“They taste as good as they look. I wondered.” I licked powdered sugar from my lips, taking another bite as I settled on the stool next to her.
“You haven’t made them before?” She spun on her stool to face me, pinning me with what I was pretty sure was her prosecutor gaze.
“Beignets? Lots of times. But I usually use the Café du Monde box mix. It’s faster.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t we do that?”
I wouldn’t have had the extra time with her if we had. More of Charlotte was my motivation behind picking a recipe with yeast, but I wasn’t ready to tell her that. Not yet.
“A box mix for our first cooking lesson seemed wrong on so many levels. If we’re going to do this, I want to do it right.” That was the truth too.
She seemed convinced, at least for the moment. Either that, or the lure of warm sugared beignet was too much for her to resist. She took a bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. That was another thing I could get used to—Charlotte so overcome with pleasure, keeping her eyes open was too much.
By the time she started her second, I was onto my third, chasing the sweet yeasty taste with the orange-scented bite of chicory-laced café au lait. It really was a perfect combination. We were doing this again. Maybe in the middle of the night as a restorative respite from all the equally delicious things I wanted to do to her body.
“God, these are good. You really are magic.”
She licked the powdered sugar from her fingertips in a way that short-circuited my brain.
And the way she looked at me made me feel like I might be magic. Like with Charlotte believing in me, anything was possible. I pushed the idea aside. That kind of thinking was going to make it harder, not easier, to do what I needed to do.
“Let me help clean up.” I slid off the stool and started to tidy up the kitchen.
The next bit was tricky. I had to leave while she was feeling warm and full from our triumph with the beignets. Delayed gratification wasn’t my strong suit, but I already knew Charlotte was more than worth it.
“You don’t have to do that.” She hurried to help load the last few dishes into the dishwasher. “I can do it later.”
“Don’t be silly. Clean-up is part of the process.”
Together, we made quick work of it. I wiped the remnants of powdered sugar off her counter, returning her kitchen to its previous pristine condition, and grabbed the now-empty tote I’d brought the groceries in. I was leaving the ingredients with Charlotte so we could do that again. And bringing a box of mix next time for good measure. Waiting for yeast in the middle of the night didn’t have much appeal. Her eyes widened when I turned to face her, tucking the bag under my arm, but she hid her surprise quickly.
“Thanks so much for teaching me to do that. Even if it was a first for you too.” She shook her head on the last bit, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
Surprising this woman was a good thing. I didn’t doubt she’d get bored easily, and I knew she got off on a challenge. I could do that. I’d love doing that.
“My pleasure, cher.” I leaned in to press a quick kiss to her cheek, fighting the urge to pull her close when she softened against me. I was going to have a long conversation with myself in the car on the way home about why I shouldn’t give in to the lure of Charlotte. But I wasn’t going to like it. “Next time we can try etouffee or something. I’ll make a plan and let you know.” I stepped back and turned toward the door before I caved.
“Okay.” Some of the surprise was back in her voice, but she opened the door for me.
“See you in a couple days for the sex.” I flashed her what I hoped was a cocky grin, making a beeline for my car before I risked kissing her again.
I FOUGHT THE URGE TO pace back and forth in the hotel room. I’d done every bit of shower, shaving, and primping I could think to do. Unless I intended to leave the door unlocked and get started without him—an option I’d spent a fair bit of time considering—there wasn’t anything left to do but wait.
When I came up with the idea for the hotel, I’d been feeling kind of badass. If Ford insisted on doing our cooking thing at my place, I could insist on sex offsite. I sent him a text with a time, day, and the number of the hotel room I’d booked, and laughed when he sent a purple horny devil emoji in reply. The breath might have caught in my throat a bit when he messaged that he couldn’t wait to lick me off his fingers the way I had the powdered sugar from the beignets, but I still felt mostly in control. He owned the food; I owned the fuck. At least that had been the plan before the waiting started.
I wasn’t worried about him showing up. I knew he’d come. Honestly, I couldn’t say why I was nervous—just that I was.
I made one more pass in front of the bathroom mirror to make sure my makeup looked the way it had the other four times I’d checked. I’d debated lingerie, but in the end opted for a skirt and silk blouse suitable for work. Or it would have been, if the black lace bra I wore underneath wasn’t visible. Maybe I should take the blouse and skirt off and meet him at the door in nothing but my heels. There was no way on God’s great green earth I was getting rid of them a second before I needed to. I toyed with the top button, running through my options, and jumped at the knock on the door.
I managed the presence of mind to peer through the peephole to see Ford standing on the other side. He wore those great slacks, the ones that sat low on his hips, and a crisp dress shirt in pearl gray with the cuffs rolled to reveal strong forearms. He had one hand tucked in his pocket and the other in front of him, raised as if he were prepared to knock again if I didn’t hurry up and answer. Everything about him projected confidence. The kind of confidence I needed to feel if this afternoon was going to go the way I intended.
I’d picked a time in the middle of the afternoon for two reasons. I didn’t want Ford to have to take time off work for this and this time came with its own natural limits—both his and mine. I’d been careful to schedule a six o’clock dinner meeting with a new client, limiting the amount of time we had to fuck and the possibility of an awkward spend-the-night conversation.
None of which mattered if I didn’t let him inside.
I steeled my nerves, opened the door, and was rewarded with Ford’s smile at seeing me. I had a fraction of a second to feel the warmth spread through me before he stepped into the room and pulled me into his arms. Needing a moment to reconcile my plan for the afternoon with the reality of Ford holding me, I pressed my face to the warm skin at the base of his throat. I inhaled, breathing in the scent of him—something spicy with overtones like good tea, too rich to just be soap. And delicious.
I kissed the triangle of skin bared by his open collar and traced a path over his pulse point with my tongue. His heartbeat jumped, and my lips curved against his skin. He was as affected by this thing as me. I could do this. Armed with a newfound and unearned confidence, I tipped my face up for his kiss, losing the last of my breath as his lips met mine. This man intoxicated me, the effect stronger than any cocktail he’d made me. I had to get a grip—fast—or I was going to go tumbling over a cliff I’d never navigated.
