Afternoon Delight by Anne Calhoun

chairs in shades of green and cream. A desk sat against one wall, and the shelves above it held pictures of graduations and weddings interspersed with finance textbooks. “Nice,” he commented.
    She took her gaze off a pan for a split second. “It’s Trish’s. She used to work for some big investment firm.”
    He completed his circuit of the room and came to stand beside Sarah at the counter. He picked up the corkscrew and opened the bottle. Sarah slid the mushrooms onto a plate and added more oil to the pan. “Glasses are in the last cabinet,” she said.
    He poured them both a glass. “Cheers,” he said.
    â€œWell?” Her eyes were dancing as she peered at him over the glass.
    â€œWell what?”
    â€œDid you make it?”
    â€œNope,” he said, unrepentant. “You?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “For someone who claims to be ultracompetitive, you’re making this pretty easy for me. Unless . . .” Her gaze clouded over. “Did you have a difficult day at work?”
    He stopped for a moment to appreciate a woman who understood sex, either alone or with a partner, as a perfectly reasonable response to a hard day at work. This gave him an easy out: lie. The only people who really understood what he did were other first responders, but this week was no better and no worse than any other week lately, and she’d know if he lied. He didn’t know how he knew she’d know, but she’d know.
    The truth was, he’d gotten caught in the moment of remembering her.
    â€œNo worse than usual,” he said, but his voice lacked his usual teasing note.
    She turned back to the stove and stirred the sauce simmering on the back burner. “I’m torn,” she said slowly. “You do have a very stressful job. But you also took the challenge.” She peeked at him over her shoulder, the sweater hanging to the curve of her biceps. “Somehow I think you’d respect me less if I didn’t hold you to the terms of our bet.”
    Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, because she was right, although how she knew that was beyond him. Sex was easy, but games were serious business, and he was going to have to win back some ground here.
    He set his wine on the counter and crossed the kitchen. “I have the ultimate respect for you after what you did on Wednesday,” he said, purposefully pitching his voice low and rough, waiting for her response. He knew so little about what turned her on, but that did, his honest reaction to the memory of what she’d done to him. He was a little aroused and a little embarrassed and a whole lot desperate to do it again.
    She’d done all the heavy lifting last time, so it was a relief to brace his forearms on the stove’s hood and explore the curve of her ear, using only his lips until she shuddered and her eyelids drooped. He gently traced the inner whorl with his tongue, then nipped less gently at her lobe, noting that her hand, automatically stirring something thick and yellow, halted entirely at the use of his teeth. She liked the edge, but then again, he already knew that.
    â€œYou’re playing dirty,” she said.
    â€œThis surprises you?” he murmured into her hair. “I thought you were sharper than that.”
    â€œI’m not surprised,” she said. Her hand hovered dangerously close to the hot pot, so he slid his fingers along her forearm and guided it to the counter. “I’m letting you know I see what you’re doing.”
    Wild curls tickled his cheek as he smiled. “What am I doing?”
    â€œYou’re looking down my shirt, for one.”
    He outright laughed. “I am. I didn’t see anything last time.”
    â€œYou certainly did,” she said.
    â€œAll right, I didn’t see enough.”
    â€œAnd you’re trying to seduce me out of taking a forfeit.”
    â€œRight again,” he said. He unfastened the knitted