Read Online Bite by Jenny Lyn - Free Book Online Page A

just so damn good looking it should be a crime—tall and wide and fit, with short, black hair and the perfect amount of scruff on his jaw. He wore his sideburns long, similar to Elvis back when he was young and hot, way before he’d eaten too many of those fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches he loved so much.
    Seeing Kevin in real life was infinitely better than high-definition plasma, even if you paused it at just the right moment when those coffee-colored eyes were staring straight into the camera, and you felt like they could see inside your soul. Or at the very least, see what your hand was doing between your thighs. What would he think if he knew? Would he be repulsed, indifferent, or turned on too? It’s doubtful that I would ever find out the answer to that question, but it couldn’t hurt to fantasize. If it did, I’d need an intravenous morphine drip every Wednesday night and some Thursdays.
    I didn’t want Chef Scrumptious to dislike me, but if his nightly admonishments and exasperated looks were any indication, we were headed down that path.
    During the first class we’d covered mostly the basics, with Kevin teaching us the proper way to hold a knife, the necessity of keeping a clean and organized workspace, and how to make a simple pan sauce. Simple for him, of course. I’d floundered and fussed. Then I proceeded to “massacre the basil,” and he’d surprised not only me, but probably the entire class by giving me some very personal assistance.
    Kevin had stood directly behind me, close enough to heat my back with his front, draped his long arms along mine, and clasped my hands under his while he demonstrated how to do a perfect chiffonade. He had some amazing forearms too, thick and dusted with dark hair, ropy muscles flexing beneath the skin. You could just see the colorful bottom edge of a tattoo peeking out from under the rolled-up cuff of his chef’s coat.
    If I wasn’t terribly mistaken, before he pulled away he’d smelled my hair. I was 100 percent certain my panties had gotten wet and my nipples painfully hard. Meanwhile, my fellow chef-enamored peers got their panties in a twist. They undoubtedly wanted my head served up on a silver platter, shiny Red Delicious apple in my mouth, and fresh parsley around my neck for garnish. But any stuffing to be done would only be allowed by our hunky teacher.
    By the time the second class rolled around, I’d found myself actually looking forward to going. Not for the cooking lessons. That part still sucked. The anticipation was purely out of the desire to see if I could, like the ink on Kevin’s forearm, get a little further under his skin. Something I was unfortunately rather good at.
    My fascination had quickly become an obsession, I feared. Never one to practice restraint, the only thing left for me to do was feed it.
    The recipe for that night was bourbon-glazed pork chops. While I was mixing the ingredients for the marinade, I’d tossed back a few shots of the key ingredient. Just to, you know, help with the nerves.
    “The bourbon goes into the recipe, Miss Connor, not into you,” he’d said from directly behind me. He had a way of doing that, catching me in the act. I suppose the number of times I screwed up made me an easy mark.
    My spine straightened at the scolding, but my mouth did what it knew best. “Well, that’s just a waste of perfectly good bourbon if you ask me.”
    He’d stepped closer and given in to a brief smirk. So yeah, not entirely bulletproof. His eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there for a moment, until my mind wandered to the insane idea that he was thinking about kissing me.
    “Bourbon-glazed lips,” he mused before raising his eyes to mine. “I wonder how they taste.”
    My breath caught. “Hopefully better than pork chops.”
    Kevin smiled at that, with teeth and everything. “They’re burning.”
    I’d frowned and touched my mouth with my fingertips. Then I smelled the smoke. “Shit!”
    I scrambled