Page 8 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
She was quiet for a moment, then: "Okay. But only if you let me help."
"Help?"
"Cook with you. I'm tired of being taken care of. I want to participate."
The idea of her in my workspace, those graceful hands working alongside mine, sent heat straight through my chest and south. But the practical part of my brain rebelled at someone disrupting my flow.
"Fine. But you follow my lead."
I pulled out another apron and handed it to her. She had to stand on her toes to loop it over her head, and when she tied the strings behind her back, the movement emphasized the curve of her waist.
Focus on the food, MacLeod.
"We're making Grammy's pie," I said, moving to the prep station. "Pastry's chilling, so we start with the filling."
She moved to stand beside me, close enough that I caught her scent—something floral and warm mixed with kitchen herbs. The space between us felt charged.
"What first?"
"Vegetables. Quarter-inch dice, uniform as you can manage."
I handed her a chef's knife and watched her test the weight, adjust her grip with instinctive intelligence. Her first cuts were tentative, but she found her rhythm quickly.
"Relax your shoulders," I said, moving behind her. "Let the knife do the work."
Without thinking, I covered her hands with mine to guide the motion. She went very still against me—close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, close enough that when she breathed, her back pressed against my chest. My hands completely covered hers on the knife, and I could feel her pulse thundering where my thumbs brushed her wrists.
"Better?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Much better," she whispered, and there was nothing about knife technique in her tone. “ But, I can't concentrate when you're standing that close."
Good. Neither can I.
She turned in my arms, and suddenly we were facing each other, barely an inch apart. The knife clattered to the cutting board, forgotten. Her amber eyes were dark with want, and I could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"We shouldn't—" she started.
"Shouldn't what?" I backed her against the prep counter, my hands finding her waist. "Shouldn't want this?"
"Someone could come in."
"Let them." I lifted her easily onto the edge of the stainless steel counter, stepping between her legs. The hem of her skirt rode up, and she made a sound that was pure need.
She pulled me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist, and kissed me with desperate hunger. Her mouth was warm and willing, and when I groaned against her lips, she answered with a sound that made my vision blur.
My hands were everywhere—tangling in her hair, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding under her sweater to find bare skin that felt like silk beneath my calloused palms. She shivered at the contact, arching into my touch.
"God, you're soft," I murmured, my hands exploring the gentle curves of her body. "So perfect."
Her answer was lost when I kissed her again, harder this time, more demanding. She met my hunger with her own, her tongue dancing with mine while her hands worked frantically at my shirt buttons.
I helped her push my flannel shirt off my shoulders, and the way her eyes darkened when she saw my bare chest made something primal roar to life in my belly. Her hands traced over my shoulders, down my chest, mapping scars and muscle with reverent fingers.
"Beautiful," she whispered, and the word made my chest tight.
When I kissed her throat, she tilted her head back with a gasp, giving me better access. Her skin was salt-sweet and warm, and when I scraped my teeth gently along her pulse point, she made a sound that was pure desire.
My hands slid up her thighs, fingers trailing along the seam of her jeans, feeling the heat radiating from her core even through the denim. She was warm and perfect and I wanted to make her come apart in my hands.
