Read Online Look Before You Bake by Cassie Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cassie Wright
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with me."
"Anita." He reaches out and takes my chin with two fingers, turning my face to his. "You're fucking gorgeous."
The way he says it sends a surge of heat right through me, and my heart can't decide if it wants to stop beating altogether or race at a hundred miles an hour. His voice is so matter-of-fact, so adamant, that my protests die on my lips. The firelight dances over his face, making him seem primitive, sinfully hot, a primal mountain man with burning eyes that are staring right into my soul.
"The ravioli," I say weakly. "I have to – um – drain the water – before –"
Arthur lowers his fingers, but none of the intensity leaves his eyes. I get up, grab the kitchen towel I brought, and lift the pot from the fire. Stagger away a few steps, and then carefully pour out the steaming water till the ravioli are sitting in just a little of it. That'll help heat the sauce. I set the pot back down on the rocks, grab the jars, and pour both of them over the pasta. Stir them around, and then reluctantly, almost afraid, sit back down. Not quite next to Arthur, however. I don't dare that much.
Arthur is just watching me from across the fire. That comfortable ease we were sharing is gone. Something predatory has come close to his skin, and I don't feel like I can relax. I don't want to run away, either, though. It's a strange sensation – arousal, nervousness, a touch of fear, and more excitement than I can imagine. I can't meet his eyes. Does he really think I'm beautiful?
I watch the sauce, and when it begins to bubble I remove the pot from the fire and serve two big bowls. The smell is divine, and the tension abates a little as we sit and eat. For a few moments there's nothing but the sound of us slurping and chewing. The ravioli is wonderful, so filling and heavy after the daylong trek, and the sauce, I'm happy to note, isn't too shabby either.
"My god," says Arthur. "How am I going to go back to trail rations after this?"
I laugh, simply happy again. "I love a man who enjoys good food."
Arthur lifts his fork, three raviolis impaled on its tines. "You'd have to be inhuman not to love this."
"You'd be surprised. Some people just aren't into food."
"Fools," says Arthur, chomping down. "Crazy people wasting their lives."
I smile as I chew. I couldn't agree more. I have two full plates, and Arthur has four, cleaning the pot and looking like he would lick it were it not for my presence. When we're done, I feel absolutely content, my tummy full, my legs achy, my mind drowsy. I haven't felt such a rollercoaster of emotions and exercised so hard all in one day in forever.
We sit companionably again in silence, watching the fire die down. The stars overhead are indeed amazing, and it feels so natural to rest my head against Arthur's shoulder. Again he drapes his arm around me, and I snuggle in, loving his smell, the mix now of wood smoke and masculine scent. He's warm, hot like an oven, and with the fire right before us and the chill wind blowing, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Part of me is hoping that he'll return to telling me how hot I am. The muscles of his shoulder and chest where my head rests are large and thick, and I idly think about him naked, but it's impossible to hold on to the thought. My mind drifts. I'm exhausted. I'm well fed. I'm happy and warm and comfortable. Arthur holds me close, and I drift off to sleep.
Chapter 7
It comes to me as I sit there, Anita snuggled into my side, the fire warming my boots, my stomach filled with good food, the night sky glorious overhead, that I haven't been this happy, this content, in forever. The only sound is the occasional snap or pop from the fire when sparks shoot up into the dark. I don't know what I expected of tonight. Whether my simmering desire for Anita would prove too much for me to control. I knew she was interested, no, more than interested. I could read it in her face, could smell it in her scent whenever I came too close.
"Anita." He reaches out and takes my chin with two fingers, turning my face to his. "You're fucking gorgeous."
The way he says it sends a surge of heat right through me, and my heart can't decide if it wants to stop beating altogether or race at a hundred miles an hour. His voice is so matter-of-fact, so adamant, that my protests die on my lips. The firelight dances over his face, making him seem primitive, sinfully hot, a primal mountain man with burning eyes that are staring right into my soul.
"The ravioli," I say weakly. "I have to – um – drain the water – before –"
Arthur lowers his fingers, but none of the intensity leaves his eyes. I get up, grab the kitchen towel I brought, and lift the pot from the fire. Stagger away a few steps, and then carefully pour out the steaming water till the ravioli are sitting in just a little of it. That'll help heat the sauce. I set the pot back down on the rocks, grab the jars, and pour both of them over the pasta. Stir them around, and then reluctantly, almost afraid, sit back down. Not quite next to Arthur, however. I don't dare that much.
Arthur is just watching me from across the fire. That comfortable ease we were sharing is gone. Something predatory has come close to his skin, and I don't feel like I can relax. I don't want to run away, either, though. It's a strange sensation – arousal, nervousness, a touch of fear, and more excitement than I can imagine. I can't meet his eyes. Does he really think I'm beautiful?
I watch the sauce, and when it begins to bubble I remove the pot from the fire and serve two big bowls. The smell is divine, and the tension abates a little as we sit and eat. For a few moments there's nothing but the sound of us slurping and chewing. The ravioli is wonderful, so filling and heavy after the daylong trek, and the sauce, I'm happy to note, isn't too shabby either.
"My god," says Arthur. "How am I going to go back to trail rations after this?"
I laugh, simply happy again. "I love a man who enjoys good food."
Arthur lifts his fork, three raviolis impaled on its tines. "You'd have to be inhuman not to love this."
"You'd be surprised. Some people just aren't into food."
"Fools," says Arthur, chomping down. "Crazy people wasting their lives."
I smile as I chew. I couldn't agree more. I have two full plates, and Arthur has four, cleaning the pot and looking like he would lick it were it not for my presence. When we're done, I feel absolutely content, my tummy full, my legs achy, my mind drowsy. I haven't felt such a rollercoaster of emotions and exercised so hard all in one day in forever.
We sit companionably again in silence, watching the fire die down. The stars overhead are indeed amazing, and it feels so natural to rest my head against Arthur's shoulder. Again he drapes his arm around me, and I snuggle in, loving his smell, the mix now of wood smoke and masculine scent. He's warm, hot like an oven, and with the fire right before us and the chill wind blowing, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Part of me is hoping that he'll return to telling me how hot I am. The muscles of his shoulder and chest where my head rests are large and thick, and I idly think about him naked, but it's impossible to hold on to the thought. My mind drifts. I'm exhausted. I'm well fed. I'm happy and warm and comfortable. Arthur holds me close, and I drift off to sleep.
Chapter 7
It comes to me as I sit there, Anita snuggled into my side, the fire warming my boots, my stomach filled with good food, the night sky glorious overhead, that I haven't been this happy, this content, in forever. The only sound is the occasional snap or pop from the fire when sparks shoot up into the dark. I don't know what I expected of tonight. Whether my simmering desire for Anita would prove too much for me to control. I knew she was interested, no, more than interested. I could read it in her face, could smell it in her scent whenever I came too close.