Gift Wrapped by Karla Doyle Page B

hand, winked, then crossed to the other counter, as directed. “Oh wow,” she said, as she pulled the chunky silver handle. “Look at your cute drawer dividers.” She tossed a cheeky smile over her shoulder. “Are they all like this?” She moved along the counter, opening and closing the short row of drawers and cupboards, getting more of a kick with each one. “I didn’t know real people lived this way. I feel like I’m in an Ikea showroom.”
    “I like things organized.” Compartmentalized would be a more accurate word. Sexy times in one box, buddies in another, colleagues in a third, and things that fuck up general happiness—aka, romantic or familial relationships—in an airtight, padlocked safe.
    Apparently satisfied with her exploration of his storage solutions, she plunked the requested utensils in front of him, save the one in her hand. That, she twirled between her palms while bending over the end of the prep surface. “You have a very large whisk.” Her eyes danced as she surveyed the sturdy, metal wires. “I’m not sure I can handle it.”
    “Come over here and we’ll find out.”
    She smiled coyly while sliding between him and the countertop. “Here I am.”
    “Hold on to it while I put our first few ingredients in the pot.” He pressed his nose to her neck and his hard-on against her ass. “Then I’ll show you how to use it.”
    “Yes, sir.” Her left hand snaked behind her hip, seeking his handle.
    “Hey, now,” he said, though the inch of space he gave so she could better cup him hardly constituted true scolding. “Pay attention to what I’m putting in here.” He measured ingredients into the pot. “There’s going to be a test on this later.”
    “Essay style, or multiple choice?”
    He curled his hand over hers where it gripped the stalk of the whisk. Guided their mixing motion while speaking softly in her ear, “Multiple for sure. That okay with you, babe?” Might’ve been his imagination, but her knees seemed to buckle a little.
    “Can you give me a sample question?”
    He smiled against her hair while reaching for the milk. “Take this and pour some in the pot while I think of one.”
    “Fine,” she said, huffing as she removed her hand from his crotch to follow instructions. “How much?”
    “Enough to get things wet.” Putting her in charge of the milk left him with a free hand, which he slid around her waist. He opened her jeans and skimmed his fingers down, over the front of some tiny panties. Very nice.
    “Is that good, is it wet enough?” The carafe hovered over the bowl, shaking as much as her breathy voice.
    He slid his questing hand farther between her legs, over the strip of satin. Wet satin. “It’s perfect.” He drew back, enough to delve under the top edge of her panties. “Now add the rest of the milk, but do it slowly, a little at a time.” Exactly what he planned to do with his fingers.
    She opened her stance for him. He took the invitation and used it well, sliding two fingers along her pussy, stroking with a hell of a lot more patience than his cock would’ve preferred.
    “Jesus, Brinn, you feel so good.”
    Milk trickled from the metal carafe. Brinn’s arm shook where she held it, suspended in the air. Together, they stirred—somehow—though he was damn sure the only communication making it from his brain to the rest of his body right now were the words get naked and fuck .
    “God, Davis…”
    The sound of his name in her dreamy, lust-filled voice brought him back. Seemed they were thinking the same things. That made drawing the dance out a little longer worth the tight ache in his balls. He circled her clit, eliciting sexy, tortured breathing from his Christmas Eve date. So fucking hot, he could probably ignite a fire with the heat swirling at the base of his cock right now.
    “I thought of a question.”
    “Whatever it is,” she said, “my answer is yes.”
    He chuckled against her neck. “Multiple choice,