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“You ready for another taste, cher?” he calls out, giving the contents of the pot another flick into the air.
I force my right hand to lie still on my thigh, abandoning my mental sketch. “Yes.”
He offers me another mouthful. This time I lean toward it and open my mouth, eager.
The corners of his eyes crease in amusement as he blows on the mouthful he feeds me. “Here, cher.”
I nearly bite my tongue. I don’t care that it’s still too hot. I chew so fast and then it’s gone. Too fast. Way, way too fast. My eyes immediately latch on that big silver pot of deliciousness. “That’s amazing. I think it’s done.”
He takes a taste from the pot, his face scrunched in concentration as he slowly shakes his head. “Not there yet. But it’s close to what it should be.”
Closeto what it should be? I doubt that; I think I just tasted ambrosia.
“You could stick a needle in me and shoot it through my veins. It’s that good.”
His head goes back, and a rumbling laugh pours from his throat, making me smile. “Nice to know you’re eager for more.” He spares me a brief, heated glance. “But I’ll let you know when it’s ready. And it’s not ready yet.”
We go through another round.
And then another.
Each bite tempts me to shove him aside, stick a spoon in the pot—a much bigger one than he offers me—and not care about blowing on the food before I eat. Each bite makes me more ravenous than the last.
The next time he offers me a spoon, I nearly fall off the edge of the counter, leaning toward it. His arm goes around my waist, and he purrs, “Easy now. Let me.”
As he lifts the spoon to my mouth, my stomach flip-flops, and I realize what’s happening here.
He’s making love to me with this dish.
I nearly face-planted right into the white marble floor. And I don’t think I’d have even noticed if it got me another taste of the potent deliciousness he’s feeding me.
“How’s that?” His thumb brushes my bottom lip.
“Good,” I moan.
His amber eyes hold my gaze. Hold me entranced. “Are you ready for more?”
My pussy tingles.
I’m not even thinking about the simmering pot of food just behind Rune’s left shoulder anymore. I’m focusing on the big, heavily muscled Cajun with thick blond hair, a soft-looking beard I want to stroke, and lips I want to taste.
He slides a large, hot palm around the nape of my neck, and his nostrils flare as if he reads all the rampant need coursing through my veins. “I think you might be close.”
I think I’m ready for him to lay me down on this counter, shove his sweats down, and give me something other than what’s simmering in that pot. I think I’m no longer hungry for him to feed my empty belly but my soul instead.
But how do I say all that? How do I express all those wants? And do I truly want to?
He searches my expression and then, nodding, releases me and takes a step away.
I smother my disappointment as he turns. “Cajuns have big appetites.”
I study his back as he pulls a white bowl from a cupboard, ladling a generous serving into it before he grabs a spoon from a drawer. He returns with both and offers me the bowl.
I move to take it, but he doesn’t let go. His eyes capture mine instead. “And this Cajun is starving.”
As he pushes the bowl into my hand, I hear what he’s not saying.
He’s feeding me, but I read the need in his eyes reflected back at me.
