tip. The stirring he’d felt in his boxers upon first entering the classroom and spotting her shapely rear end returned, sending his dick into an almost instant state of hardness.
Resisting the urge to adjust his cramped erection, he forced himself to focus on her tone. It held irritation, but not the usual in-your-face bluntness. Obviously this class meant something to her. Good. For some perverse reason, he generally enjoyed Liz’s bitchy behavior, but it would be far easier to get on her good side without it.
Dusty shifted far enough back that she wouldn’t feel his hard-on and placed two more eggs in her hand. “Your turn.” He folded his hand over hers. “I’ll guide you, but the breaking’s all up to you.”
The inside of his arm rubbed against the outer swell of her breast and she tensed. “I don’t—” she started, sounding like she wanted to break something, all right.
“Know how?” he finished, purposely misunderstanding her. “Then I suggest you watch closer this time.”
Once more he broke the eggs cleanly into the dish. “Like I said,” he breathed centimeters from her neck, “all about the wrist.”
This time, a helpless little sigh accompanied the cocking of her neck. Not about to push things so early on, he released her hand and stepped back. “As much as I enjoy breaking eggs, we should probably get back to the pie.” He glanced toward the front of the room, where the pie crust recipe was written on a blackboard, and reached for a measuring cup.
Using her hip, Liz butted him out of the way and grabbed the measuring cup from his hand. After filling the cup with water, she poured the water into the bowl, then grabbed a wooden spoon and started mixing. In a hushed voice, she said, “If you’re taking this class just to get in my pants, allow me to assure you, the only thing that’s going to get blown is your time.”
Dusty raised an eyebrow. “Who has the ego problem now? I own a bar with a full lunch and dinner menu. Since I didn’t have a chance to learn how to cook growing up the way I did, doing so now makes good business sense.”
She continued to add the last of the ingredients, stirring them into a sticky dough and then pressing the dough into a pie pan. Setting the pan aside, she returned to the cupboard and retrieved a bowl for the pie filling. “I don’t care.”
He lifted his gaze from the curve of her ass. “Don’t care about what?”
“How you grew up.” She set the bowl on the counter and looked at him. “You think I want to know, but I don’t.”
“My upbringing’s the last thing I want to talk about.” And it for damned sure was.
Liz was to blame for his making a comment on his past. Ever since she’d taken that shot at his ability to please a woman, he’d been reliving moments from his youth, all the many ways he’d managed to fail in his parents’ eyes. “I was making small talk.”
“Yeah, well, don’t bother. We’re here to cook, not socialize.”
For once Dusty was glad for her brusque attitude toward him. Allowing silence to reign, they worked together until the pie filling and the whipped cream that would top the finished product were done. Liz poured the filling into the crust, topped it with a handful of pecan shavings, and placed it in the oven.
Arms crossed, she turned around and leaned back against the oven door. “You want to make small talk. Fine. We have to pass the time somehow until the pie’s done. How’d you grow up that you were never exposed to cooking? Wait, let me guess. Your father’s a throwback to the olden days and thinks that kinda thing’s woman’s work, so you were never allowed in the kitchen with your mother.”
Dusty’s gut tightened. Fuck. He thought he’d sidestepped this conversation. He could hardly ignore it now, when, despite her blasé tone, genuine interest shone in her eyes. The more he thought about what a disappointment he was to his parents, the more his need to get close enough to Liz to prove himself a sexual success grew. The secret was to keep his words light, share just enough to placate her, and then focus on pleasuring her.
He assumed a carefree tone. “Before I answer that, tell me one thing.”
She eyed him warily. “What?”
“You aren’t being nice to me just to get in my pants, are you? ’Cause I gotta tell you, babe, the only thing I’m letting you blow is my time.”
Her upper lip twitched, making it clear she fought a smile. Turning her back on him, she busied herself with switching on the oven light and bending down to look through the oven’s glass front. “Bite me, Marr.”
Dusty moved up behind her. He brushed the front of his right thigh against the back of her left as he bent down and peered in the oven next to her. She jolted, and he taunted in a low voice, “Exactly as I’d feared—you can’t handle just talking around me. You want to move straight to the biting. Next thing you know, we’ll be licking each other, then sucking, blowing, fondling…” Hearing her breathing quicken, he came to his feet. “My mother doesn’t know the difference between vegetable oil and olive oil.”
Liz stood. “There is one?” She looked quizzical but sounded slightly breathless.
Another time he would have laughed at both the naïveté (there was a word he would never have thought to associate with her) of the question and her stimulated response to his remark. Now he focused on speaking without emotion coming into play. “Yes, there is. The point is my mother’s never cooked, or for that matter worked a real job, a day in her life. She was born into a wealthy family and married into the same. A hired chef does the cooking.”
“That had to be nice when you were young, having her around to take care of you and your siblings instead of staying with a sitter.”
He snorted. Nice, right. They’d been a regular fucking Partridge Family. “I have two brothers, and I said my mother never worked a real job, not that she stayed home. Mom spent all her time volunteering for my father’s company and with anyone else who needed help, so long as it kept her out of the house. Staying away from us kids was one of the few things my parents agreed on.” Disgust bled into his words. He gentled his tone as he added, “A live-in assistant took care of us.”
A frown flirted with Liz’s lips. “Well, I’m sure he or she was nice.”
“Yeah, by the time I was nine, I knew more than I ever cared to about being a gentleman in polite society.”
Her frown appeared full force. “What about being a kid?”
She looked almost sorry for him; it was the last thing he wanted or would have expected. Time to get things back on track and remember his mission here.
Grinning, Dusty looked at her breasts hugged alluringly by the stretch of her white apron and the pale blue T-shirt beneath. He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m working on that part now. Whaddya say I come over there and show you what a naughty little boy I can be?”
Though he could tell she fought it, a smile curved her lips, lightening the deep blue of her eyes and softening her tough-girl edge. “I’d say you’d be wise to stop fantasizing and focus on the pie.”
His grin kicked higher. She gave that genuine smile to Colin with regularity, but never had it been aimed Dusty’s way. It felt damned good. “And your excuse is?”
“My
