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 lear
n. 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?”