Take a Chance on Me (111 page)

A loud crack! pierced the air and she jerked. He'd smashed the mallet down on a crab leg, using far more force than was necessary, not saying a word, his eyes now fierce on hers. He looked exactly like he did that night in the diner parking lot—absolutely tortured.

Then came another loud crack of the mallet, followed by more silence and staring, and the quiet was growing heavier, darker, breath-stealing. Emma felt how the air itself became heavy, rich, and dripping with the promise of sex.

Sex. Sex. Sex.

The two of them couldn't seem to escape it.

Suddenly, Thomas picked up a new victim, held it with both hands, and wrenched apart the crab legs until they formed a wide vee in front of his mouth. His eyes locked on Emma's as he licked a drip of butter off the inside of his wrist.

Emma jumped in her own skin.

Then she watched him ever so slowly suck a plump tidbit of white backfin meat from a tendon. He licked his lips. He made a raspy sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh of pleasure.

"All right. Friendly business it is, Dr. Jenkins." His eyes were hot and mischievous. "Would you say you're satisfied with the progress we're making with Hairy?"

Emma didn't know if the speech and language center of her frontal lobe still functioned. She couldn't take her eyes off him—the man knew what he was doing. Yes, indeedydoo. He worked to a nice, even rhythm.

He knew how to pace himself. Spreading. Pulling. Licking. Grinding. Eating.

"I think I'm getting real close to being satisfied," she said.

Emma let the very tips of her fingers brush against a few of the places she now imagined him putting his mouth—the hollow at the base of her throat, her temples, her lips. She absently dropped her hand to the tops of her breasts and lazily dragged her fingers over her cleavage.

Thomas nearly howled—she'd just left a glittering smear of butter on her breasts! How thoughtful of her to provide the condiments, because he'd long ago decided her breasts would taste like hot bread right out of the oven—and he planned on doing some serious carbo-loading.

"I think we work well together," he mumbled, his eyes glued to her butter-topped flesh.

"Uh-huh," she agreed.

Emma wiggled around on the bench, horribly uncomfortable. Her dress suddenly felt way too tight. Her underwear didn't feel tight enough.

And it was back—Bing! Ring! Ring! Bing!—as his eyes flashed in the tiki torch flame, his skin glowed bronze in contrast to the white shirt and white teeth, and as his pulse throbbed beneath the tender skin of his throat.

She reached for her beer—suddenly parched—and brushed her fingertips up and down the sweating neck of the Corona bottle. "Thank you for keeping things businesslike between us, Thomas," she said.

"Of course." He smacked his lips. "I think we both know it's always going to be serious business with us."

Emma let go with a soft, strangled whimper. And right then, she knew, she was about to behave like a very bad girl.

What is Emma doing? Thomas's heart pounded. His throat constricted. And he watched—oh, yeah, he watched.

She looked up innocently from under those thick, black lashes and raised the beer bottle to her lips.

Moisture beaded and dripped down the side of the bottle. Her lips glistened.

Ever so slowly, she inserted the rounded tip of the bottle into her mouth, pulled it out once to let her tongue swirl around the slick ridge of glass, then pushed it between her lips.

Then she swallowed.

Thomas was going down—down into the vortex without any hope of rescue. Which was fine with him.

She let the bottle slip out again with a faint sucking noise, keeping the very tip of her pink tongue inside the opening. Then she repeated the whole excruciating process before she set the bottle down with shaking hands.

"Serious business," she whispered, slipping her little pink tongue along her wet bottom lip.

Thomas was in pain from the chest down. He grabbed the mallet. He grabbed the last crab on the platter.

And he began to hammer out a slow, sure rhythm, his eyes fused with hers, hot and penetrating.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Until the poor crustacean was mashed to a pulp, and Emma grabbed the edge of the picnic table and pressed her thighs together as she felt the tingle radiate to her scalp, her toes, realizing, as it was happening, that she was spontaneously combusting right there on the outdoor dining deck of Bayside Stella's, while an impatient crowd stood around waiting for a table.

Emma didn't quite know how she came to be standing in the parking lot a few moments later, car keys in hand, Thomas at her side. Perhaps it was for the best.

But there she was, and then Thomas was standing in front of her with that pained look on his face again and he was saying the strangest thing…