Burn for You
“Yes,” I said gruffly, trying not to vibrate with excitement because if I wasn’t reading her tone wrong, she was happy.
Then I tried not to groan out loud because she turned to me, stood on her toes, put her arms around my shoulders, and hugged me.
“Thank you,” she murmured against my neck.
Oh God. Sweet holy mother of God. I was going to buy her clothes every single day for the rest of her life. I wound my arms around her waist, pulled her closer against me, and closed my eyes. Breathing in the sweet scent of her skin, I whispered, “You’re welcome.”
A delicate shudder ran through her chest. I resisted the violent urge to run my hands all over her body, to take big, squeezing handfuls of her glorious ass, and stood there breathing raggedly, knowing nothing else except I wasn’t going to be the first one to let go.
After a while, she said, “You’re very tall.”
I blurted, “I’ll buy you platform boots.”
Her laugh was muffled in my neck. Her perfume was in my nose. A soft curl of her hair was caught at the corner of my mouth, and I was in heaven.
She lifted her head and looked into my eyes. Could she see the stars there?
She teased, “I see someone in the family enjoys hugs.”
There was a good possibility she was referring to the ten-inch steel pipe in my pants, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment by mentioning it. Instead I said, “Lucky me.”
My voice was so rough it sounded like I’d spent the last few days screaming.
She swallowed. Her lashes lowered, and then she was looking at my mouth. Her arms were still tight around my neck. She was so close I could see the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat, inviting me to touch it, kiss it, lick it gently with my tongue.
“What are you thinking right now?” she asked softly.
I closed my eyes. “You don’t want to know.”
“It’s that dirty, huh?”
Fuck. Was she flirting with me or joking? I really needed to adjust my crotch but didn’t risk moving my arms. I whispered, “Filthy.”
Her breathing changed. I turned my head slightly, and the tip of my nose was touching her neck. My lips were so close to her skin, so fucking close . . .
In a voice so faint it was almost inaudible, she said, “Two years.”
I was too far under her spell to speak, so I just gave a little shake of my head to indicate I didn’t know what she meant.
She tucked her head down closer to my chest, like she was hiding again. “You asked me how long it had been since the last time . . . I had sex. The answer is two years.”
My exhalation shuddered out of me. I fought with every ounce of self-control I had not to crush my mouth against hers, to stand motionless while the heat and tension built between us, while her heart pounded so jaggedly against my chest.
I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. I wasn’t going to push myself on her. If—if—she wanted me, I had to let her come to that realization herself. Though I ached to throw her on the bed and bury myself in her, I had to let her be in control.
I couldn’t live with myself if she ever felt obligated.
“That’s nothing,” I said, my voice faint. “I’ve got you beat by a mile.”
When her arms loosened, I almost broke and kissed her, but I forced myself to stand still and allow her to pull away. She looked up at me with bright eyes and clasped her hands behind her back.
“Why don’t you pick out what you’d like me to wear for dinner. Let’s see what kind of taste you’ve got, Boudreaux. I’m going to fix my hair.”
She went into the bathroom and gently closed the door behind her, leaving me standing alone, wishing there was something I could do to save myself from falling in love with another woman who would never love me back, but knowing it was already too late.
CREOLE OKRA GUMBO
Makes 6 servings
4 tablespoons butter
kosher salt
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
1½ pounds boneless chicken thighs, skin removed, cut into pieces
4 ounces tasso ham, cut into 1² cubes
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons thyme, minced
1 bay leaf
1 yellow onion, minced
1 red bell pepper, minced
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced
6 large fresh tomatoes, skin, core, and seeds removed
2 tablespoons tomato paste
6 cups chicken stock
1 pound okra, trimmed, sliced ½ inch thick
6 cups cooked white rice
Preparation
Melt butter in Dutch oven.
Season chicken with salt and cayenne on both sides, cook for 10 minutes or until browned.
Add tasso and garlic, cook for 5 minutes.
Add thyme, bay leaf, onion, and bell pepper. Cook until browned, 5–10 minutes.
Add parsley, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Cook 5 minutes or until softened.
Add chicken stock, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken is cooked through and gumbo has thickened, about 1 hour.
Melt remaining butter in a nonstick skillet. Cook okra until slightly crisp, 8–10 minutes, then add to gumbo. Cook gumbo additional 15 minutes. Discard bay leaf.
Serve over hot white rice.
TWENTY-EIGHT
BIANCA
When I emerged from the bathroom, Jackson was gone. A twinge of disappointment flattened me, but I perked up again when I saw what he’d left.
A gorgeous red dress beckoned from the bed. It was sleeveless, with a belted waist and a flared skirt, the better to conceal my abominable childbearing hips and accentuate my waist. When I ran my fingers over the fabric, it shimmered like silk.
Because it was silk. I looked at the tag on the neckline and made a loud, unladylike honking sound. How much had this cost? Probably less than the hunk of ice on my finger, I decided. All in all, getting married was turning out to be quite expensive for my future husband.
Husband. My nerves went all catawampus.
“Keep it together, Bianca,” I muttered, scooping up the dress. I headed into the bathroom to change and give myself a pep talk in front of the mirror. When finished with both, I had to admit I was looking rather well.
My eyes sparkled. The dress fit like a dream, and the color flattered my complexion. I was glad I’d worn strappy nude sandals instead of flats, because they were elegant enough to make the whole ensemble sing.
“Hair down.”
I jumped. Jackson stood in the open doorway, eating me up with his eyes. He made a gesture to indicate my updo held in place with its usual clip.
“Oh. Um. Okay.” I released the clip and shook my hair out. It fell around my shoulders in a swirling cloud.
Jackson looked like he’d been stabbed in the gut.
“Are you wearing that?” I asked, ignoring my thundering heartbeat.
“Yes.” He didn’t even glance at himself, he just kept staring at me with wild caveman eyes that did all sorts of unusual things to my body.
An idea started to gnaw at my brain, but I pushed it aside to concentrate on the situation at hand.
“Okay, I’m saying this only to be helpful, not judgy, but I think your old leather jacket and jeans might not be the most appropriate thing to wear to dinner with the parents you haven’t seen in years. Who live in a castle. And probably dine on solid-gold plates.”
When he didn’t respond, I added, “Also you clash with my outfit. Which I love, by the way. It’s beautiful. So . . .”
His gaze drifted slowly down my body, then back up again—one long, lingering sweep that was unabashedly lustful. I had to put a hand on the counter to steady myself.