Page 12 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Grabbing a spoon from the counter, I point it at him. “Back up or I’ll launch this into your abs.”

He steps forward, dips his finger into the bowl of whipped cream, and smears it down his chiseled stomach, growling, “Which one?”

I drop the spoon. It clatters to the floor, and I physically force myself not to crouch down in front of him and lick every drop off.

He’s going to kill me. Or turn me on so much that I die from need before he fucks me until I forget my name.

Damnit to hell.

Turning, I race from the room with soaked panties while Chase laughs behind me, fully aware of my predicament.

Today’s activity is “Couples Cook-Off: Communication Edition.”

It’s supposed to promote unity, timing, and trust.

Instead, it promotes me watching Chase drizzle honey onto fruit like its foreplay while Whitney mutters “Jesus, someone get me a fan” and I restrain myself from jumping clean across the island to claw her eyes out.

Miguel narrates while we cook. “Look at the way Chase supports Roxy’s independence by letting her take the lead.”

I retort, “I’m literally slicing a pepper while he stares at my ass.”

Miguel says, “Intentional grounding technique.”

Trent mutters, “I’m gonna need one of those cold towels.”

Chase flatly says, “Stop looking at my wife’s ass, Trent.”

Our dish is simple, balsamic-glazed peach toast with whipped feta and honey drizzle.

It’s also sexy as hell which is completely his fault.

He hands me a piece of toast and says, “Taste it. Take a bite that gets a little of all of the flavors. It should be an explosion in your mouth.”

Bitch what?

I want you exploding in my mouth after I douse your cock in honey and suck, lick, and nibble every bit of it off until you coat the back of my throat with your salty seed.

What? No, stop it, Roxy.

Narrowing my eyes, I breathlessly say, “I freaking know how to eat.”

“Do you though?” His voice is gritty.

Then, he takes a finger, dips it in the whipped feta, and smears it against my lips.

I immediately freeze. He waits. Everyone else is focused on Sasha’s passionfruit salad demonstration, so no one sees us about to strip naked and fuck like rabbits in the middle of the kitchen.

No one but us. We cannot look away from each other.

I part my lips and take his finger into my mouth, slowly sucking the creamy cheese off of it.

His breath catches and his nostrils flare. “Roxy…” his voice is a warning.

Blinking innocently, I slide the back of my hand over his straining crotch. He jumps and a low moan escapes. “You started it,” I whisper.

He presses into my hand and drags his fingers over my peaked nipples. I gasp and my panties soak clean through. He smiles that smile that melts me. “I’ll finish it,” he promises.

Ten minutes later, as we present our dish through sensual haze you could cut with a knife, Sasha says, “The flavors are layered. Complex. Playful. Perfect.”

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