Mother, Please! - By Brenda Novak & Jill Shalvis & Alison Kent Page 0,81

with the long edge of one index finger. Then he leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips to hers. It took the willpower of the saint he’d never been not to increase the pressure of his mouth, especially when she strained toward him seeking more.

But he set her back, dropped his hand and smiled. “See? No table-throwing. No ripping off of clothes.” Her grin teased him, tempted him, as did her sense of good humor in the face of an awkward moment.

“If you can keep your hands to yourself, then so can I,” she announced. And, at that, she reached for the serving spoon and dished up the casserole.

Once she sat back, however, he moved his left hand to her thigh. “I didn’t say anything about keeping my hands to myself.”

One eyebrow arched, she fought a grin. “And I’m supposed to be able to calmly sit and eat when you’re touching me?”

Oh, but he was on the verge of hardening where he sat. Knowing the way she wanted him, feeling the heat of her body in the palm of his hand…yeah, it was too much. He moved his arm to rest along the back of her chair instead. “Is this better?”

“Honestly, no. I’d rather you touch me. But practically speaking, yes.” She cast him a quick sideways glance and reached for her fork. “This way you’re not so much of a distraction, but are still near enough for me to feed you.”

Before he could object, she offered him a chunk of creamy, cheesy chicken. He opened his mouth and died. “Mmm.”

“You like?” she asked before feeding herself from the same dish, the same fork.

He watched her lips close, watched her pull the fork free, watched her eyes twinkle and her grin light up her face. “What’s not to like?” he asked gruffly.

She turned to the side, hooked her heels over the chair’s low railing and set the plate of food on her knees. Her shins pressed the outside of his thigh. He shifted even closer. “I didn’t know if you were more of a steak-and-baked-potato kind of guy,” she said.

“I’m pretty much just a food kind of guy,” he admitted.

“Ah, that’s the best kind.”

“How’s that?”

She fed him another bite, her chin raised, her nose lifted, her gaze on his mouth as he chewed. He amazed himself by not choking or pulling her into his lap.

“A guy who won’t turn up his nose at a meal makes cooking for him a lot more fun.”

“You cook for a lot of guys then?”

She laughed, shook her head. “You’re one of a very few. I was actually thinking how much my mother loved cooking for my father.”

“Hmm.” He reached for the distraction of his wineglass.

“Oh, God. That didn’t come out right at all.” Grinning, she waved the fork back and forth. “I wasn’t comparing my cooking for you to my mother cooking for my father.”

He raised a brow. “That’s good to know,” he said, and hearing her laughter was worth any conversation or any comparison he had to endure.

“I mean, considering this is only our first date, it would be fairly presumptuous of me to think we would be headed for thirty years of wedded bliss.”

“Uh, right.” He cleared his throat.

“Poor David.” She swirled the fork through the food on her plate. “Are you about ready to start gnawing off your leg?”

“I’m getting there,” he lied.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound as if I were setting a trap. Please tell me you know that.”

Thing was, if she wanted to trap him, she wouldn’t even have to try. It was her mother, not the subject of marriage, that he wasn’t wanting to talk about. “Don’t worry about it. I figure if you’d been serious about trapping me, then we’d both be naked by now.”

“Very funny,” she said, before shoving a bite of food at his face.

He opened his mouth and took it, but held her hand while he did. He rubbed his thumb into her palm, wrapped his fingers around her wrist just tightly enough to let her know the truth of how much he did want to drag her across the table and strip her bare.

Her eyes flashed in response. He released her, and she pulled the fork from his mouth and moved it to her own, where she licked the tines clean. He simply sat and stared. It was the least he could do, the most he could do. Hell, it was all he could do unless he wanted to risk his