“Excuse me?”
“You’re holding the knife too tightly. These three fingers should be loose around the handle.”
He reaches out and puts his hand over mine to ease my fingers from the handle. I jerk away so fast the knife clatters to the cutting board.
“S-sorry.” I wipe my palms on my apron. A blush crawls over my neck.
Tyler holds up his hands and steps back.
“Relax,” he says, nodding toward the knife.
I don’t relax at all, but I manage to get my mirepoix completed to Tyler’s satisfaction, though he gives me a lecture about the value of uniform dicing. Then he sends us all off with our mirepoix in take-out containers, a packet of information about knife techniques, and instructions to practice.
When I get home, Dean is watching the news, his long body stretched out on the sofa and his feet on the coffee table. Relief almost makes my knees weak. I drop my satchel and container on the kitchen table, then cross to him.
I burrow beside him. He settles his arm heavily around my shoulders, pulling me closer. He presses his lips against my hair.
“You smell like an onion,” he remarks.
“I chopped two of them. I mean, I diced them.”
“Nice. Makes me want onion rings.”
“Maybe I’ll make you some before this class is over.”
“That’s my girl.” He glances at me. “How’d it go?”
“Okay, I guess. Makes me realize how much I don’t know about cooking.”
“So that’s why you’re taking the class, right?”
I nod, thinking of my fellow students and their reasons for wanting to learn how to cook. I think of Tyler Wilkes, who has already accomplished so much.
How? Why? What gave him a dream to pursue? And why do some people—like my mother, who had such a promising start—end up with nothing?
Still troubled, I move away from Dean and go to take a shower and change into my nightgown. I crawl into bed and try to lose myself in a novel, but the words swim in front of my eyes.
The bedroom door opens. Dean approaches me and brushes his hand over my hair. Some of my unease dissipates. He knows.
I grasp the front of his shirt. “Give me a kiss, professor.”
He slides his hand around to the back of my neck and lowers his head. His mouth meets mine in the warm, seamless way that has always soothed my prickly emotions.
A ripple of need courses between us. I shift as he puts his hands on either side of my face to angle his lips more securely against mine. Our tongues touch, and I feel the pulse of urgency flare to life in his blood.
He moves away from me and starts to unfasten his shirt. My heartrate increases as I watch him push it off his muscular chest and shoulders. He lowers his hands to the button-fly of his jeans where there is already a tantalizing swell.
He pushes his jeans halfway down his hips. I stare at the line of hair arrowing from his flat belly beneath the waistband of his boxers. He climbs onto the bed. Anticipation billows through me. My book falls to the floor.
I rise onto my knees to meet him and slip my hands into the open waistband of his jeans. His skin is warm. Just brushing my fingers against his smooth erection sends a heated charge through my veins.
He grabs a fistful of my nightgown. “Take this off.”
I can’t help smiling. Sometimes he loves the way I look in the long, snow-white gown (I suspect it makes him think of something a medieval virginal maid would wear, though Professor West would never admit to having such a fantasy). Other times he complains that the voluminous material just gets in the way.
I’m happy to shuck the thing off, since I’m starting to get hot. I drop it onto the floor beside the bed and press my body full against his. He lowers his head to kiss me as his palms come up to massage my breasts. He has an expert touch, his thumbs circling my stiff nipples as his fingers slide into the crevices beneath the heavy globes.
Sparks shoot through my body, down to my sex. I moan against his mouth and struggle to shove his jeans the rest of the way off. He helps, and then we’re both naked and his cock is pushing against my belly as his hand slips between my thighs.
The simmer of tension becomes a full boil. I start to squirm against his hand, and then I’m not thinking about anything else but his touch and the anticipation of his hardness filling me.
I grasp his shaft and stroke it, thrilled by the pulsing sensation beneath my palm, by his groan of pleasure. He thrusts into my fist. I slide my thumb over the hard knob of his cock and sense his own coiled desire unleashing. At this rate, we could both come by stroking alone, but then Dean eases me onto my back and plants both hands on either side of my head.
I know what he wants, and I’m glad. I love the missionary position. I love watching Dean’s face as he fucks me, the shifting muscles beneath his taut skin. And I love watching my own body roll beneath his, my breasts jostling in rhythm to his thrusts.
His eyes are dark, almost black. His breath is hot against my neck. After putting on a condom, he pushes his knee between my thighs.