Sinful Desire

“Mmm,” she said aloud, enjoying the savory aroma almost as much as she delighted in the yummy smells emanating from her second oven as the pie baked. She walked to the other side of the sink and tossed the summer salad, then placed it in the fridge to keep it cool and crisp.

She wiped the back of her hand across her chest since she’d heated up from all this cooking, even with the air conditioning blasting its cooling jets on this scorching July day. Still, she couldn’t complain. Project Termite had been officially terminated, and her brother had returned to his own home last night. Even though she’d enjoyed bumping into him now and then in the kitchen, it was nice to have her home to herself again, simply because it was possible for her to dress like this.

She wore red lace panties and a matching push-up bra, barely covered up by the flirty apron she had on as she cooked. Neat pleats lined the edges of the apron’s mini skirt, and a hint of lace peeked out at the hem that landed mid-thigh. A red satin bow cinched at the waist, and thick red ties were looped around her neck. She wore black, strappy pumps on her feet.

A timer dinged. She hustled to the oven, turned on the light, and checked the pie. Satisfied with its appearance and its mouthwatering scent, she reached one pot holder-covered hand into the oven, removed the dessert, and placed it on a cooling rack on the stovetop. She waved a hand over the dish, inhaling the fruity, sugary, ripe scent. She’d sliced a few extra peaches; they were in a glass bowl on the island and she planned to serve them on the side.

A sultry Billie Holiday number played on her sound system, piped through her entire home and bouncing off the white walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the blond hardwood floors. She loved this place. It was everything she wanted her home to be. Gorgeously appointed, but not cold or staged. Her home was bursting with everything special that she loved, with bright colored pillows on the couch, pictures of her family throughout, mementos from her parents, and gifts from her friends over the years.

A little later, as the great Billie Holliday crooned about these foolish things, her buzzer rang, the front desk likely alerting her that her guest had arrived. She pressed the button to respond. “Hello there.”

“Ryan Sloan is here. May I send him up?”

“Absolutely,” she said, and soon there was a knock on her door, and the sound made her chest tingly. She was so damn ready to see him.

She opened the door, and he nearly stumbled.

He opened his lips to speak, but no words came. His jaw simply hung open.

She fought valiantly to contain a victorious grin. Inside, though, she wanted to pump a fist for having rendered him speechless.

He had a bottle of white wine and a bouquet of peach tulips in one hand, so she grabbed his free hand, tugged him inside, and shut the door behind them. In seconds, he’d backed her up against the wall, set down the wine and flowers on the entryway table, and placed his hands on her face. “How is it possible that you are more stunning every time I see you?”

She jutted out her hip and winked. “It’s the apron,” she said, gesturing to her skimpy attire.

He dropped a hand to her back, running it along the bare skin above the waist. “It’s not the apron. It’s how you look in it. Every time I see you you’re wearing something that makes me rock hard,” he said, yanking her close so she could feel the evidence herself.

“I like you hard, Ryan Sloan,” she said, meeting his gaze, and he smiled at her, then grasped her ass, grinding his erection against her belly. “You’re all I thought about all day,” he murmured.

“What were you thinking about specifically? Wait. Don’t tell me.” She leaned back to tap her finger on her chin. “Was it the food? You were so damn curious to know what I was cooking for you—admit it.”

He shook his head.

“So it was the peaches then?”

Another shake as he rubbed his hard-on against her.

“Maybe it was getting a tour of my home?” She craned her neck, gesturing with her eyes to the living room.

“Nope,” he said with a sexy grin.

“Oh,” she said, her lips forming an O. “Was it this?” She spun away from his grip and ran her hands along her breasts, down to her belly, letting one hand rest between her legs. Then, she took slow, measured steps into the open kitchen that looked out onto her living room.

His eyes prowled over her as he followed, unknotting his tie and tossing it on the floor. He undid the top button on his crisp, white button-down. She reached a metal stool in her kitchen, bumping it with the backs of her legs. His arms darted out, and he grabbed her waist, lifted her up, and set her on the stool. He skimmed his fingers down her bare arms. “Let me just look at you,” he whispered, raking his eyes over her figure from head to toe. His dark gaze made her feel not only naked, but dirty. Filthy. Wanton.