Summer Desserts by Nora Roberts

herself to be in that position.
    But the little twinges of nervous excitement remained.
    She was going to have to do something about Blake Cocharan, Summer decided as she poured out two cups of coffee. And she was going to have to do it quickly. The problem was—what?
    As Summer arranged cups and plates on a tray, she decided to do what she did best under pressure. She’d wing it.
    “You’re about to have a memorable, sensuous experience.”
    Blake glanced up at the announcement and watched her come into the room, tray in hand. Desire hit him surprisingly hard, surprisingly fast. It warned him that if he wanted to stay in control, he’d have to play the game with skill.
    “My éclairs aren’t to be taken lightly,” Summer continued. “Nor are they to be eaten with anything less than reverence.”
    He waited until she sat beside him again before he took a plate. Very skillfully done, he thought again as her scent drifted to him. “I’ll do my best.”
    “Actually—” she brought down the side of her fork and broke off the first bite “—no effort’s required. Just taste buds.” Unable to resist, Summer brought the fork to his lips.
    He watched her, and she him, as she fed him. The light slanted through the window behind them and caught in hereyes. More green now, Blake thought, almost feline. A man, any man, could lose himself trying to define that color, read that expression. The rich cream and flaky pastry melted in his mouth. Exotic, unique, desirable—like its creator. The first taste, like the first kiss, demanded more.
    “Incredible,” he murmured, and as her lips curved, he wanted them under his.
    “Naturally.” As she broke off another portion, Blake’s hand closed over her wrist. Her pulse scrambled briefly, he could feel it, but her eyes remained cool and level.
    “I’ll return the favor.” He said it quietly, and his fingers stayed lightly on her wrist as he took the fork in his other hand. He moved slowly, deliberately, keeping his eyes on hers, bringing the pastry to her lips, then pausing. He watched them part, saw the tip of her tongue. It would have been so easy to close his mouth over hers just then—from the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers, he knew there’d be no resistance. Instead, he fed her the éclair, his stomach muscles tightening as he imagined the taste that was even now lying delicately on her tongue.
    She’d never felt anything like this. She’d sampled her own cooking countless times, but had never had her senses so heightened. The flavor seemed to fill her mouth. Summer wanted to keep it there, exploring the sensation that had become so unexpectedly, so intensely, sexual. It took a conscious effort to swallow, and another to speak.
    “More?” she asked.
    His gaze flicked down from her eyes to her mouth then back again. “Always.”
    A dangerous game. She knew it, but opted to play. And to win. Taking her time, she fed him the next bite. Was the color of his eyes deeper? She didn’t think she was imagining it, nor the waves of desire that seemed to pound over her. Did they come from her, or from him?
    On the television, someone broke into raucous laughter. Neither of them noticed. It would be wise to step back now, cautiously. Even as the thought passed through her mind, she opened her mouth for the next taste.
    Some things exploded on the tongue, others heated it or tantalized. This was a cool, elegant experience, no less sensual than champagne, no less primitive than ripened fruit. Her nerves began to calm, but her awareness intensified. He was wearing some subtle cologne that made her think of the woods in autumn. His eyes were the deep blue of an evening sky. When his knee brushed hers, she felt a warmth that seeped through two layers of material and touched flesh. Moment after moment passed without her being aware that they weren’t speaking, only slowly, luxuriously, feeding each other. The intimacy wrapped around her, no less intense, no less