Heat coils low in my stomach as I watch his forearm flex with every stroke.
“Well, if the beater’s off-limits”—I lean down and kiss his arm—“I can think of a part of you that wouldn’t mind my attention.”
He pauses for half a second.
Acknowledging the offer.
Possibly debating it.
Then he whisks harder.
I dip my finger in the cream, just beginning to fluff.
He catches my wrist. “It’s not ready for tasting.”
His fingers wrap tight around my wrist, warm and firm, and the air between us thickens.
“It looks ready.”
His eyes lock on my smeared fingertip. He drags my finger straight to his mouth. He doesn’t just lick. His lips close, pulling my finger in.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
He groans like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.
His tongue swirls, and his teeth scrape.
He takes my finger to the very back of his mouth, then pulls back slowly, lips dragging, leaving my skin cool and wet. Inside, I’m shaking and wrecked.
And his mouth still hovers like he’s not finished.
“Wait until it’s ready,” he orders in a low, rough tone.
My free hand brings a dollop of whipped cream to my mouth. I spread the white cream over my bottom lip. Slow and smug.
He freezes. His jaw locks.
“Oops,” I whisper.
His stare drops to my mouth.
Hard.
Predatory.
In an instant, his hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing under my chin, tilting my face up to his.
His mouth slants over mine, and he licks the sweet cream with a filthy hunger that steals my breath. His tongue sweeps and chases every last drop before he sucks my lower lip into his mouth.
“Keep teasing me like that.” His voice scrapes low against my ear. “And we’re not going to make it to dessert.”
My teeth itch to drag down his throat. My hands twitch to pull him closer.
But I can’t.
Because this can’t go any further than kissing.
Not here. Not in someone else’s kitchen with paper-thin walls and sleeping strangers.
