A single food left. This particular item, he should probably feed to her.
“Last one. Okay if I handle the spoon this time, Dearborn?” He twisted open the glass jar. Watched her expression for doubts. “Worried it’s gonna drip on you otherwise.”
“Sure.”
Her lack of hesitation made him feel a thousand feet tall. A million.
He carefully dug out a small amount. It wasn’t as liquid as he’d imagined when he’d seen it at Costco yesterday. More crystallized, less pourable.
“Spoon’s coming your way.” No surprises for Molly. If she was trusting him, he’d fucking earn it.
He touched her lower lip with the utensil’s end, the contact light as cotton candy. Her mouth parted. He slowly slipped the spoon inside, doing his best not to picture anything else sliding over that pink, slick tongue of hers.
Her mouth closed around the half-full bowl of the utensil, and he guided her fingers to the silver handle. Gave her back control. Tried to ignore how his whole body clenched at even that glancing contact.
“Honey,” she said immediately, then ran her tongue slowly over her plump, shining lower lip. “But something tastes... different.”
One more swipe of that tongue, and he’d kiss her. Either that or explode into flames. Science and Athena’s goddamn wick effect could go fuck themselves, because spontaneous human combustion was a definite possibility for him right now.
“In what way?” he choked out.
“It’s not just sweet and syrupy. It’sthick, and the flavor is more complex than what I usually get at the store.” Meditatively, she sucked the remaining honey smears off her spoon, and his dick ached. Swelled behind his jeans zipper. “I can’t quite...”
When she didn’t finish her thought, he forced out another question. “Apart from sweetness, what notes are you getting?”
“Maybe it’s a tiny bit... floral?” Her brows drew together in thought. “Is this the wildflower honey you used in your goat cheese croissant?”
“Nope. But you’re getting close.” As close as he was to breaking his private vow. Because it’d be okay to sleep together, right? Even if she didn’t fully trust him yet?
The blindfold had rumpled her hair. It gleamed copper in the stray sunbeam streaming through the back room’s lone half window, placed high on the outside wall. Her posture had relaxed. Shewas slumping comfortably now, elbows on the table. Soft. Warm. Face bright with interest and pleasure.
If she trusted him, she’d look like that in bed. After he’d made her come once and started working on the next one.
Her head turned in his direction. “Another spoonful, please? I need to taste it again.”
“Want to take care of it yourself?” Because he needed not to watch. One more tongue swipe? His resolve would incinerate. “Could hand you the jar, now that you know it’s honey.”
She didn’t reach for the glass container. “I’ll let you do the honors.”
Dammit. Great sign of trust. Horrible strain on his control.
Muffling his pained groan, he got a fresh spoon to avoid contaminating the jar. Scooped up more honey. Brushed the bowl’s edge over her lip again.
“One more hint.” His voice was a rasp. “The honey originally came from France. It...”
He trailed off. Because this time, she put her warm hand over his as he guided the spoon inside her mouth, onto her tongue. Kept their fingers tangled while she slowly began sucking the honey off the bowl.
Electrified, shaky with lust and anticipation, he overbalanced while leaning forward. Fumbled to recover, trying his best not to knock the metal utensil painfully against her teeth.
In the hubbub, the spoon slipped from her mouth, and thick, viscous honey spread everywhere. It smeared over one of her hands, then the other, as she blindly grasped for the spoon and tried to steady herself and him. Stuck two of his fingers together. Left a sticky trail on the table as the utensil clattered on the steel surface, then got knocked aside by an elbow.
He began swearing and apologizing. She began laughing. And from somewhere in the depths of her bag, her cell began ringing.
Through adorable little snorts, she pointed one honey-dappled finger in her bag’s general direction. “I’m”—a brief pause, while she snickered again—“I’m expecting a call from Lise. She needs to know my schedule for this afternoon. Are your hands still clean?”
He inspected them with a scowl. “One of ’em.”
“Can you grab the phone, then? I don’t want to get honey all over my bag or take off my blindfold and ruin the game.”
