Page 117 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
The servant reappeared, set a Bloody Dixie on the table in front of me, and murmured, “I hope you still like these, sir. Thought you might need it. Welcome home.”
When he disappeared again it was to the sound of my soft, disbelieving laughter.
BLOODY DIXIE
Makes 4 servings
1 32-ounce bottle of tomato juice
2 ounces vodka
1 tablespoon freshly grated horseradish (or prepared)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon hot sauce
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
dash of celery salt
dash of pepper
4 slices cooked bacon
4 ribs celery
Preparation
Pour out ¼ cup tomato juice from bottle.
Mix horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire, celery salt, and pepper into the remaining tomato juice in bottle and shake vigorously.
Add ice to 4 highball glasses.
Pour 2 ounces vodka over ice in each glass (or to your taste).
Add tomato juice mix to fill.
Stir, then garnish with bacon and celery.
THIRTY-FOUR
BIANCA
I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in.
“Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.”
He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him.
Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest.
Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art. How had I been so blind?
Around the estrogen surge wreaking havoc in my nervous system, I said, “I’ll have you know I won a talent contest once with my excellent rendition of ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jackson shook his head, spraying water droplets from his dark hair, and smiled down at me. He turned me around and started soaping my shoulders and back, gently digging his thumbs into the muscles. I groaned in pleasure. He said, “Really? How old were you? Seven?”
