Lucian didn’t blink, didn’t move, but he seemed closer. My nipples stiffened, nudging against the thin fabric, begging to be seen by him. The tip of my finger hooked under the top, and I pulled it slowly to the side, feeling the drag.

Lucian grunted, low and protracted, as though the sound could make me go faster. The reaction in my body was a delicious clenching of my sex. I arched into that sound, my lids fluttering as I tugged the top farther over, stopping right at the edge of my nipple. And he jerked, the water sloshing.

“Em . . .” The plea came out in a thick rasp. “Baby . . .”

The muscles along his arms bunched as he gripped the lip of the pool, as though trying to hold himself back.

Oh, he wanted that peek. An ache built up inside me. My breasts had been seen by millions. But Lucian was right; that hadn’t been me. Here, now, this was me. This was him wanting to see me.

The tip of my finger traced a path of heat along the curve of my breast, back and forth. And he watched, a man starved. Licking my lips, I stopped. It seemed we both held our breaths. And then, with the slightest of tugs, the top slipped over the beaded tip of my nipple.

Lucian groaned, the sound almost animal. I arched my back in response, pulled by his need, my bared breast coming closer to the wall of his chest. I wanted to feel his skin on mine.

But he didn’t move. He gripped the edge tighter, his body working with heaving pants. “Fuck,” he whispered. His pale gaze flicked to mine, a furrow knitting between his brows. “I want a taste. Please. God. Please, Em.”

That he was undone nearly had me sliding under the water. But the need in his eyes made me whimper. Lids heavy with desire, I nodded, and he swallowed hard, his expression becoming fierce.

“Just a taste,” he said, as if to hold himself to that. I whimpered, and his hot gaze snared with mine. Something passed over his expression—determination, reassurance, I couldn’t tell; lust and need had scattered all rational thought. “Just a taste,” he said again.

“Take it,” I whispered, barely able to form the words.

Lucian let out a breath, his mouth moving closer. “Fuck. Em . . . lift that sweetness up for me.”

My breath left in a swoosh, everything squeezing with a lovely tightness. With a shaking hand, I cupped my breast and lifted it out of the water. Offering myself to him.

On a groan, he ducked his head. The hot, wet flat of his tongue dragged over my cold flesh. I let out a cry, a bolt of pleasure punching to my core.

He made a sound of pure hunger, his lips gently kissing the tip before he sucked it deep . . .

“Last one in the pool is a dirty fool!” Tina’s shout was followed closely by a massive splash as she launched herself into the water.

Lucian surged back, as though struck, then turned to block me as I hastily hauled my top back into place.

It was clear from the wide-eyed surprise on Tina’s face that she hadn’t noticed us. Just as clear from Brommy’s slow stroll to the pool edge and the grin on his face that he had.

Whatever the case, the mood was effectively doused. I caught Lucian’s eye, but his walls were up, and he shook his head with a nearly imperceptible motion. With an internal sigh, I swam over to a sheepish Tina and pretended nothing had happened.

I couldn’t regret teasing Lucian to the point where he turned the tables on me. But I would definitely think twice about engaging that way again. Not when he apparently regretted his moment of weakness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lucian

After pulling back from the brink of falling on Emma in the pool like a man starved, I stayed away from her and hung out with Brommy. I managed it for two days. And I missed her.

It was irrational, annoying, nonsensical. You weren’t supposed to miss someone you barely knew. You weren’t supposed to crave the sight of them, the sound of their voice, the scent of their skin. Not like this. Holy hell, I’d had the sweet pink rose of her nipple in my mouth. I could still feel its shape on my tongue like some lust phantom designed to drive me out of my mind.

I put it down to being mentally weakened by months of sexual solitude.

My one concession was to bake. For her.

Baking had always been a private thing, something I’d learned at my great-grandfather’s knee, but I had never sought to do more with it. But now? It had become both a challenge and intensely satisfying to come up with new ways to tempt and pleasure Emma. Feeding Emma somehow fed my soul as well.

She didn’t know that the brioches in her breakfast basket had been formed by my hand. She didn’t know the macarons—two each night, sent in a small box—were mine. But I did.

In moments of weakness, I’d close my eyes and try to imagine her soft lips parting over jewel-bright confections, pink tongue tasting the flavors of me—achieved by the strange alchemy of whipping egg whites, infusing creams, and straining ripe fruits, all melded together into an intense burst of flavor.

Had she preferred the inky-black chicory chocolate, the butter-rich caramel and burnt pear? Or did she moan for the juicy brightness of the grapefruit honey or blood orange and rose?

It was enough to make a man hard.

And aching for the sight of what he shouldn’t have.

Which was why I kept doing it. Maybe I wanted to be found out. I could just tell the woman I was the one making her food, leaving little treats that no one else staying at Rosemont was getting. But there was something about Emma Maron that reverted me right back to the awkward, bumbling geek I’d been in middle school.

Mamie hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said I was small as a kid. Small and shy. When I wasn’t on the ice, I was the guy most likely to hide away. Hockey had changed me into someone cocky, outgoing, fun loving. I liked that version of myself, but now that hockey was over, I realized that part of me was a role I’d been playing.

I wasn’t sure who the real me was anymore, but I knew I wasn’t prepared to march up to Emma’s bungalow with cake in hand.

Keeping to myself as much as possible felt like the safer plan.

Because playing it safe is what got you so far in life.

I hadn’t played it safe with the dessert I’d made Emma today, though. Already, I was regretting it. The choice was pure hubris. There was too much of me—of us—in it. But it was too late to take it back.

Emma

It was the pie that did it. And the kick of it was I didn’t even see it coming. I should have. The signs were all there. But I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been thinking about a certain grumpy hot man who I wanted far too much for my own good.