Operation G-spot. Jodi Lynn Copeland
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pie. Thanks to you, I’m already behind the rest of the class on getting the crust together.”
He’d learned enough about the class to know each student worked at their own pace. Since her lie worked in his favor, he let it slide. “In that case, let me help you get caught up.” He grabbed the two eggs in one hand. Tapping them against the edge of the bowl, he broke them cleanly down the center. The yolks and whites emptied into the bowl, and he tossed the shells into the sink.
“You’ve done that before.” Accusation rang in Liz’s voice.
Before Liz’s brother had met his girlfriend, Colin had shown up at Dusty’s Backroom several nights a week in an attempt to escape what he called Liz’s god-awful cooking. While Dusty wasn’t ready to win any cook-offs, teaching her what he did know was as good a way as any to get on her good side. “I do some of the cooking at Dusty’s.”
“Right,” she said dryly, “the extra crispy char burgers.”
“What can I say, they’re my specialty.”
Without responding, she returned to the refrigerator and pulled out the egg carton. She set it on the counter and grabbed two eggs. The recipe didn’t call for any more, so obviously she was cracking them to prove a point, namely that she could do anything he could and, likely in her obstinate mind, far better.
Fisting the eggs, Liz struck them against the side of a clean bowl. Shell splintered into a dozen pieces, most of which landed in the bowl along with whatever yolk and whites didn’t splatter onto her hand and apron.
Curling her egg-slicked hand into a fist, she scowled. “They obviously had defective shells.”
With an inward laugh, Dusty grabbed two more eggs from the carton. “I’ll show you.”
“I don’t want your—”
“Like you said, this classroom’s equipped for a dozen students. I make thirteen. To get in, I had to agree to hook up with someone already assigned. That would be you.” Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he hurried to change the subject. “As for the eggs…” He moved behind her, enjoying the sensual slide of her bottom against his groin as he slid his arms under hers.
A low growl rolled from her lips. Before she could follow the feral sound up with words, he took her right hand in his, turned it palm-side up, and uncurled the fist. “Watch and learn.” He placed two eggs onto her palm, purposefully stroking the tips of his fingers along her skin, sending waves of heat dancing up his arm and, no doubt, into hers. He folded his hand over hers and brought his mouth inches from her ear. Gently, he used their joined hands to strike the eggs against the lip of the bowl. The shells broke down the center, emptying their contents into the bowl. “It’s all in the wrist.”
Liz cocked her head to the side, assuring the warm whisper of his breath against the delicate flesh of her earlobe hadn’t gone unnoticed. She tugged at the hand he held and pushed against him, attempting to move away. When he refused to budge, she turned and glared. “You honestly said I would be your partner?”
Dusty’s attention fell to her mouth. She hadn’t worn the ruby-red lipstick tonight or the three-inch heels, but her lips were still damned full and dangerously close to his. His vision from three nights ago surfaced: The erotic image of Liz on her knees, swallowing his cock to the hilt while her tongue licked from base to pre-cum oozing 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