Page 73 of Riding the Curve

Peeling myself away from his glorious Adonis abs, I start to put on the apron I brought along with me, then pause. That damn chest of his is going to be a distraction the entire night if I don’t do something. A devious smirk grows on my lips. Em’s brow curls up, studying me suspiciously.

“In my kitchen, everyone must be fully clothed, and in proper attire.” I tsk, tossing him my floral apron.

“Yes, chef.” He hums a little too seductively for my fragile state and catches the apron midair, throwing the open loop over his head. Then he slowly turns around and peers over his shoulder. “Could you tie it for me?”

Well, that immediately backfired.

There’s a slight tremble to my fingers as the soft fabric slides between them. His back arches slightly when my knuckles graze over his skin. Knowing that my touch has such an effect on him awakens the butterflies deep within my stomach.

“All done,” I say breathlessly, patting him quickly on the back. I turn to grab cutting boards and knives to hide my blush.

Since he’d mentioned grilled cheese earlier, I thought it’d be nice to make that and some homemade tomato bisque to go along with it. I place the tomatoes and herbs in front of me, the onions and carrots in front of him. “Those need to be chopped, and these two can just be finely diced.”

Emerson picks up the knife warily, his lips pressed firmly together as he cuts through the middle of the onion. As I quarter the tomatoes and place them on the pan for roasting, I steal little peeks at Em’s progress. He manages to chop the carrots just fine, but my heart pinches as I observe him in deep concentration while he tries to dice the onions into even pieces.

There are even little beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

I place my hand gently over the hand that’s holding the knife as he pauses mid-chop. “Here, let me help.”

Sliding behind him, I squeeze my other arm between his opposite side. Obviously I didn’t quite think this through, because Em’s body is huge. As I strain my neck to peer around him and begin guiding his hands through the cuts, a little giggle slips free.

“What’s so funny, Trouble?”

The heat of his gaze warms the top of my head. As I peer upward, I find his lips pressed together tightly, trying to contain his own laughter. Shaking my head, I continue to guide his cuts as I answer. “It’s just, this usually goes the other way around in all my romance books,” I laugh.

Laughter rumbles through Emerson’s chest and I feel it vibrate from my chest all the way to my core.

Once I see he’s getting the hang of the chopping action, I give myself some much-needed space before I get carried away and break my promise to myself to give this thing between us a little time before I jump his bones.

While we work, I turn on some music, and we fall into an unexpected rhythm. The kitchen is such a small space, so we’re constantly brushing against each other. Each one builds the tension between us to the point where I feel like I can almost feel the zaps of electricity in the air.

Emerson must have been feeling the same way because he begins doing things purposely to make contact. Reaching across me to grab things instead of going around me. Or standing so close to me that our shoulders brush against each other while we work.

When it’s time to stir the bisque, I’m thankful to get some reprieve. Em grates the Gruyère and preps the bread with generous amounts of butter behind me. Allowing me a chance to breathe and hide the flush I could feel burning my skin.

Swirling Autumn’s ladle through the soup, I roll my neck, trying to release the pressure that’s built there from today’s painting. There’s also an ache in between my shoulder blades, and I would do anything for a massage. Or the jets of a spa.

Nope. Bad idea, Hen.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to jump back into the spa since that night. Even looking at it makes my cheeks heat. Kind of like they are right now.

Calloused hands dig directly into the aching spot on my neck, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s such a delicious sensation that makes my lashes flutter closed for a moment. A low whimper tears through me as his adept fingers massage every sore muscle.

I melt like butter into his hold. Not even noticing that I’ve stopped stirring entirely.

“Oh my god,” I groan, as his thumbs dig against the knots. “You are really skilled with those hands.”

His movement stills.

My entire body cringes inwardly with embarrassment.

Already regretting the stupid words that just fled my lips, I try to slip out of his hold, but his hands press firmly into my skin, pulling me flush against his chest.

Stunned, I watch as his fingers trail across the crook of my neck and lightly trail down my arm. The other hand wraps possessively around my stomach, holding me still. When his breath tickles the shell of my ear, I feel like my heart might beat straight out of my body.

“You have no idea what these hands are capable of,” he whispers, his husky voice strained as his hand finds mine.

“When you’re ready . . .” he purrs, guiding my hand slowly up the inside of my thigh, stopping just above where I need it most. Interlacing our fingers, he uses our hands to cup my core with so much pressure that my brain goes hazy.