Afternoon Delight by Anne Calhoun Page A

belt of her sweater and opened the fabric. It was warm to the touch, perhaps from the heat of the stove, but more likely from the heat of her body, radiating like the scent of the sauce and whatever grain was slowly bubbling at the back of the stove.
    â€œHmm,” she said as he rested his hands on her rib cage, just below her breasts. “What will you give me in exchange for releasing you from our agreement?”
    â€œOrgasms,” he said, and stroked his thumbs against the soft undercurves. “As many as you want. I won’t come until you’re done.”
    Her head lolled forward, the wild spill of her hair tilting with the movement. He had her. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. A quick swipe of his thumbs over her erect nipples had her trembling.
    â€œShit! The polenta!” In one movement she snatched up the spoon and shoved him back a step with her hip; in the next she’d whisked the pot off the burner and was stirring heavy clumps up from the bottom, returning the thick mixture to its creamy state.
    â€œYou are a very bad man,” she said, gesturing with the spoon.
    He folded his arms and grinned at her. “You’re still not surprised.”
    â€œThat you’d try? No. At how successful you were? A bit. I am saved by my own polenta.”
    â€œYou’re really not going to have sex with me, are you?”
    She set the pot on the granite countertop and looked him straight in the eye. “No. We had a bet, which you lost. If you want to leave now, I understand.”
    No way was he leaving. She’d respect him a hell of a lot less for storming off in a huff than she did for giving in to the demands of his cock. Up his game, and he could save this. “What would I stay for?”
    â€œMushrooms sautéed in white wine and garlic over polenta, fresh spring greens with pears and feta, and individual chocolate lava cakes with homemade whipped cream and raspberries for dessert.”
    Saliva gathered in his mouth. He swallowed it and said, “That’s it?” Like her menu was the usual takeout he’d bring home for a Friday night in front of whatever sport he could find on TV.
    â€œIf you’re a masochist, you can watch me get myself off after we eat. I was absolutely desperate for an orgasm before you and your wicked mouth started to have your way with me.”
    He was no masochist, but he’d give up his apartment for the chance to see that. “Deal,” he said, lightning fast. “You have to take your clothes off. And I get to talk.”
    â€œFine, but no touching,” she said, brandishing the spoon again.
    â€œYour rules, darlin’.” She wrapped her sweater around her waist and knotted the belt, then smoothed her hair back again. “You look like a pigeon settling its feathers after a fight.”
    Her eyes narrowed. She picked up the bowl of polenta in her left hand, then stepped into his body and cupped his balls through his jeans. “Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you in my bed tonight? It’s all I could think about, sex with you, releasing all that anticipation. So if I seem a little flustered, it’s all your fault, and you’re going to pay for it later. But first,” she said, and handed him the bowl, “we eat.”
    ***
    She’d set the table in basic white dishes, silverware, and linen napkins. Votive candles floated in large glass bowls, reflecting off the silver ring on her thumb as she set the mushroom dish next to his place and the salad in the center. This was a galaxy away from fast food.
    Sarah held out her hand for his plate, scooped some polenta onto it, dabbed a shallow depression in the polenta, then spooned mushrooms over it. “Salad?”
    â€œPlease,” he said.
    It was like being in a really nice restaurant, with amazing views and time to enjoy the food, except they were alone as alone could be. He could feel his brain jerking like a