk food can be gourmet or it can be straight-up junk food, and there’s no shame in it either way. As long as it’s all in moderation.”
She smiled. “And I thought I was going to be the giving you a lesson today.”
“You did. You definitely did. That thing with the menthol cough drop and the counterclockwise tongue swirl with—”
“Eat,” Cami said, laughing as she forked a bite of Twinkie in his mouth. “And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned and dabbed his napkin at the corner of his mouth. “It works both ways, you know.”
“The cough drop thing?”
He laughed. “That, too, but it wasn’t what I meant. I mean moderation. Just because my brother says I need to keep an eye on my cholesterol doesn’t mean I need to spend six hours a day doing intense cardio workouts.”
“Were you planning to do that?”
He shrugged. “I’d considered it. If hard-bodied fitness junkies are the sort of men you go for.”
“You’re the sort of man I go for,” Cami said, grinning. “Just the way you are.”
“What would you say to a moonlight paddleboard workout?”
She laughed. “I’d say that sounds like a lovely idea. As long as you’re wearing a vest.”
“Safety first.”
“Safety second,” she said. “Or maybe third.”
“What comes before that?”
“Me,” she said with a wicked grin. “And you.”
Paul felt his heart surge, and he knew it had nothing at all to do with high blood pressure.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, and lifted his glass of pinot grigio.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Shanan Kelley, Kama Blasing, Lynda Beauchamp, Chip Booth, Randall Barna, and anyone else who’s taught me the fine points of yoga, standup paddleboarding, or some combination of the two.
Thank you also to all my fine foodie friends who’ve supported my culinary neuroses, gourmet snobbery, and cookbook-hoarding habits, especially Larie Borden, Lindsay Landgraf, and Jessica Corra. You ladies make life more delicious. That sounded filthier than I meant it to.
As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my amazing critique partners and beta readers, Cynthia Reese, Linda Grimes, Linda Brundage, Bridget McGinn, Minta Powelson, and Larie Borden. I’m also grateful to Dixie and David Fenske for the love, encouragement, and not grimacing too much when I talk dirty.
Big thanks to Heather Howland and the rest of the Entangled team for whipping my story into shape without whipping me (not that a girl can’t enjoy the occasional flogging).
I’m eternally grateful to my amazing agent, Michelle Wolfson, for knowing this story was exactly what I needed to write. You do, indeed, give the best pep talks.
And thank you to Craig Zagurski for being the best kitchen accomplice, wine co-taster, and outdoor playmate I could ask for. We should probably sanitize the kitchen counter now.
Additional Titles for Entangled Ever After...
One Night in the Spa
“I could start listing the muscles of the scalp,” he said as he worked, “but you’d be bored to tears. Let me just tell you what you need to know: you’ve got a headache. You probably always have a headache, but you’re so used to it, you don’t even notice.”
She wanted to argue with him. She wanted to tell him that if she didn’t notice the pain, then it wasn’t important. But apparently it was important because the moment his fingers started easing the tension, everything in her world started to get better. Suddenly she didn’t feel so beaten down. She breathed easier, and she even felt taller. Stupid when she was lying down, but what he did was like water to a dying plant. All of a sudden, she was beginning to perk up. And she never wanted it to stop.
“Do all your clients melt into a puddle on your table?”
“Only the best ones.”
Then he started moving lower, slipping his hands beneath her and using her body weight to produce the pressure. He went from her scalp to the base of her skull, then to her neck and shoulders. Every push of his fingers, every deep circle had her opening up to him. Not just in body, but in mind. She began to trust him in a deeper way than ever before. Which was strange because over the past three years, he’d been an integral part of every day. He knew more about her than anyone. And yet, at this moment, he became more to her. He could probably ask her to give over state secrets and she’d whisper them without a second thought. And if he asked her anything more personal—like if she’d fantasized about the two of them together—then she’d tell him that too. Thank God he wasn’t asking.
Take Me
The solid surge of desire caught her off guard. This was supposed to be a game—a way to teach a lesson to the man who’d automatically jumped to nasty conclusions about her. The very same man who spoke about women like they were stoplights instead of human beings. She wasn’t supposed to want him. It was time to finish it and go home. Alone. “You know what I think?”
He ran his fingers through her hair, his touch feather light. “No, but I think you’ll tell me.”
“I think…” She lifted her face to his, their lips no more than a breath apart. The desire to close the distance, to see if he was a good kisser or not, consumed her, but she stayed on target. “That you smell good.”
And he did.
His fingers flexed on her and he moved in for the kiss. She pulled free and slid a finger in between their mouths, denying him the kiss he sought. He moved back and looked down at her in surprise, which then faded away into frustration. “What are you doing?”
She placed a hand on his shirt, curling her fist into the fabric and pulling him just a little bit closer. For a second,
just a tiny second, she debated keeping him there. Debated forgetting about revenge, and instead getting a fabulous orgasm out of this man.
“I’m thinking,” she flicked her tongue over his lips, “that next time you call a woman a stripper, you should be absolutely sure she is one first. Have a good night with your hand, sweetheart.”
She shoved him back in the booth, stood up, and left. She couldn’t resist stealing another look back at him. And what she saw shot little thrills of anticipation shooting up her spine, then back down to twist her stomach into knots.
He was looking at her like she’d just declared war on him…and he intended to win.
The Countess’s Groom
OCTOBER 2, 1762
Will Fenmore, horses’ groom to Rose Quayle, Countess of Malmstoke, watched his mistress as Creed Hall came into view on the hilltop. It jutted from the dark trees, a grim building of gray stone.
The Countess’s horse halted as its rider’s hands tightened on the reins. Will stopped, too. He saw tension in the Countess’s shoulders, in the stiffness of her jaw. One more night, he told her silently. You can do it.
The Countess didn’t move. The seconds lengthened into a minute.
Will wanted to reach out and touch her arm, to give reassurance. He curled his hands into fists to stop himself.
Another minute passed, and still the Countess sat motionless, staring at Creed Hall.
Is this it? Will she break today? The gelding he rode shifted restlessly, sensing his disquiet.
“He’ll be gone tomorrow,” Will blurted.
The Countess turned her head to stare at him.
Will didn’t look away, as a servant should. Instead, he met her gaze. You can do it, Countess.
“Yes,” she said. “He will be gone.” She urged the mare into a trot.
At the great iron-studded door he dismounted and helped the Countess to alight. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and entered Creed Hall.
Will watched the heavy door swing shut. Someone needs to rescue you, my lady.