Page 39 of Never Let You Go

And he says, “You have the type of body that fills in in all the right places.”

Oh.

My.

God.

I nearly choke on my sandwich.

And what are these places, again?

He hands me a piece of buttered dark bread. “Taste this.”

Our fingers touch briefly, and I try, and fail, to ignore the fluttering of my belly. He moves to the side of the table and sits, elbows on the table, eyes boring into me.

The bread is warm, soft, and full, its flavor needing nothing, its texture filling.

“So?” he asks. A real question this time. Interesting.

I swallow. Again, his gaze trails the bread down my throat then goes back up to my mouth and slowly locks back with my eyes. The tickle between my legs intensifies, and my eyes can’t pull away from his.

He’s my boss. This needs to stop.

How do I stop this?

“Describe the taste for me.”

I swallow, try to take a steady breath, and look away from him. I can’t let him see what I feel. “It’s thicker than the baguette. Denser. Much tastier. Almost spicy.” I feel myself blush.

“That’s a rye boule,” he says. “It’s a mix of 25 percent rye flour. That’s the texture and flavor you’re describing. An overnight fermentation in the refrigerator brings out the flavor more.” He’s switched to pro mode, and god, that might be even sexier.

He reaches over and grabs another loaf, ripping it open with his hands. “This one is a house specialty. The flour is whole wheat, with added semolina for extra crunchiness. The fermentation is a two-step process to bring out the bubbles that make it light and airy inside.” He points to the larger craters in the bread, then hands it to me to taste it. Our fingers touch again.

I feel the blush spreading on my face.

“Why are you blushing.” This he says as a statement, with a hint of irritation in his tone, and amusement in his eyes. He moves closer to me.

“You’re watching me eat,” I answer, my hand hiding my full mouth.

“Oh, that.” He pulls my hand gently away as his gaze trails down to my lips. “Better get used to it,” he whispers. His thumb traces the palm of my hand, sending ripples of pleasure through my whole body, then abruptly lets go.

He paces the kitchen and switches back to pro mode. “You have some catching up to do in everything bread related. As your master, it’s my responsibility to educate you. We’ll work on educating your palate.”

His tone suddenly softer, his eyes back on me in that manner that just melted me, he adds, “It’s a good thing you’re staying in-house. We can use all twenty-four hours of the day.”

I have trouble swallowing. Not only is he insanely gorgeous, in that tall, dark and broody way that only exists in books, but he’s looking at me with those eyes full of want and then, the next moment, full of kindness, and I’m not the kind of girl to swoon over a man but when that man is so objectively desirable and when he just told me it’s a good thing he’s going to have me twenty-fours a day in his house?

Color me a deep shade of smitten.

So when he leans in to run his hand like a feather over the side of my face and says, “Does that sound like something you can handle?” —a real question again—all I can do is blink my agreement. Real deer-in-the-headlights moment.

I can’t breathe.

I drown in his irises the color of sin.

“You’re blushing again,” he says in a low voice.

Um? Yeah.

---