Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 93751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
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Hannah experienced kitchen envy as she took in the top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, granite-topped counters and copper pots and pans, everything gleaming and in its place.
As Lucia vanished through the swinging doors, Hannah faced Mason, trying not to feel self-conscious in her tight-fitting silk and leather. Hey, at least she wasn’t naked.
“Look, it’s really fine,” she reiterated, not sure she was ready to be alone with Mason anyway. She’d had some very intense dreams about him the night before, and had woken up with her hand between her legs, her clit throbbing. She’d been unable to get back to sleep until she’d finished what had been started in her sex-drenched dreams. The resulting orgasm had been highly unsatisfactory, especially when compared to what he’d done so effortlessly only hours before.
The memory sent another jolt of desire to her sex. Refusing to allow herself to blush, she said, “Seriously, I don’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing there. I’ll just get a cup of coffee and get out of your hair.”
Mason brought his hand to his shaved head and laughed. “Too late. Now sit down and be quiet, girl. You’re not interrupting anything.”
“Yes, Sir,” she retorted with an answering grin, feeling a little more at ease.
“That’s better,” he said, lumbering toward the industrial size coffeemaker. “How do you take your coffee?”
“A spoonful of sugar, thanks.”
As Mason handed her the mug, his calloused fingers brushed hers. Her breath caught in her throat at his touch, her skin tingling as if electricity had passed between them. She glanced up at him. Had he felt it too?
A slow, knowing smile moved over his rugged face. He stared down at her, those clear gray-green eyes capturing hers. “Hungry?”
Hungry for more of what I gave you last night?
Her brain stuttered over the unspoken question, heat rushing into her face as her treacherous nipples sprang to attention.
“Huh?” she asked stupidly.
Furrowing his brows, he gave her a quizzical look. “Food. Breakfast.”
“Oh,” she blurted, silently cursing herself as she struggled to shift gears. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.” Turning from her, he went to the ovens and opened the top one. Without using mitts, he pulled out a casserole dish. A delicious aroma of caramelized sugar, butter and banana wafted through the room.
“What is that?” Hannah’s mouth watered, her stomach rumbling.
“It’s a crème brûlée banana French toast casserole.” He tilted it slightly so she could see what remained of the contents. “Want some?”
“God yes,” she enthused. Then, aware she must sound like a greedy piglet, she amended, “Just a small piece.”
As he prepared her a plate, she took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong, just like she liked it. She took several more fortifying gulps, the caffeine clearing her mind.
Whatever had happened last night had obviously impacted her far more than it had him. Which made perfect sense. He lived this intensive BDSM lifestyle, 24/7. He had slave girls all around him, constantly at his beck and call. What had felt so momentous to her had probably barely registered with him.
She glanced at the binder he’d left on the table, glad for the distraction. It contained recipes, the pages as annotated and stained as her own binder at home. She resisted the urge to pull it toward her, aware a chef might not appreciate someone nosing in his proprietary recipes.
He came to the table with a tray that contained silverware, a cloth napkin and an absurdly huge portion of the French toast on a plate, along with a small bowl of fresh raspberries and a little jug of maple syrup.
As he set the food in front of her, Hannah exclaimed, “Oh, that’s way too much. I’ll never be able to eat all of that.”
Mason shrugged. “Just eat what you want.”
After placing her napkin in her lap, she ate a few of the raspberries, which were perfectly sweet and ripe. Saliva pooling in her mouth, Hannah cut a forkful of the banana French toast and brought it to her lips. She couldn’t quite stifle her moan of pleasure.
“Oh, my god,” she breathed once she’d swallowed. “This is absolutely heavenly.” She took another bite, closing her eyes as she parsed the flavors. “Is that a hint of nutmeg I taste?”
Mason lifted his eyebrows. “It is. You’ve got a keen palate.”
Should she tell him about her culinary career, as brief as it was, or the many awards she’d garnered over the years in local bakeoff competitions? No, it might sound like she was bragging or, worse, trying to put herself on a par with him. Instead, she offered, “I love to cook. I especially enjoy baking.”
He gave a brief nod, clearly unimpressed. Slightly chagrined, she focused on her meal. She hadn’t been kidding. This decadent dish really was spectacular. She couldn’t stop eating it. She made something similar, but it was denser and less nuanced. She would love to get her hands on the recipe but didn’t have the nerve to ask.