Page 37 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
A plate sat beneath a spotlight on the counter, keeping warm while it waited for Lincoln to show it off—a thin chicken breast with a golden-brown, crispy panko coating, topped with a salad of some kind. “Mmm, what’s that?”
“It’s my play on Nashville hot chicken.” Lincoln picked up a knife and fork and cut through the crunchy breading into the tender meat. “Milanese hot chicken, sautéed in butter and olive oil, with a radicchio and herb salad dressed in crème fraîche ranch.”
Her mouth watered just looking at it. When Lincoln raised a fork with the salad and a bite of chicken, she opened immediately. Her teeth bit through the panko crust, the tender meat inside, and heat and spices, cooled by the ranch dressing, exploded on her tongue. Her eyes closed in delight.
“Good?”
“Perfect. The flavors are just right.” She opened her eyes. “That would make a great lunch menu addition.”
Lincoln’s mouth tugged up at the corner, his arrogance on full display. “My thoughts exactly. Think it would tempt DeeDee?”
“I know it would. Let me go see if she’s free.”
By the time she returned with DeeDee in tow, Lincoln had a fresh plate prepared. “I hope you like it spicy,” he teased.
“I like it any way I can get it,” DeeDee said with a wink. “Hand it over.”
Lincoln laughed, passing the plate to her.
“I’ll be out front,” DeeDee said.
“Thanks, DeeDee.”
“Yes,” Lincoln echoed. “Thank you.”
As her friend exited, Lincoln pulled Claire against him. “Hey,” she complained, rubbing against the thick rod nestled into her stomach, “where is my lunch?” Her belly grew warm, her pulse settling between her legs in a way she’d never felt with anyone else.
He began backing her toward her office. “I think I’ve got it back here.”
“Is that so?”
“Very much so.”
“Hmm.” She tipped her head to the side, attempting a playful look. “I was thinking, if you’re going for Southern fusion, maybe the restaurant needs its own signature pickles.”
“Pickles?” he asked, clearly distracted as he maneuvered her through the door to the office.
“Of course, pickles. We Southerners love our pickles. Especially bread-and-butter—”
Lincoln released her, then closed the door with a distinctclickof the lock. “Claire…”
She continued farther into the room, matching Lincoln’s stalk forward, her heart rate rising to a drumbeat behind her breasts. “Yes, Lincoln?”
“I don’t use this word often in mixed company, but at this moment, it’s absolutely true: I do not give a fuck about pickles right now.”
She barely held back her laugh. “Really? What do you give a fuck about?” She could’ve told him she rarely used that word either, but right now she didn’t care what word he used as long as it was a verb and described a way for him to put his hands on her body.
“Getting you naked.”
“Really?” She let her eyes go wide. “Why, Lincoln, I am shocked!”
“Drop those pants, woman, and get yourself up on that stool.”
The barstools that accompanied the café table she used for tastings were, she noticed, just the right height to put her pelvis even with Lincoln’s. “And what happens when I get myself up there?”
“I’m gonna rock your world.”
“I really hope so.” Not that she had any doubt. There hadn’t been a time that Lincoln had taken her in the past few days that he hadn’t rocked her world. Holding his gaze, she slowly unbuttoned her jeans, kicked off the sandals she was wearing, and slid her pants and panties down her legs, loving the way Lincoln’s gaze followed every movement she made. When skin began to come into view, the heaviness of desire deepened in his eyes. She could live for that look alone. Her body was wet, slick, as her thighs rubbed together while pushing herself up onto the barstool. “Like this?”
