Bar Bites: A Man of the Month Cookbook (Man of the Month 13)

"Marjorie Frederick. Fourth grade. We were practicing." She shrugged. "Sorry. Nothing very fantasy-like there."

"Damn, and I really hoped."

"Did you?"

He shook his head. "Not that I'd object. But that's not my fantasy of you."

Damn, but he was getting bolder. Maybe making the margaritas extra strong wasn't such a great idea after all. Then again, considering the heated way she was looking at him now, maybe it was his most brilliant move ever.

"Your turn."

She nodded, a pink flush staining her neck and cheeks. "Never have I ever had a secret crush." She drank. And so did he.

"Me again," he said, and decided it was now or never. He lifted his glass. "Never have I ever kissed my secret crush." And then he very firmly put it down without taking a sip.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then she set her glass down.

"So." He swallowed. "You said we're supposed to fix that if possible. Can you?"

For a second, she didn't answer. Then she nodded. "What about you?"

"Me, too."

"Oh." She licked her lips, and in that moment the only thing he wanted to do was suck on that plump, sweet lower lip. "Tiffany," he said, "I'm going to kiss you now."

A wide smile illuminated her face. "Not if I kiss you first."

Chapter Three

Tiffany had imagined this moment for over a year. The feel of his mouth on hers, the strength of his hand cupping her neck. The heat that curled through her blood, rushing to her lips, her breasts, her sex.

In her imagination, she'd felt every touch, every breath, every gentle stroke, every hard demand. She'd roamed her body with her own hands, and she'd arched up, crying out in wild abandon when the man in her fantasy had made her come.

The Eric in her dreams had taken her to soaring heights, reducing her to nothing but limp, satisfied ashes.

But that Eric had nothing on the man now touching her, his lips hard and demanding. His hands possessive and strong. She wanted to melt into him, to lay herself out as an offering and let him feast on her. On all of her.

His hand moved, coming to cup her face. He held her in place, taking the kiss the way he wanted. His tongue tasting all of her. His teeth clashing with hers. Drawing blood and heat and working them both into a wild frenzy that only got more desperate when his hand moved down to cup her breast roughly, then lower still to thigh. She spread her legs, and--finally--he slid his hand all the way up her leg until he reached her core and her blue panties that were surely now dark, wet from her own desire. Dripping with need.

He slid his finger along the band of her panties, teasing her by occasionally slipping beneath the material, his tongue thrusting deeper when he did so. And then, damn or bless him, he thrust his finger deep inside her, his tongue mimicking the thrusting motion of his finger until her mind was spinning and her body burning and she finally couldn't take it anymore. This onslaught. This wicked, wonderful assault on her senses.

"Stop," she finally said, impressed that he did so immediately, though the expression on his face was so confused and frustrated she almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she drew her breath in, calming herself as she put her finger to his lip. "I need something."

Again, confusion darkened his eyes. "Anything."

She stood up, then very slowly pulled the dress up over her head. For a moment, she couldn't see his face, but when her head popped free of the material she saw an expression of such pure desire it seemed like worship.

She thought she should be embarrassed, standing there in nothing but her bra and panties, but she wasn't. On the contrary, she saw the desire reflected in her eyes, and she felt powerful. Like a sensual creature that he'd come to worship.

Except it wasn't worship she was looking for. She didn't want a sweet encounter. She wanted wild. Rough, even.

She wanted him to claim her. To make her his. And she wanted it now.

Slowly, she stepped toward him. She'd long ago kicked off her sandals, and her body was so hyper-aware that i

t seemed as if she could feel every fiber of carpet beneath her feet. When she reached him, she held out her hand, and he stood. "I'm a little bit drunk, but I just want you to know that's not why I'm sleeping with you."

"No?" He had one hand on her waist, and the other was stroking her bare shoulder. Warmth flowed through her, originating with the sparks that the contact was generating and making it very hard to think.