Page 45 of Fall Love

Tate takes over mixing the apples, brown sugar, and cinnamon, and I can’t pull my eyes from his forearms, working a spoon to blend the ingredients. The tightening of his tendons. The flex of his hand. The vein at his wrist.

If I were a vampire, I’d want to bite him there.

Oh, who am I kidding? I want a sip of him. A little suck of that delicate skin.

“Ready?” he asks, drawing my attention to his face, where his brown eyes match the cinnamon and look as warm as brown sugar.

To my surprise, he shoves his hands into the mixture, scooping out a handful to fill the pie.

Not exactly sanitary, but it looks like a helluva lot of fun, and I dig my fingers into the mixture as well.

Our fingers meet in the mix, and we laugh like naughty kids, scooping up the combination and dropping it in that pie dish.

Once full, we still have crust to layer over the top, but we stare at our hands, dripping with sticky apple pie filling.

Tate grabs my wrist and pulls it toward his mouth. “Let me have a taste. See if we got the combination correct.”

It’s a little late to realize we forgot something, or our portions weren’t accurate, but the second his mouth surrounds one of my fingers, all rational thought exits my brain.

His eyes lock on mine as he draws my finger to the back of his throat, then drags his closed lips down the length of my forefinger.

Too stunned to speak, I watch as he moves to my middle finger, repeating the drag and draw.

Holy fish sticks. I’m suddenly warm all over, and it has nothing to do with the heat of my small kitchen and the hot oven at our sides.

“Driver,” I whisper, choking on the nickname because I’m so turned on, I can’t think.

He lifts his other hand and sets his fingertip against my lip, pausing there. Leaving me with the decision.

Taste the forbidden fruit or not.

Hesitantly, I draw the tip of my tongue against the top of his finger. Tate closes his eyes, like it’s the most sensual thing he’s ever experienced. He moves on to my ring finger.

And I drag my lips down the length of his index.

He tastes like cinnamon, brown sugar, and apples, mingling with the spicy clove scent coming off his skin. He’s a full-on fall feast of aromas.

I shiver as I suck harder at his finger, before moving on to the next one, licking up the length, watching him watch my tongue. He pauses a second. Eyes blown wide. Breath coming shallower, before he takes my pinky finger in his mouth. His tongue twirls around it, reminding me how strong he is with that part of him. How determined he can be.

Let me make you come.

Just once, I’d said.

He smiled against my inner thigh before getting to work.

Suddenly, two fingers are in my mouth, and I’m sucking like I’m hooked on his flavor. Like I’m reeling him to me instead of the other way around, and Tate does come closer.

We stand as close as we can get with my belly in the way, and then he leans forward, like he wants a taste of those fingers while in my mouth. A taste of⁠—

The oven timer goes off, startling both of us.

I jump back, and Tate stands there like he doesn’t recognize the sound.

“Ziti.” I swallow, the taste of him still filling my throat.

“Ziti,” he whispers, like it’s the sexiest word in the dictionary. Then he reaches for a hand towel, scrubs at his fingers, and uses his knuckle to tap the timer off. He steps toward the sink next.

And all the while I stand there, watching him scrub away the evidence that his fingers were in my mouth.