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“A heap of things.” He watched as she moved to the other side of the kitchen, lifting a thick linen tea towel off a tray of goods. He’d expected more cookies, but instead, pastries stood like soldiers in a line.
“These are cherry and almond scrolls,” she said, lifting a pastry wheel in her delicate fingers and holding it gingerly, her eyes tentative as they probed his. “Would you like to try one?” Her voice had
grown husky, her tone soft.
He stirred in the fabric of his pants, growing hard, aware of her every movement and breath.
His nod was slow, an acquiescence. Sanity was berating him, telling him to snap out of it, to stop noticing the fullness of her lips and the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra. But torturing himself was Gabe’s stock in trade; he was great at it, and there was no greater torture than being close to Isabella Moss and denying himself what they both clearly wanted.
Her eyes held his as she closed the distance. Right in front of him, she stopped, lifting the pastry for him to take. He ignored her gesture, his eyes continuing to bore into hers, encouraging her, inviting her. He caught her wrist, so fine-boned, and lifted it towards his lips.
Breath sounds filled the air, raspy and fast, as she stared up at him. He guided her hand to his mouth, breathing in the scent of the pastry before taking a bite of it, the delicious combination of ingredients, the buttery warmth, invoking pleasure that he quickly tamped down on out of habit. He watched her as he chewed, swallowed, then nodded his approval. “It’s very good.” He still held her wrist, captive, close, tormenting, promising and pushing away all at once.
She made no effort to move, nor to question him. Her body was so close to his; he could hook his leg around her ankles and draw her the rest of the way, collapsing her forward, so that every inch of them was connected.
“It’s a new recipe. I generally use apricots but you only had tinned cherries.”
She filled silences with sentences. He didn’t share that tendency. It was easy to stay quiet, to watch and see what she said or did next.
It was a habit that had served Gabe well these last few years – in life, and in business. He was known to be ruthless and intimidating. If the Montebellos were in negotiations, Gabe was dispatched. He could stare down anyone over a table for as long as it took. He didn’t care if they liked him or not, he got the job done.
“I think it works.” Her voice quivered a little and up close he could see her throat move as she swallowed. “Perhaps some flaked almonds on top would add a bit of crunch.”
Her tongue darted out licking the corner of her lip. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. His cock jerked in anticipation.
“You have a little pastry on your lips.”
The tug towards her was inexorable. Denying it was his strength. “Do I?”
A frown flickered in her face. She nodded once, lifting up a little, bringing her body even closer, so that her soft breasts brushed his chest for the briefest moment and he trapped a groan low in his throat. Her fingertips were tentative at first, just brushing aside the pastry she’d told him about. But once that job was completed, she didn’t drop her hand away. Instead, she allowed it to linger, her fingers tracing the outline of his lower lip, her eyes sweeping shut as she felt him, touched him.
He opened his mouth a little, a challenge in the gesture. She startled, watching him, before slowly, uncertainly, pushing her finger forward. He waited until the tip was in his mouth and then closed over it, sucking gently, as though he were kissing her. She groaned, a husky sound in the air between them, her eyes piercing his with longing.
He understood. He felt it too, but denial of something he wanted so badly was the penance Gabe sought most of all.
The more they flirted, the closer they got to indulging physical temptation, the more he felt it – pain at resisting her. It was the pain he needed. Giving in to her would ease it and therefore he wouldn’t.
He lifted his other hand, containing her wrist, drawing her hand from his mouth and down to their sides. He held both her wrists, and the idea of having her imprisoned flashed through him, held hostage to their needs. Desire sparked like a firework.
She breathed as though she’d run a marathon. Her eyes were pleading with him, and yet she said nothing. She didn’t need to.
“Cherries are better than apricots.”
It took her several seconds to respond, confusion showed in her features and then she nodded slowly. “I think so too.”
The air crackled. Her lips parted, begging him to kiss her, and oh how he wanted to do just that! Instead, he dropped her wrists and turned away, reaching for his beer.
The air whooshed out of her lungs, an audible sound of disappointment.
He felt only relief – relief that he hadn’t succumbed, relief that thwarted desire was like a dagger at his sides, twisting mercilessly. He relished that pain. But not the look of confusion that crossed her features. His denial made no sense to her – and the last thing he wanted was to mess her around.
Grinding his teeth, he took a step away, turning his back on her for a second.
“It smells good in here.”
“Does it?” Her voice was husky. It whispered through him, squeezing desire like a fist in his gut. “I mean, yes, I know.” Her voice grew distant. He drank his beer, watching the snow fall, before turning back to her again. She was wiping the bench, her cheeks pink, her silk hair down so he couldn’t see as much of her face as he wanted.
“Were you working?” Her voice was a little shaky. She brought the cloth to the sink, skirting a careful distance from him.
