Page 9 of The Sweetest Season
Emboldened, Beatrice said, “Honestly, Mr Forrest.I trained in Paris with French chefs for eight years.At this point, my credentials as a lady are in tatters.And honestly, do you think cooking was theonlything I learned?”
After a beat of surprise, he gave her a glance that could only be described as flirtatious.“I should like to hear more about that.”
Dear Lord, she may have started something she ought not to.Flirting with a customer was poor practice.(Even if that customer happened to paint her image without her permission!)
“You want to hear of my dissolute youth?As a former soldier, you surely heard enough of such stories.Yet you want more?”
“What I want, Beatrice, is to taste you.”His voice was low, and held a rasp that hadn’t been there before.She watched him swallow, and realized that he was nervous.
There was no possible way she could let him kiss her.
He leaned in and tipped her chin up with one finger, then laid his mouth on hers, sucking gently on her lower lip.Bea whimpered as her nerves blossomed with expectation.She’d not had such a kiss in a long, long time.
“You taste marvelous,” he murmured.
“I had to test the chocolate sauce in the kitchen,” she explained, even as he parted her lips with his tongue, delving in for a divine moment.
He withdrew, but only to say, “Delicious.I approve of your commitment to your art.”
“It’s baking.It’s not art.”
“It is art, and I would know.”He kissed her again, more deeply.Bea responded as the need built inside her.She wrapped her hands around his upper arms and pulled him closer.
Oh,Lord.
He closed the kiss—if a slow slide of his tongue along her lower lip could be thought of as closure—and said, “Better than the marzipan.”
Though her heart was fluttering, Beatrice got out, “I…I ought to see to the food.That’s why I’m here, after all.”
“Ivy seems like an extraordinarily capable young lady.”He laid a series of open-mouthed kisses along her neck.“And I’m rather enjoying…what’s that word the French use when they serve those things that aren’t any bigger than a bite?The ones that just make you hungry for more?”
“Amuse-bouche,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.“It meansdelight the mouth.They are intended to whet the appetite for the later courses.”
“Mmm, perfect, then.Because you are the most appetizingamuse-boucheI’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m far bigger than a bite.”
“Good, because I’d hate to finish you too quickly.”
“We’re finished now,” she insisted, aware that if he kissed her one more time, she was liable to forget there were dozens of people in the house and do something she’d regret.
“Please stay,” he murmured.Those gold eyes promised a feast of pleasures.
“Noel.Mr Forrest, that is.I can’t do this,” she told him, drawing on reserves of iciness that were melting far too quickly.“Have you forgotten?I’ve work to do.”
“I forget nothing about you.”He sighed, and stepped back, then gestured to the door.“My house is yours, Miss Holliday.Please do whatever you wish.”
If she did whatever she wished, she’d scandalize the whole city.Bea fled the studio, her body singing with long-dormant desires.
* * * *
Noel had to take a moment to get himself together after Beatrice returned to the kitchen.
Do you think cooking was the only thing I learned?
Was she trying to tempt him?She tossed off that little line with such ease, seeming not to care how provocative it sounded.Now his mind was full of questions about the rest of Beatrice’s “education.”He was wildly jealous of whoever got the gift of educating her, of tasting her.Her kisses suggested quite an education.
He was letting his imagination run wild, newly obsessed with the desire to get closer to Beatrice.
