Page 30 of Dirty Chef
A liquid heat was spreading its warmth through me and powering down my brain.
I heard Adam take a big swallow of his drink.
He told me it was time to crank it up a bit.
I hummed and swayed to the song playing.
“You ready?” His voice moved. Or he moved, rather. He’d come to stand before me, and his hand slid onto my leg.
I suppressed a shiver and nodded, then parted my lips.
He brushed the treat to my bottom lip, and I closed my mouth around it. An explosion of tropical flavors took over, and I chewed slowly. “Pineapple,” I moaned. God, it was good. It was one of Elise’s cake pops, or a piece of one. “White chocolate shell. The cake is pineapple. Rum.”
His hand remained on my leg, his thumb ghosting back and forth over my skin.
I shuddered. “Lime?”
“Yeah,” he responded quietly. “Anything else?”
I nodded. There was something… “Something tangy,” I murmured. I swallowed the treat and licked my lips. “I can’t place it. It’s got a tart twist to it.”
“Ginger beer.”
Oh. “It tastes really good.”
“Good enough to be a finalist?”
“Hmm. I’ll have to think about it. There’s the risk with the cake varieties—they become soggy.”
“Agreed.” He took his heat with him as he prepared the next morsel. In the meantime, I took a swig of water and let the music lull me into this unusual state of hypersensitivity and intoxication. It was like being seduced by danger. You knew it wasn’t safe, and yet…everything felt so good.
“I think you’ll like this one,” he murmured. He was back, and he stepped in between my legs. His hand returned to my thigh, just a few inches higher up, and that was all it took for me to grab danger by the hand and walk willingly wherever it wanted. “Open your mouth, baby.”
Baby.
I drew a shaky breath and accepted the treat. Biting down on it, I knew instantly it was Elise’s triple-layer chocolate truffle. Within three thin shells of amazing dark chocolate was a rich, chocolaty ganache filling that Adam had made creamier with alcohol. And at the very center of the truffle was a maraschino cherry.
“Oh God.” I was about to wipe a drop of liquid from the corner of my mouth when Adam’s finger brushed over it. I felt his heat again, calling to me. It took everything not to lean in. “Um. Fuck, it’s so good. I taste…elderberry, so…St. Germain?”
“Good. What else?” He took another swig of his whiskey before both his hands were on my exposed thighs, drawing slow patterns across my skin.
I twisted my tongue around the chocolate in my mouth. “There’s something with pear—it’s subtle. Poire Williams brandy?”
He hummed. “No, but I can try it if you want. It might work better. This one’s pear-flavored vodka.”
I shook my head. It was perfect the way it was. Not too sweet. Vodka was lighter than brandy.
In the end, the cherry flavor dominated the lingering chocolate, and I wondered if that was it. If he’d added a cherry liqueur to the center of the cherry. It had a warm kick to it.
“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” I asked to make sure.
There was a smile in his voice when he replied. “One more.” He bit into something, presumably one of the treats. “Yeah, you should be able to guess it.”
I did a mental search in our inventory of the bar downstairs to remember what we had that was cherry-flavored. We had brandy, but that was sweeter than this. Oh!
“Kirsch?” I guessed hopefully.
He laughed softly and pressed a lingering kiss to my cheek. “Good girl.”
I died. “I like being good for you,” I heard myself whisper. Dio, I couldn’t believe I’d just said that. My breathing hitched, and my cheeks caught on fire.
Adam swallowed audibly and stayed close. I felt him. His hands on my thighs, shifting higher with each ministration, his chocolaty whiskey breath, his body heat.
He didn’t say anything at first. He merely slid his hands over my shoulders, past my neck, and gathered my hair behind my back. For a brief second, my hair was in his fist in a firm hold, before he let go.
“One more test.” His voice came out rougher.
Desire zinged and zapped its way through me, and a rush of wetness dampened my pajama bottoms. Bad day not to wear panties. Or maybe the best? Fucking hell.
While he prepared the next one, Lee Brice’s southern drawl filtered through my Adam-induced haze with lyrics that were impossible to ignore. A slow, seductive song. He sang to a woman. Rumors were flying in their little town about the two of them, and he wanted to make them true. He asked, pleaded, wondering why they were trying to deny the feelings.
My heart started pounding.
Not once, though, did I want to remove the sleep mask. The sensations surging through me were too powerful. I wanted to feel. I was on a path I’d only seen on the distant horizon before, and I wanted to be swallowed whole by the hope, by the charge in the air, and by the uncertain excitement.
