His grin widened at my oops. My knees widened at his grin. There really was only one way this was going to end.
“See now, I’m amazed you can’t remember. Whatever made you blush that night, you sure seemed to be thinking about something fairly specific.” He dipped down, running the tip of his nose across my skin, over a valley and a couple of dells. The farmer was very much in the dell. I was panting. I very deliberately slipped my heels across his shoulders, maintaining an air not so much of nonchalance but of . . . whatever was the opposite of nonchalance. My heels and I were the epitome of chalance. “Sure, you can’t remember,” he breathed, his lips mere centimeters from the center of the entire world.
“I might . . . remember . . . something . . .” I said, feeling a rush of heat spreading through me. The only part of him touching me was his breath, and I was feeling more and more sure I could get off on air alone, providing it was Air Leo.
“You say it,” he offered, brushing his lips across mine. “And I’ll do it.”
I was past playing games. As he slid his eager hands along the underside of my thighs, pushing my legs higher over his shoulders and anchoring my hips with his palms, I squeaked. “Please, your mouth. I need your mouth!” I cried. And he complied.
At the first stroke of his tongue, I fell back against the pillows. At the first nibble of his teeth, I threw the pillow from the bed. At the first moan from his lips, deep into the center of that world, I bowed so hard off the bed I pulled the fitted sheet free. And when he sucked me into his mouth, burying his face and licking furiously, I could feel that beard tickling the very softest part of my thighs. And it was so. Very. Good.
Worth every squeak.
“So who are the two old guys?”
“Old guys?” I asked, not sure where this was going.
“Over the desk,” he said, referencing the bulletin board. “One of them looks familiar, actually.”
“They’re Ripert and Bourdain. Celebrity chefs.”
“Sounds like a French cop show.”
I laughed. “Anthony Bourdain was a chef in Manhattan for many years; now he’s got a couple of shows on traveling, eating, et cetera. Eric Ripert runs Le Bernardin, also in—”
“Aha! That’s why he looks familiar.”
“Makes sense; he’s been on TV forever.”
He shook his head. “No no, the other guy. Le Bernardin is my father’s favorite restaurant. My parents have a standing reservation; they’re there at least twice a month.”
Somewhere in the world, tiny chef heads exploded. The idea that there could be a life where you could regularly go to Le Bernardin even once a month—but twice? At least? That was the most decadent morsel of that entire sentence.
I stifled my own envious head explosion and took the time to admire his posterior from where I was curled up in a comfy ball. Leo had about the cutest butt I’d ever seen. Round and firm, like two scoops of sexy. It walked, er, he walked, over toward the front window and looked out. “The wind finally picked up again.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Our clothes are all over the backyard.”
I chuckled, and started to get up.
“No no, you relax. I’ll go get the clothes.”
“And I’ll let you get my clothes,” I said, heading over to join him. “I’m going to make us something to eat.” I added a slap to his sexy scoops and headed downstairs.
Soon we had a few layers of clothing back on, and I was swirling a pan of hot olive oil and garlic. Leo, looking all kinds of rumpled soft sexy in just his jeans, leaned over my shoulder to see what I was making.
“Smells good.”
“My favorite smell in the entire world is garlic, exactly twenty seconds after it hits a hot pan,” I said, breathing in the heady aroma. A pinch of crushed red pepper went into the pan next, and a pot of boiling salted water bubbled away on the back burner, filled with big handfuls of linguini. “There’s half a baguette on the counter over there—want to tear off a few hunks? Plates are in that cupboard.” I pointed with my wooden spoon. Technically it was my mother’s wooden spoon. Even more technically, it was my great-aunt Mildred’s wooden spoon. She’d been gone from the earth for many years, but her spoon remained. Stained dark brown from millions of sauces, it was angled on one side, the result of years of stirring.
I’d thought about that angle many times over the years, often when using it to stir something myself. How many times had she stood in a kitchen stirring a Sunday sauce, or making sure a batch of mashed potatoes had just the right amount of golden butter and milk? How many times had she cooked even though she was exhausted? How many times was she yelling at Great-Uncle Fred while she was stirring something with this spoon? How many times had she used it to punctuate a statement, pointing it into the air as she emphasized something she felt strongly about? Had she ever thrown it in anger? Had she ever made a major life decision while staring down at the soothing, rhythmic turns of the old spoon?
While I thought about culinary anthropology, the gorgeous man in my kitchen sneaked his hands around my waist and cuddled me close as I stirred. “Smells good,” he said once more. “And I’m not talking about the food.” He dipped his nose into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. “Honey.” He sighed.
“Yes, dear?” I replied, laughing at my joke as I rolled a lemon under my palm.
“That fucking honey scent that’s all over your skin, it’s driving me crazy,” he murmured, his breath hot on my skin. “I can’t keep my hands off you—it’s like they have a mind of their own.” His lips traced the shell of my ear, his hands slipping underneath my shirt. His callused fingers, worn rough from hours of hard work, felt natural on my skin. Natural and amazing.