Page 23 of Elicit (Decadence After Dark)

As I silently approach London from behind, I examine her every move. The way her hips sway underneath the short hem of her T-shirt. The way her arms move strenuously as she works the dough. I’m a hair away by the time she realizes I’m behind her. I blow on her neck, and she jumps. “Jesus Christ!” she squashes a handful of dark brown cookie mix.

“Sorry.” I try my damnedest not to laugh.

“No, you’re not.” She spins, wiping away a stray piece of hair from her eyes, unknowingly leaving a trail of white powder across her cheek.

“Okay, maybe I’m not.” I instinctively break out into a smile. She looks so young and innocent at the moment in her oversized T-shirt and knee socks, with her face covered in powdered sugar.

If I’m being completely honest, she looks good enough to eat. And I’m most definitely hungry. “What are you making?” I acknowledge what looks like three dozen cookies piled high on a plate. She must have been baking for hours.

“Chocolate crinkles. It’s what I could whip up with the ingredients in the pantry.”

“I see.” I look down at the lump of dough in her hand. “Do you make a habit of baking in the late hours of the night?” It’s nearly eleven.

“I . . . um . . .” She wipes her face again, anxiously this time. More powdered sugar smears across her skin. “Sometimes. You said Sunday was a relaxed day. This relaxes me. I didn’t think anyone would mind me using the kitchen.” There’s a shy yet unapologetic strength in her voice.

“No one does. If”—I peek over her shoulder at the mound of cookies—“baking for a small army helps you unwind, far be it from me to stop you. But I hope you were at least planning to share.”

She smiles modestly. “Help yourself.”

I take her up on her offer and reach around to steal a crinkle. She watches me attentively as I take a slow, indulgent bite. The fudgy, cakey texture explodes with chocolatey flavor as soon as it touches my tongue. Damn. This might be the best cookie I’ve ever tasted. And that’s saying a lot, considering my addiction to sugar runs parallel to my addiction to sex.

I chew gradually, savoring every sweet second.

Up until this very moment, I wasn’t sold on the old saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” but with one bite of London’s heavenly crinkle, she may have just convinced me.

I swallow down the cookie, and the overwhelming urge to devour the entire plate and then do a number on her. I struggle to breathe evenly as I stare into the depths of those hypnotic blue eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Like what? Desirously? Does she not recognize when a man yearns for her? Aches for her?

“I’m just wondering if you taste as sweet as this cookie.” I wipe some powdered sugar away from her cheek then slip my thumb between her lips. She sucks lightly, inflaming every single neuron in my brain.

“There’s nothing stopping you from finding out.”

No, there isn’t. Except for the tone of her voice. She says the exact words any man would want to hear, including me, but they’re rehearsed. Recited, not enthusiastic. The average Joe probably wouldn’t even notice. But I’m not average, and I’m not Joe. And I want London so fucking bad I’m willing to overlook her underlying displacement. I know for a fact when you fuck for a living, the act can get old. Become routine. Lose its luster.

One night with me will change all that. I’m sure of it. So sure, I’m willing to bet the farm.

“I know I told you Sundays are your day. No work.” I place my hands on her slim hips. “But do you think you’d be up for a little rough sex?”

“Now?”

I nod.

“With a late-night client?”

I shake my head.

“Who then?”

“Me. And my business partner you’ve yet to meet.”

She gives me that confused look once again. “You’reaskingme?”

“Yes. Why?” I search her eyes.

“Because . . .” she replies, then stalls on her thought.

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