Blush(21)

“Maybe we should take this upstai—”

He bit her nape hard enough for her to yelp, more with surprise than pain. Although, damn him, it stung.

“Take them out,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t just assaulted her. “Careful so they don’t roll off the counter.” He licked the sting, which made her shiver, and forget what point she’d been trying to make. “Okay. Now break them— No. Not like that. Here, let me show you.” He demonstrated with one hand, deftly breaking the shell in two, then dropping golden yolk and glistening egg white into the bottom of the bowl. “Now you try. Use both hands. Crack it on the side of the bowl—gently! That’s it. Now the rest. That’ll work. Here, use the shell to get out the broken bits.”

He slid the towel off his shoulder to wipe his hands in front of her, then tossed it on the counter and slid his fingers under her shirt to rest over her belly again. Oh, God. Bare skin to bare skin. His fingers felt rough and cool on the smooth skin of her belly. Her skin was on fire.

Her hands weren’t exactly steady, so there were a lot of broken shells in the mixture. It took awhile.

“That’s good.” He wiped her fingers on a dishcloth. “Drop those cubes of butter into the pan so they can melt while we deal with the eggs.” His other hand skimmed under her shirt, then unfastened the front clasp of her bra.

“Damn it, you studied for this test,” she said on a half laugh, half sob, as his fingers curled around to cup her breast. His lips feathered down the back of her neck. “With Misty Rosetree as incentive, I practiced on my pillow for weeks when I was in eighth grade.”

The damp warmth of his tongue teased her skin as he squeezed her nipple until it became a hard, tight bud. The sensation shot directly between her legs, where she was already wet and pulsing. “It”—Mia blinked her fuzzy vision clear—“paid off.”

“By the time I was proficient . . .” he murmured, as if in casual conversation—as if his fingers weren’t skimming under her skimpy bikini panties so that her entire body buzzed—“she’d started dating the quarterback.”

“Her . . .” He combed his fingers through her pubic hair. Mia’s face flushed. She hadn’t had a Brazilian in months. He must think her prehistoric—“loss.”

“Christ, your damp silk is a turn-on.”

Mia blinked, instinctively canting her hips so his finger would get more serious. Instead he stroked and petted until her back teeth hurt. “This is like finding diamonds when I expected silver. Grab those two forks and hold them like . . . this.” He removed the fingers toying with her nipple to demonstrate how to grip them in a hand with no motor functions because all her attention was focused on the sensation of the fingers of his right hand down her shorts.

“Now whisk.”

He tilted the glass bowl, letting the eggs slide slowly into the sizzling butter in the warm pan. “Add salt and pepper. A bit more.”

A finger glided in the wetness and Mia bit back a small moan as he inserted just his fingertip into the seam. Everything inside her coiled. Tighter and tighter.

He kissed her throat, inserting two fingers all the way, as he whispered, “Don’t come,” right in her ear.

“Don’t—” As she started spasming around his fingers, he withdrew his hand, so his touch was on the swollen folds of her sex, butterfly-light. Mia thrust her hips forward but, off balance, she teetered and grabbed for his wrist.

“Pick up the spatula and fold. Don’t stop, just keep them moving around slowly. That’s it.” Three fingers curved deep inside her, not changing rhythm as her muscles clenched unbearably. His fingers withdrew, leaving her teetering on the very edge of a climax.

Mia tried to think of something else as her body screamed and begged for release. Scrambling eggs wasn’t complicated, she thought desperately, tightening her thighs to trap his hand. But then, she’d only ever eaten them, never watched their preparation. And never with a man finger-fucking her.

Dear God. Breakfast would never be about food again, not with this memory hitting her whenever anyone mentioned eggs.

Every time she was just about to crash over the edge, he withdrew his fingers to give her another instruction on whatever the hell was in front of her. Commanding her to focus, commanding her not to come.

“You know,” she snapped when he withdrew his fingers yet again, “I don’t do instructions well. I can leave you to your devil eggs and run upstairs and . . . and . . . Oh, God—” She squeezed her eyes shut as he twirled his fingers deep inside of her, the exquisite sensation of release hovering like a dewdrop shivering on the edge of a leaf.