“And I was the terror of the schoolroom.” Clio reached wildly toward the table with her left hand. She couldn’t manage to grasp a fork, so she dug her bare fingers into the nearest cake—a chocolate one—and gathered a handful. “Eat the cake, drat you!”
He dodged her swipe, then released her and dashed to the other side of the table. They were both breathless and laughing now, facing off from opposite sides of the cake buffet. If she sprang to the right, he countered with a move to the left.
He grinned at her frustrated efforts to catch him. “It’s like I told you. Concentrate. Anticipate. React.”
“React to this.” She flung her handful of cake at him.
Curse the man, he ducked. Then he turned to regard the splattered fireworks of icing on the wall and whistled low, amused. “Why, Miss Whitmore. I can’t believe you did that.”
“Watch me do it again.” She dove for an almond torte. It glanced off his shoulder, and she gave a cheer. “Aha! First blood.”
“That’s it,” he said, reaching into a strawberry-studded cake for some ammunition of his own. “This is happening. This is real now.”
She dove to the side, but he was too quick for her. Icing splattered her hair and face, like sugary shrapnel.
Time to reload.
Clio’s eye landed on a dense, bomb-shaped plum cake in the center of the table. Now that would make an excellent projectile. No coming apart in the air. There was only one problem.
Rafe had his eye on it, too.
His gaze lifted from the plum cake and locked with hers. He smiled. “It’s mine.”
Not if I get there first.
They lunged for it at the same time. Rafe was first to grab the plate, but Clio thrust her hand straight into the center of the cake. She flexed her fingers and pulled, as if to lift the cake itself from the plate.
Instead, she doubled over and cried out in pain.
The plate clattered to the floor.
Chapter Nine
When Clio doubled over, Rafe’s heart kicked him in the ribs.
“Jesus.” He slammed what remained of the plum cake to the floor and vaulted over the table. “Clio, what is it? Are you injured?”
She nodded, clutching her right hand. “It’s . . . It’s my hand. I think my finger . . . Oh, it hurts.”
Goddamn it. Goddamn him.
What could have been in that cake? A fork? A knife?
“Did you cut yourself? Let me see it. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.” He reached for her hand, drawing it toward him.
He had just enough to time to wipe away the crumbs and icing and confirm that her hand was unmarred by blood or bruises. It was delicate, lovely, perfect.
And soft. So unbearably soft.
“I don’t see any—”
Wham.
She used her other hand to give him a faceful of cake.
He stood sputtering, temporarily blinded by marzipan. Her laughter rang dimly through the icing in his ears. And, as he wiped his face clean, he was caught off guard again—this time by a sense of admiration.
It took a sharp opponent to land a blow on him. Well done, her.
“You cunning little minx. Now you’re in for it.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet. His boot caught the hem of her frock, and she gave a shriek of laughter as together they tumbled to the ground.
They landed in a heap. One of his legs covered both of hers.
“I win,” he said.
She began to object. His hand was still coated with strawberry cake. Using his thumb, he pushed a morsel of it into her mouth.
That was a mistake.
Her lips and tongue wrapped around his thumb, sending a jolt of arousal straight to his cock.
Worse yet, she moaned as his thumb slid free. The gentle vibration slid down his spine, making him wild.
She fed him the hunk of plum cake she still clutched, pushing it into his mouth with her delicate fingertips. He caught her wrist and sucked her fingers clean, one by one, groaning softly. The tastes of spice and chocolate and ripe berries mingled on his tongue.
“There,” she breathed. “See? I win. You make cake sounds, too.”
“Those aren’t cake sounds.”
They were Clio sounds.
It wasn’t cakes he craved. It was this. This closeness. This softness. This sweetness that came not from spun sugar and candy floss, but from her.