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“Somewhere along the way, I discovered that in the physical act of cooking, especially something complex or plain old hard to handle, dwelled unsuspected reservoirs of arousal both gastronomic and sexual. If you are not one of us, the culinarily depraved, there is no way to explain what's so darkly enticing about eviscerating beef marrowbones, chopping up lobster, baking a three-layer pecan cake, and doing it for someone else, offering someone hard-won gustatory delights in order to win pleasures of another sort. Everyone knows there are foods that are sexy to eat. What they don't talk about so much is foods that are sexy to make. But I'll take a wrestling bout with recalcitrant brioche dough over being fed a perfect strawberry any day, foreplay-wise.”
― Julie Powell, Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously

“Now there's a place I didn't cover. Maybe I should."
"Maybe you should---oh!" She gasped and bucked as I leaned down and lapped at her breast, flicking her nipple. God, she tasted good, sweet woman and creamy lemon. I sucked her deep into my mouth, loving the way she groaned and writhed.
Not letting go, I pulled back, tugging at her breast until her nipple freed with a decadent pop. Then moved on to her other breast, taking my time, nuzzling and licking until my lips were covered in cream, and she begged and whimpered for more.
A dollop of lemony confection slid down the plump curve of her pretty tit, and I chased it with my tongue, slurping it up, licking her nipple once more because I could. And then I did it again.
Her arm wound around my neck, urging me farther down. "Get messy with me, Lucian."
She was beautiful, flushed and fevered with her need.
"Yes, ma'am." I eased over her, my dick finding her waiting sex, and pushed into that perfect spot. We both groaned, our bodies sliding on slick buttercream. My mouth found hers, and she devoured me, her thighs clasping my hips, body working with mine.
I thrust deep and steady, reveling in the feel of her. It felt so good my body flared hot and cold and hot again. "I fucking love fucking you.”
― Kristen Callihan, Make It Sweet

“A honey pie, lovingly made. The tiny sugar bee, still perched on the edge of the flaky crust, mocked me.
That little bee nibbling on her honey pie.
A pulse of sheer heat lit up my sex, licked down my thighs, tweaked my nipples. I shoved another messy bite into my mouth, relishing the taste, wanting...him.
This was his work, made with his hands, his skill, his mind. My grumpy man with the ability to create sweetness in the most unexpected of ways.
Somehow, at the back of my mind, I'd known from the start. From the way he'd all but ordered me to try his brest. How he'd watched me eat it with that strange intent look upon his face. Pride. That was what it was. He was proud of his work.
I ate up my honey pie without pause, devouring it until it was nothing more than a sticky paste on my fingers, buttery crumble on my lips. Moaning, I licked my skin clean like a cat might. I swore I felt claws prickling, aching to come out.
Because he had known, and I hadn't. Was it a joke to him? What had he said? The chef was temperamental. Oh, how he must have laughed on the inside at that.
With a growl, I washed my hands and headed for the door, half of me more turned on than I'd ever been in my life, the other half ready to tear into the most irritating man I'd ever met.”
― Kristen Callihan, Make It Sweet

“In hidden orchards the stone fruit ripened so fast that what we didn't eat was given to the animals, and so like chimps like finches like gilas we glutted on plums so ripe they split if looked at, cherries and blackberries staining our sheets. We distilled summer meads heady with anise and yogurt, and watered fields with the barrels' dregs. To the tidal boom of an underground aquarium, I cut a sturgeon nose to slit and ransacked its body for that other fruit, pure caviar. I looked to Aida for the salt. Sweaty, unshowered, her pubis its own rough ocean. Saline, the meat of her as she bucked against my tongue, split open, gleaming.”
― C Pam Zhang, Land of Milk and Honey

“You don’t like my restaurant, Miss Connor?â€�
“I couldn’t say since the waiting list to get in is six months long.�
One side of his mouth curved up. “This is true.�
His finger lingered, and I tried to swallow the nervous lump in my throat. “I think you can call me by my first name now, seeing as how you’re touching my boob. That puts us a little past formality, don’t you think?”
― Jenny Lyn, Bite

“A misty vision of Francesca gazed down at me from a corner of the window. She gave me her wicked-sweet smile and the stars sparked in her pale hair. I wanted to call to her, but I had no voice. I smelled the mixed scents of her, and I imagined the lush, tropical feast I'd prepare for her on our wedding night.
I'd slip raw oysters between her lips. We'd share ripe figs and plump, dewy cherries. I'd offer her sweetmeats and honeyed milk, blood oranges peeled and ready, salty artichokes stripped down to the heart. I'd pry open a lobster shell and feed her tender morsels of meat, slowly, slowly. The flavors would mingle and mount and burst inside us like soft explosions. I wanted to believe it would all be possible.
I imagined her staring into my eyes while she dragged a buttered artichoke leaf between her teeth and sucked on the flesh. It was good. I rode through the long, lovely night on wave upon wave of pleasure, smelling her, tasting her, touching her...
I heard myself moan, and in that fierce embrace, I believed.”
― Elle Newmark, The Book of Unholy Mischief

