Page 41 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

Christ, that was good.

His lips tip up into a knowing grin without me saying a word, and he leans toward me. “You can tell me it was amazing, Iz. I already know. These might be the best potatoes I’ve ever made.”

Dammit.

His arrogance should be a massive turn-off. It should make me want to simultaneously smack him across his handsome face and run far away from his reach. But he has reason to be arrogant about this.

“Shit. Yes. Incredible.”

He chuckles and stabs a piece of steak. “Was that really so horrible to admit?”

I open my mouth to protest, but he pushes the meat between my lips before I can get a word out. Chewing, something familiar yet exciting and new mixes with the deeply beefy flavor of the filet. “Mmm. What’s on this? It’s a béarnaise, but something is different….”

Instead of answering, he swipes the fork through the sauce drizzled over the steak and gently wipes it across my lower lip. The move is so sensual that a shiver rolls through my body and a jolt of pleasure flutters between my legs.

Oh, hell.

“Tell me what you taste.”

I flick my tongue across my lip. “Butter. Lemon. Vinegar. White wine. Tarragon, of course. Pepper. Shallots. Cayenne.”

He draws the fork over my lip again. “You got something wrong. Two things, actually.”

“Hmm.” Those are the classic ingredients in a béarnaise sauce, one of the basics we learn in culinary school. Yet, something is different. I just can’t put my finger on what it is. Though, it shouldn’t surprise me that he would mess with one of the most classic sauces. That’s kind of Jameson’s MO.

His warm bourbon eyes watch me intently, waiting for me to come up with the answer, but all I can do is stare into them, swim in their warm depths—all ability to think gone in an instant.

He sets the plate onto the counter to our side and runs the fork through the sauce again. His tongue darts out to lap it off, then he leans in, brushing his lips to mine until I open my mouth enough to let him slip his tongue in.

That same incredible flavor mingles with a taste that is all Jameson, coating my tongue and eliciting a moan from somewhere deep inside me. He drags me up against him, wrapping his arms around my waist and crushing my chest to his. I shift his grip down to my hips and groan into his mouth, looping my arms around his neck, clinging to him like he’s an anchor in a storm rather than the man creating the raging tempest in my life.

What the hell am I doing?

Something stupid. Something reckless. Something highly inadvisable. Yet, I can’t bring myself to care in this moment. Not with him pressed against me, with his tongue tangling with mine and his hard cock brushing the spot between my legs that hasn’t had any action in literally years.

I am in so much trouble.

* * *

JAMESON

I swipe my tongue against Izzy’s again, relishing the feel of her in my arms as much as I enjoy seeing her struggle with my little test. It was never my intention to kiss her. To touch her. To do this. I honestly just wanted to feed her and make sure she was safe here alone at night.

But walking in to find her perfect ass in the air like that, wiggling side to side seductively kind of threw my plans out the proverbial window.

She stills in my arms and jerks back her head, eyebrows raised. Her pink cheeks redden even more with her proud smile. “I got it. Spring onion. You used spring onion instead of shallots.”

I grin and brush my thumb across her kiss-swollen lower lip. “Yep. What else?”

“It’s spicier than normal, though not super-hot. The burn is gone as quickly as it’s there. Something familiar.”

“Very…”

Her eyes light up. “Habanero instead of cayenne!”

“Inspired by your little trick with the chili the other day.”

“It shouldn’t surprise me that you can’t just use the classic recipe. Your culinary school professors would probably shit themselves.”

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