“It’s the perfect shape to ensure even coverage and the least amount of batter waste.”
“Makes sense.” He picks up a cornstarch-dusted hot dog and holds it above the glass. “Like this?”
I open my mouth to reply as he plunges it in, dunking the dog deeply into the milky liquid. I nod because I can’t find any words. None that aren’t penis euphemisms, anyway. For goodness sake, how many times is he planning to thrust that hot dog into the glass?
“Um, that should be good.” I clear my throat, pretty sure I’ve forgotten a step somewhere.
“The oil!” I spin around and stalk to the stove. Flicking on the burner, I set the temperature to medium-high. “This can get a bit messy,” I continue as I bend down to find the mesh splatter screen Sean gave me. I know it’s in here somewhere. Maybe behind the cookie sheet or wedged between two cutting boards. “If you’re not careful, the hot oil spurts all over the place and—ah-ha!”
I stand up triumphantly, splatter screen in one hand. Bradley blinks, gaze snapping to mine about a half-second too late. That’s when I realize he was checking out my ass.
Or maybe he’s staring because of what I said about spurting and splattering and—
“Dear God.” I set the mesh screen down on the counter and close my eyes, defeated. “Please tell me I’m not the only one having terrible thoughts.”
“Terrible?” The sexy rumble of Bradley’s voice has me opening my eyes again. That’s when I see he’s taken a step closer, that there’s a heat in his eyes I’m sure wasn’t there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe I failed to notice.
“Terrible,” I repeat, no longer convinced that’s the right word. “Between you putting penis thoughts in my head and—”
“I put penis thoughts in your head?” Bradley quirks an eyebrow. “This from the woman who just gave a handy to a frankfurter?”
“A hand—oh, a hand job?”
He blinks, then smiles. “So I wasn’t imagining it?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” I smack my palm on the counter, frustrated by my own lack of self-control. “All I wanted was a simple meal with a nice, upstanding gentleman, but I can’t stop thinking about sex!”
I shout that last word a whole lot louder than I meant to. I’m braced for Bradley to laugh, or maybe suggest we switch to some other entrée. There’s nothing dirty about tacos, right?
Instead, he steps closer. “Isabella?”
With another deep breath, I force myself to look up at him. “Yes?”
“I’m not such a nice, upstanding gentleman.”
“Oh?” I’m not positive what he means by that, but there’s an odd, hopeful note in the syllable that just escaped my lips.
Bradley steps closer again. “If it makes you feel better, my mind’s in the same place.” His voice is low, suggestive, and I feel it in the pulse between my legs. “Right there in the gutter with yours.”
“Um, okay.” Since my brain is filled with thoughts of penises, I doubt that’s entirely true.
“This process is turning out to be entirely too phallic,” he murmurs as his palm cups my elbow and he draws me up against his chest. “Maybe we could tilt the scales toward a more feminine variation?”
I’m not certain what he means, but I feel myself nodding, going up on tiptoe to brush my lips against his. “Kiss me,” I whisper, though I’m already making it happen.
My fingers slip around the back of his neck, pulling him down to me as I press against the hardness of his body. Bradley kisses me back, and this time, there’s a familiarity to it. A hot, hungry possession that wasn’t there before.
Maybe that’s what makes me bold. Letting go of him, I reach over and flick off the burner. Then I turn and boost myself up on the counter. I hesitate, heart thudding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. With a deep breath, I reach down and grab the hem of the sexy red sweater Lily urged me to buy.
That’s it, blame the sweater.
This absurd thought flits through my brain as I peel the soft cashmere over my head and toss it aside, leaving me perched on my kitchen counter in my new red brassiere.
“Holy Christ.” He blinks, and the reverence in his voice, in his eyes, is enough to send ripples of lust wiggling through me. “Izzy, you’re stunning.”
I haven’t felt stunning with my top off since the day doctors carved me up to stick an unfamiliar organ in my body. My scars, the toll taken on my body by the procedure, the weight gain from steroids I’ll need to take for the rest of my life—none of it’s pretty.
But the way Bradley’s looking at me now, I almost believe him. The bra is La Perla, satiny and sheer with just a hint of lace. I don’t think it’s the garment capturing his attention. As he steps between my thighs, he draws both big hands up to cup the contents of my bra. “You’re so soft.” His mouth finds my neck and I shiver, twining my fingers behind his neck again. “So fucking perfect.”
It’s the expletive that gets me, even more than his touch. Have I ever been the source of such desire? The kind of woman who drives a man to profanity, to groping her between a pot of oil and a tepid glass of corndog batter?
I know it’s wrong to want this. That I can’t have more than just a few stolen moments, but maybe it’s enough. He knows I’m leaving, so perhaps we’re on the same page. This doesn’t have to mean something.
Closing my eyes, I lean into the sensation of his hands on my breasts, the woodsy smell of his jawline as it scrapes the soft hollow beneath my chin. I’ve never felt so desired, so utterly ravished by a man. Especially not a man like Bradley, hardened with muscle from the military, or maybe lifting weights at the gym. I draw my hands down the rigid lines of his back, savoring every coiled flex, every heated ripple of flesh.
His tongue flicks the soft spot behind my ear, and I moan, wrapping my thighs around him. I know there’s some reason I shouldn’t be doing this, but is it so wrong to want to seize some small slice of pleasure before…before…
“Izzy?” Bradley draws back to look at me. His eyes are hooded but also wary. “You okay?”
“Of course.” I blink up at him, conscious of the liquid heat between my thighs, the hardness between his.
“You tensed up all of a sudden.”
“I did?” Dammit. I lick my lips and drag my hands down his chest. “I don’t know why.”
Lie. That’s a great big lie, and I feel so awful about it that I grip the front of his shirt and pull him down for another kiss.
He kisses back, but it’s slower this time. More tentative. When he draws back, there’s a question in his eyes. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to—”
“Okay.” My heart’s pounding in my chest, and I recognize it’s more than lust. I don’t know what he’s going to ask, but there’s a good chance I can’t answer. Shouldn’t answer.
You shouldn’t do any of this, but here you are.
Bradley lifts one hand and brushes the hair back from my face. “Izzy, are you—have you been intimate with someone before?”