“Would you?”
“Not on my first day.” She brings the spoon to her lips, slow and deliberate. My focus locks in.
She draws the spoon back, a smear of sauce on her mouth, and smiles—like she knows exactly what she did.
“No poison.” She licks her lower lip, missing a spot. A streak of red sauce sits at the corner of her mouth.
“You know what? Whatever. I’m sure some other guy will appreciate my cooking.”
Everything narrows. My blood temperature spikes.
Some other guy? Fuck no.
The thought is intolerable, like pain.
Before the thought fully forms, I move. Two steps and my palm hits the counter beside her hip.
Her eyes go wide.“What are you doing?”
I don’t know.
All I know is there won’t be any other guy.
I lean in, caught somewhere between the panic and anticipation flickering in her eyes. Our breaths tangle. The air feels too tight, too charged. And before my brain can catch up to what I’m doing, my tongue drags across the corner of her mouth, stealing the last trace of sauce there.
Her lips part on a soft gasp.
Her hand shoots to my forearm, fingers curling tight as her whole body stills beneath me.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Really look at her.
What the hell did I just do?
I licked her.
I don’t do impulsive. I certainly don’t put my mouth on a woman unless I plan to fuck her senseless. A laugh almost bubbles out—dark, self-loathing, hungry.
What the fuck is happening to me?
She’s silent, but her eyes say everything.
I step closer, chest brushing her breasts, lowering my mouth to her ear. “Clean up your mess, Jessica,” I murmur, voice a deep rumble. “Before I make a bigger one.”
Chapter nine
~JESSICA~
The atelier smells like fresh fabric, new beginnings, and the faint, traitorous memory of Dominic.
Bolts of fabric tower around me: silks, satins, lace bundles tied in neat PR-company bows.
A month ago, I was hand-washing thrifted fabric in my bathtub. Today, brands are shipping me thousands of dollars’ worth of materials all because I’m “dating” Dominic Moreal. Even thinking his name feels like an electric current running through me.
I tear open another box, letting the fabric spill out in a shimmering cascade. My hands shake from excitement, but they’re also shaking for another reasonentirely. Every time my brain goes quiet, even for half a second, I’m back in his kitchen last night.
With his hot tongue on the corner of my lips.
I drop the fabric I’m holding because the memory hits so hard my knees wobble.
