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A slow, knowing smile moved over his rugged face. He stared down at her, those clear gray-green eyes capturing hers. “Hungry?”
Hungry for more of what I gave you last night?
Her brain stuttered over the unspoken question, heat rushing into her face as her treacherous nipples sprang to attention.
“Huh?” she asked stupidly.
Furrowing his brows, he gave her a quizzical look. “Food. Breakfast.”
“Oh,” she blurted, silently cursing herself as she struggled to shift gears. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.” Turning from her, he went to the ovens and opened the top one. Without using mitts, he pulled out a casserole dish. A delicious aroma of caramelized sugar, butter and banana wafted through the room.
“Whatisthat?” Hannah’s mouth watered, her stomach rumbling.
“It’s a crème brûlée banana French toast casserole.” He tilted it slightly so she could see what remained of the contents. “Want some?”
“God yes,” she enthused. Then, aware she must sound like a greedy piglet, she amended, “Just a small piece.”
As he prepared her a plate, she took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong, just like she liked it. She took several more fortifying gulps, the caffeine clearing her mind.
Whatever had happened last night had obviously impacted her far more than it had him. Which made perfect sense. He lived this intensive BDSM lifestyle, 24/7. He had slave girls all around him, constantly at his beck and call. What had felt so momentous to her had probably barely registered with him.
She glanced at the binder he’d left on the table, glad for the distraction. It contained recipes, the pages as annotated and stained as her own binder at home. She resisted the urge to pull it toward her, aware a chef might not appreciate someone nosing in his proprietary recipes.
He came to the table with a tray that contained silverware, a cloth napkin and an absurdly huge portion of the French toast on a plate, along with a small bowl of fresh raspberries and a little jug of maple syrup.
As he set the food in front of her, Hannah exclaimed, “Oh, that’s way too much. I’ll never be able to eat all of that.”
Mason shrugged. “Just eat what you want.”
After placing her napkin in her lap, she ate a few of the raspberries, which were perfectly sweet and ripe. Saliva pooling in her mouth, Hannah cut a forkful of the banana French toast and brought it to her lips. She couldn’t quite stifle her moan of pleasure.
“Oh, my god,” she breathed once she’d swallowed. “This is absolutely heavenly.” She took another bite, closing her eyes as she parsed the flavors. “Is that a hint of nutmeg I taste?”
Mason lifted his eyebrows. “It is. You’ve got a keen palate.”
Should she tell him about her culinary career, as brief as it was, or the many awards she’d garnered over the years in local bakeoff competitions? No, it might sound like she was bragging or, worse, trying to put herself on a par with him. Instead, she offered, “I love to cook. I especially enjoy baking.”
He gave a brief nod, clearly unimpressed. Slightly chagrined, she focused on her meal. She hadn’t been kidding. This decadent dish really was spectacular. She couldn’t stop eating it. She made something similar, but it was denser and less nuanced. She would love to get her hands on the recipe but didn’t have the nerve to ask.
She glanced up at Mason as she reached for her coffee. His hands wrapped around his mug, he was watching her with an amused expression. “You going to lick the plate clean?”
Abashed, Hannah realized she’d just inhaled every single bit of the huge portion. She laughed self-consciously. “What can I say? It was that good.”
As he continued to regard her, his eyelids hooded, his mouth quirking into a sexy half smile. “I might actually enjoy that,” he said in a slow, teasing voice. “Watching you lick the plate clean. Of course, you’d need to be on your knees, hands behind your back.”
Heat rushed again into Hannah’s face, her hand fluttering to her mouth. Was he flirting with her? Or was he challenging her? Was she up to that challenge?
“Oh, um…” she stammered, the details of last night’s scene once more front and center in her mind’s eye, which only made her blush more. She reached for her mug to hide her face. Her hand, she was alarmed to observe, was trembling.
For crying out loud. What was her problem? She was acting like a teenager. Did she actually have acrushon this entitled, tattooed chef? Maybe this whole Enclave idea was more than she was ready to handle at this point. She’d been a recluse for the better part of a year. Talk about going from zero to a hundred.
“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I know you were just along for the ride last night.” He cocked a brow. “That said, your performance was quite impressive, even if you did fail to ask for permission.” He brought his fingers to his nose and made a show of inhaling with exaggerated pleasure, a smirk on his face.
Hannah pushed back abruptly from the table. The bastard was making fun of her. She was nothing more than a joke to him. She blinkedback hot tears of embarrassment, drawing on her fury instead.
“I’m glad I was such a source of amusement for you,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
