Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Imagine it, huh?” Emma said, still smiling.
I knew she was talking about exercising, but my randy newfound sex drive heard it differently and kept on imagining us in bed. Hell.
Mamie shrugged again. “As with life, food is meant to be enjoyed. Never go to war with it, for we rarely win.”
Emma’s smile held the brilliance of the sun.
I turned away and focused on Mamie. She was encouraging Emma to pick a pastry. For the first time in, well, ever, a tangle of nerves besieged my gut. I’d had people eat my food for years. I didn’t care one way or another what they thought of it. Baking and cooking were hobbies I did for myself—no one else. And yet here I was, wanting to impress this woman with what I had made.
Emma bit the inside of her cheek, pulling a little dimple in. She might as well have been a kid with that excited expression. “Mmm. I don’t know. They all look so good.” She tore her gaze away from the treats and looked around at the rest of us. “What do you suggest?”
Sal started in on the cookies. Mamie began to offer cake.
“The brest.” It came out of my mouth in a growled command.
Shit.
Emma’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry? Breasts?”
Sal snickered.
Shifting in my seat, I fought the urge to get up and flee.
Do not, under any circumstances, think of her bare breasts, asshole.
Yeah, too late.
“The paris-brest.” With a jerk of my head, I nodded toward the pastry shaped like a wheel. “It’s a dessert named in honor of a bicycle race at the turn of the nineteenth century.”
“Ah.” She flushed pink. It was cute. “Right. The brest.”
“It is most delicious,” Mamie said, doing an excellent job of hiding her amusement. “A pâte à choux pastry—you know, like you have in an éclair. Filled with praline cream and topped with fresh raspberries.”
“Oh, yes please.”
Before Mamie could reach for the serving knife, I did. I couldn’t help my-damn-self. If Emma was going to eat something I’d created, I was going to serve her.
Even if watching her eat would eventually kill me.
She gripped the sides of the table, as though trying to hold back from prematurely reaching for her plate. Greedy girl.
My dick approved. Far too much.
Calmly as I could, I served her a slice, adding some raspberries, and then served Sal so I’d have something to do with my hands. They felt too big and unwieldy as it was, made clumsy by a five-foot-six slip of a woman.
All my efforts to ignore Emma were a sham. The second she lifted the spoon, I sucked in a breath, watching her pink lips part, and caught a glimpse of her tongue. The whipped-cream confection slipped into her mouth, and she moaned.
The sound coiled around my cock, palmed my balls with hot hands. I nearly moaned too. I knew the taste in her mouth, how smooth that cream was on her tongue. That was my cream. I made it. My hands gave her that pleasure, whether she knew it or not. Her moans were because of me.
The rush of it washed over me, and I was a little dizzy.
She slid another dollop in her mouth. Slowly. Savoring it. Her lids dipped down. Lashes fluttered as she sighed.
Sweet holy hell.
Silence fell over the table, and Emma stopped, looking around self-consciously. She licked away a lingering golden pastry crumb from the corner of her mouth—she was definitely going to kill me. “Sorry. It’s just really good.”
Satisfaction washed over me, as clean and cool as fresh ice. I wanted to take that spoon from her hand and feed her myself. Make her moan again and again. Shit.
Grunting, I helped myself to a cardamom cake. If I ate a piece of the brest now, I’d probably come in my pants.
“Where did you buy these?” Emma asked Mamie.
“Oh, I didn’t buy these,” Mamie said. “They’re homemade.”
“Really?” Emma popped a raspberry into her mouth. “You’re a wonderful baker.”
I shot Mamie a quick warning look, so she merely sipped her coffee and hummed vaguely. Yeah, I was a chickenshit for not wanting Emma to know she was eating my food. But there it was; I’d become . . . shy about it.
Sal watched us the whole time, obviously finding my discomfort funny as hell. But instead of pushing me under the bus, he threw me a lifeline—probably because he lived on the grounds and didn’t want to have to sleep with one eye open.
“Mamie is multitalented.” He set his empty coffee cup down and reached for a champagne flute. “She’s the one who first taught me how to sew.”
“This is true,” Mamie said. “He was this cute little boy who used to find his way into my dressing room to play with my gowns while his father was here for work.”
“Papi is Amalie’s business manager,” Sal explained.