Page 50 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

The thought of being in his kitchen. His domain. Within his physical reach. Without anyone to act as a barrier against the weirdness between us…

I don’t even want to consider it. It makes my body shudder with anticipation for something I’m not even sure I want again.

Who are you kidding, Izzy? You want it again. And again. And again.

I blow out a deep breath as we step into the kitchen, and Rachel turns toward me with a concerned raised brow. “Are you okay?”

“Oh…” I wave her off and watch Jameson move to the range to check something on one of the burners. “Yes, perfectly fine.”

She considers my answer for a moment like she’s trying to read me and determine if I’m lying through my teeth or not, but then she shrugs and grabs the dishes and silverware off the corner of the counter before she scurries out of the kitchen with a wink at me and a, “Have fun!” called over her shoulder.

Leaving me exactly where I didn’t want to be. Where I am not anywhere near ready to be. Alone. With Jameson. In his hot kitchen. With a dozen delicious scents enveloping us.

My mouth waters—and not just remembering the incredible taste of what he fed me that night. More the taste of him—his kiss, his lips, his tongue.

I wonder what he really tastes like?

That question has my gaze drifting down to his ass since I can’t see the object of my inquiry when he’s facing the stove. But just my luck, he turns to face me at exactly the right time to catch me staring inappropriately.

Because of course he does.

“My eyes are up here, Iz.”

I jerk my head up and scowl at him, hands on my hips. This man will not embarrass me. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Pretend everything is normal and totally fine. That’s the only logical way to proceed here. The alternative is unthinkable—actually talking about the fact that we fucked like rabbits?

I’d rather not.

He smirks at me and leans back against the counter next to the range. “I need your help. Come over here and stir the risotto while I get the lamb out of the oven to let it rest.”

Stir. I can do that.

Quite competently, actually. Even if my brain is half fried from being in the same vicinity as this man when only days ago, he had me bent over a similar counter while he plowed into me.

Still, I approach the stove with trepidation. It brings me dangerously close to being too close to Jameson. He turns and pulls the lamb out of the oven, then tents it and sets it aside on the counter.

I stir meticulously, sure to scrape the sides of the pot and bottom. Concentrating on doing just that so I won’t think about the fact that he’s only a foot away from me.

Stir. Stir. Stir.

A warm hand slides slowly down my upper arm, and Jameson presses the front of his body against my back. I swallow a tiny moan at the contact, and while one hand closes around mine on the spoon, the other wraps around my waist and pulls me back even tighter against him.

Don’t think about where his hand is, Iz.

I can’t. Not right now. If I do, I’ll let all those fears I try so hard to keep locked in the deep recesses of my mind free to wreak havoc on my psyche. And I need my wits about me now.

Jameson presses his lips against the exposed skin at the back of my neck. It’s all it takes for me to practically melt against him. His strong arm wrapped around me keeps me steady, the wobble in my legs both embarrassing and incredibly hot.

This man can literally make me weak-kneed with a single kiss to an oh-so-sensitive place. He uses his hand wrapped around mine to continue stirring.

Thank God he’s thinking to do it because God knows I have suddenly lost my innate ability to stir.

His warm breath flutters against my ear, and with each inhalation he takes, my body shifts back with his moving chest, desperate not to lose that connection.

Pathetic, Iz.

But he doesn’t give me any time to consider just how much. He nips playfully at my ear, sending a little zing straight between my legs. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. I thought you were avoiding me.”

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