Forbidden Fire by Jan Irving Page B

She swallowed, trying not to break down.
    “You really think it’s wrong that we’re together?”
    She had to suck in a deep breath. What she wanted was to be in his arms, not have him standing across the kitchen from her. “I think it’s wrong that I want you,” she said, her voice barely above the bubbling sounds of cooking food. “But you could never be wrong. You’re…spectacular.”
    Luke blinked and then he hesitantly came further into the kitchen. When he sat at his familiar stool at the island, she let out a breath.
    That easy, it felt right again. Okay, maybe not everything was fixed, but he was home.
    “Spectacular.” His dimple flashed for a moment and he was blushing.
    Her Luke.
    “I don’t have words for what you are,” she said.
    “Jesus, Sian.” He reached out and gripped her hand.
    She knew she’d be embarrassed if she didn’t get herself together. “So I’m making tofu chicken Marsala.”
    “Chicken Marsala. Remember how we never got to Marsala, Italy, because you wanted to go back to Syracuse?”
    So much shared history. It complicated things, but it also gave comfort. “Yep. You took me back to the museum there, even though I know you weren’t so hot on looking at prehistoric cooking pots.”
    He squeezed her hand and let it drop, then tugged the newspaper towards him and opened it.
    Was it going to be this easy?
    And then he said, “After dinner, we’ll go to my room.”

Chapter Eight

    As he had so many nights, Luke watched Sian cook.
    She was as expressive as a dancer as she moved around the large kitchen, opening one cedar cabinet that was filled with spice before shaking some over her creation—smelt like cumin to his trained senses—and then she rocked back in her sandals, humming to herself as she took out the pepper and garlic.
    “Lots,” Luke said. “I like it hot and spicy.” Come to think of it, Sian cooked the way she had sex.
    She smiled at him, oblivious to his evil thoughts. “You always want a ton.”
    “Yeah.” Unlike other nights, he didn’t pretend to read the local paper. Instead, he watched her openly, her long, slim, tanned legs, her shorts that curved around her ass so he wanted to cup that fullness in his hands as she fell back against him, purring…
    And yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.
    They’d had sex, they’d fucked.
    They had not made love.
    He had no reason, no excuse to go over and put his hands on her shoulders, to kiss her and use the intimate voice of a lover in her ear.
    He could fuck her, but he couldn’t have her.
    Damn, why had he thought having sex with her at last would finally solve everything between them?
    The truth was, he was sitting here still aching for what he didn’t have.
    “How was work?” she asked, her tone so casual he had the sense she was leading up to something.
    “Helped clean up after an apartment fire. Seniors.”
    “Oh no!” She spun around, moving so she stood on the other side of the island. Her grey eyes were dark with compassion. Luke figured she wouldn’t last in his job. Too sensitive. You had to have some distance in order to help people. Sian was much better offering coffee, muffins and empathy in Coffee Dreams.
    “No one was killed, but some folks lost a lot of their possessions.” And you couldn’t replace that, pictures of family, mementos from treasured holidays.
    She reached out and squeezed his hand.
    He swallowed and put her palm against his cheek, hurting for her. His penis was engorged, full and ready for her. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and have her…but then it would be over, and he didn’t want it to be over.
    “Did you and your friend talk?”
    “My friend?” Luke was confused by her direction.
    “Taz.”
    Oh. She was wondering if he’d talked to Taz about her. Sian had always been sensitive to what people said about her, self-conscious.
    “No. We were hung up with the whole saving people thing.”
    She nodded, pushing back the hair gone curly from the steam