Page 113 of The Broken Heart Playlist
“Open up for me, Kate,” he orders, his voice a little rough.
Everything inside me tightens. One instruction and a fire is ignited inside me. This whole situation feels achingly and thrillingly intimate, as if we’re encased in our own private bubble, the world outside muted.
I obediently part my lips.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and approving.
He places something sour and slightly acidic inside my mouth. I try to identify the taste on my tongue, but I’m stumped. It’s no surprise he’s upped the difficulty level.
“Olive?” I venture.
“Nope. Caper.”
A jar that Tess left in my fridge. I click my tongue at myself. I hate to get an answer wrong.
The tips of his fingers brush my jawline as he withdraws his hand. His touch sends a jolt of pleasure through me and I try not to squirm in my chair.
When the fourth food item is slow in coming, I ask, “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“Looking,” he answers, the sandpaper huskiness of his voice causing my breath to catch.
“Looking at what?”
“You.”
A hot blush takes over my body. I keep still with the throbbing awareness of the picture I undoubtedly present tohim: my form-fitting sundress stretched tight across my chest because of the way my arms are restrained behind me.
Gideon’s knee inserts itself between my legs, nudging them apart so he can shift even closer. I feel my throat dry up. The intensity of his closeness is like a burn on my skin.
“Next item,” he says, his voice strained, as if he’s having a hard time speaking.
I take the food he gives me. It takes me a couple of seconds to place the taste.
“Melon.”
“Be specific, Kate.”
“Um, a honeydew melon.”
“Yes.”
A restlessness is taking over my body. I’m craving something and I don’t know what it is I’m craving. Or maybe I do know and I can’t admit it, even to myself.
Gideon still has to give me the fifth and final item to taste. So far, he’s chosen two savory and two sweet foods. I have no idea what the last one will be.
I feel him leaning in even closer. A tremor runs through me. He’s so close I can feel the brush of his breath on the corner of my mouth. He smells like cedar wood and hope.
“You want to guess what the fifth item is?” he asks, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.
I’m stiff and silent, aching. When I realize the ache is for a physical connection, the shock I feel is almost breathtaking. Me, Kate Miller, the person who has shunned physical touch for the past four years, only allowing Lisset to get close while keeping everyone else, even my own family, at a distance.
Gideon’s lips are now inches from mine.
My heart is thumping against my rib cage, but I don’t pull back.
Instead, I wait, preparing myself. But nothing prepares me for the delicate touch of his lips grazing mine, ever so slowly and tenderly. I feel my locked muscles loosening, pleasure licking its way down my spine.
Gideon pulls back slightly and a whimper escapes me. I’m helpless and straining, completely at his mercy. The slow-burn wait he’s subjecting me to is the most exquisite torture.
