Gwen and I first moved into our apartment, back before I met Ca—back when I was single,” she amended, “we lived across from a guy who worked at a local gym. He was so toned.” She paused for a moment, appreciating the memory. “Anyway, my desk is pushed up against my bedroom window—almost blocking it, but not completely. I was searching recipes on the computer and when I glanced up, I realized his blinds were partially open. He was undressing in his room, and he was, um, erect.”
Yeah, there was a lot of that going around.
“Before he disappeared from view, I saw him reach down and grip his erection.” Her breathing was audible, her face flushed.
“And you wanted to watch him get off?”
“No—well, maybe,” she reflected. “But for a second, I thought he might have seen me through the window and my imagination ran wild. I imagined him catching me naked. Imagined what it would be like for him to watch me...touch myself.”
Working in a kitchen required being good with one’s hands. Heath had seen her knead and stir and frost countless times. Now his gaze flew to those talented hands, and he was assailed by the erotic image of her fingers cupped over the red-gold curls between her thighs, furiously working her sex. Or would she take her time with leisurely caresses, drawing out her pleasure? He’d thought he was hard before? His dick was like steel.
She bit her lip, and he tried not to imagine the scrape of her teeth across his skin. “I shocked you, didn’t I?”
Hell, yes. In the best possible way. “Of course not. This is me. I’m unshockable.”
“Really?”
“It’s not uncommon to have exhibitionist or voyeurism fantasies.” He would be having several later tonight.
Her expression brightened with so much joy that one would think she’d just been named the ACF Pastry Chef of the Year. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. But I’m not sure what I did to deserve gratitude.”
She looked down, concentrating on her wineglass rather than meeting his gaze. “My mom got pregnant as a teen, and she worked really hard to make sure that never happened to me. Most of my life, I was half convinced kissing was evil, never mind fantasies about...”
“Masturbating in front of a sexy stranger?”
The blunt words heightened the color in her cheeks, but she nodded. “You’re a relief to be around. I mean, you’re cocky and frequently a pain in the ass—”
“Guilty.”
“But you aren’t judgmental and I don’t constantly worry that I’m going to disappoint you. You’re a good friend, Heath.”
A better friend would help her win back the man she loved without picturing her naked. “No, I’m a selfish hedonist. But the benefit of having no shame is that I don’t let it bother me.”
Her lips twitched, and she raised her glass. “To shameless pleasure.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
* * *
PHOEBE LEANED BACK against the cool leather of the couch, her feet tucked beneath her while her sandals lay askew on the floor. Dinner had been yummy and their discussion hadn’t been quite as charged as she’d feared. After what she’d revealed earlier, she hadn’t known what to expect and had experienced a moment of apprehension when they sat down together.
Almost as if sensing her nerves, Heath had kicked off an innocuous conversation about how they’d tweak the Braves lineup if they had the power to trade players. Later, when she’d brought up wanting to add some new savory pastries to James’s menu, Heath had waggled his brows and teased her about experimentation. But, by Heath standards, he’d behaved. Now she was enjoying the nighttime view through the window while he washed dishes, which he’d insisted on doing himself. The city lights twinkled, combining with the two glasses of wine she’d had to make her feel utterly relaxed.
Liar.
If she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge the buzz of awareness that crackled beneath the surface of mellow contentment. When Heath’s green eyes landed on her or he moved close to refill her glass, it was not relaxing. She felt tense—not in the stressed-out, frazzled kind of way, but high-strung just the same. All her senses were on full alert, and her skin tingled. It was a reaction that had caught her off guard when she arrived earlier and continued to take her by surprise, even though one would think she’d have adjusted after the first time. But it was disorienting to react so strongly to Heath. Sure, he was attractive—maybe one of the best-looking men in Atlanta—but he always had been. They’d worked together for over a year and she’d never felt this way.
Of course, that had been before he kissed her. What had she told Gwen? That it hadn’t been a real kiss? Please. If that kiss had been any more real, you would have exploded in a fiery blaze of spontaneous combustion.
Mentally and emotionally, Phoebe was in a vulnerable place right now, and she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Physically, she was less ambivalent. Her body had responded to Heath’s kiss with a swift, primal certainty she was having trouble forgetting. She drained the last of her wine, although what she probably needed was to splash some cold water on her face.
“Want any more wine?” Heath asked from the edge of the kitchen. Finished with the dishes, he padded into the living room, moving with deceptively lazy grace. Although he projected a carefree vibe, she’d seen him hustle on busy nights and bust his ass to fix disasters.
Like your love life?
“I’d better not,” she said. “If I have a third glass, I’ll have to sleep here on your sofa.”
He sat next to her, his grin devilish. “My bed’s more comfortable.”
She kicked him in reprimand—or, more accurately, she nudged his thigh with her bare foot.
He captured her toes in his hand, and she tried to pull away, suddenly alarmed. She was so unbearably ticklish that even sitting through pedicures was torturous. After a short-lived tickle fight in college, which had ended abruptly when her shrieks had brought the RA running, she’d wondered if the reason her skin was so sensitive to touch was because she was so unaccustomed to being touched. There hadn’t been a lot of hugs and kisses in her household.
But there was nothing ticklish about the way Heath cupped her foot and applied firm pressure on the arch. He rotated his thumb with just the right force, and she nearly moaned. Her job required hours of standing, and even though she was smart enough to wear practical shoes to work, her feet still got sore. This was heaven.
“You are so good at that,” she breathed.
“Practice makes perfect.”
Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she heard the seductive smile in his voice, hinting at skills far beyond foot massage. The man’s middle name was probably Innuendo. He could talk about menu fonts and find a way to turn it into temptation.
Swinging both of her feet to the ground, she sat forward. “How do you make it sound like you’re thinking about sex all the time?”
“By