“In thirty minutes, Pascal was at my door with a bag of beignets he had freshly fried. We ate them in my bed, getting powdered sugar on our clothes, and then on our underwear, and then on our naked bodies.
"Who was that out there?" he said, his tongue edging up from my collarbone, to my neck, to the curve of my ear. His hands were on my butt, and my hands were on his. We were pressing into each other as much as we could, as much as was possible until we were finally one.
"No one," I said, as he began pushing into me.
No one, I repeated to myself. No one. No one.
Inside, a mountain of tension squeezed tighter and tighter before crunching into a tiny crystalline diamond. That diamond shattered into a billion pieces of wonder and I came harder than I'd ever come before. I was broken, but I was also new.
I silently cried myself to sleep with Pascal beside me. But when I woke up, I felt much better. Kissing Pascal had made me feel like another person. And after having sex with him, I knew that the change was finally complete.”
― Jessica Tom, Food Whore

“Ideally, I wanted to become a vegetable. The vegetables were not afraid of anything. The carrots were fucking the earth. The carrots and onions were having better sex than me. Zucchini made scandalous love to paneer, mushrooms, garlic and tomatoes. Basil coated the deep interiors of fully swollen pasta, with names sexier than shapes. R-i-g-a-t-o-n-i! F-u-s-i-l-i! C-o-n-c-h-i-g-l-i-e! Gulmarg salad licked walnut chutney in public. Even brinjal (that humble eggplant), swimming in a pot of morkozhambu, insisted on having more pleasure than me.”
― Jaspreet Singh, Chef

“When we first started dating, my talent in the kitchen was a turn-on. The prospect of me in the kitchen, wearing a skimpy apron and holding a whisk in my hand- he thought that was sexy. And, as someone with little insight into how to work her own sex appeal, I pounced on the opportunity to make him want and need me.
I spent four days preparing my first home-cooked meal for him, a dinner of wilted escarole salad with hot bacon dressing, osso bucco with risotto Milanese and gremolata, and a white-chocolate toasted-almond semifreddo for dessert. At the time, I lived with three other people in a Columbia Heights town house, so I told all of my housemates to make themselves scarce that Saturday night. When Adam showed up at my door, as the rich smell of braised veal shanks wafted through the house, I greeted him holding a platter of prosciutto-wrapped figs, wearing nothing but a slinky red apron. He grabbed me by the waist and pushed me into the kitchen, slowly untying the apron strings resting on my rounded hips, and moments later we were making love on the tiled kitchen floor. Admittedly, I worried the whole time about when I should start the risotto and whether he'd even want osso bucco once we were finished, but it was the first time I'd seduced someone like that, and it was lovely.
Adam raved about that meal- the rich osso bucco, the zesty gremolata, the sweet-and-salty semifreddo- and that's when I knew cooking was my love language, my way of expressing passion and desire and overcoming all of my insecurities. I learned that I may not be comfortable strutting through a room in a tight-fitting dress, but I can cook one hell of a brisket, and I can do it in the comfort of my own home, wearing an apron and nothing else.
Adam loved my food, and he loved watching me work in the kitchen even more, the way my cheeks would flush from the heat of the stove and my hair would twist into delicate red curls along my hairline. As the weeks went by, I continued to seduce him with pork ragu and roasted chicken, creamed spinach and carrot sformato, cannolis and brownies and chocolate-hazelnut cake.”
― Dana Bate, The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

“Seafood, of course, has aphrodisiac qualities. Mollusks, too---like lanarche ajo e ojo, snails in oil and garlic. Perhaps some carciofioni, baby artichokes cooked with mint, pulled apart with the fingers and dipped in soft, melted butter. Wine, obviously. And then, to finish, a burst of sugar, something light but artificial, so that you feel full of energy and happiness---but that's only one side of the story. If you want someone to fall in love with you, you would cook for them something very different, something perfectly simple but intense. Something that shows you understand their soul."
"Such as?"
"Well, that's the difficulty. It will vary from individual to individual. You'd have to really know the person concerned---their history, their background, whether they are raw or refined, dry or oily. You would have to have tasted them, to know whether their own flesh is sweet or savory, salty or bland. In short, you would have to love them, and even then you might not truly know them well enough to cook a dish that would capture their heart.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“The next day they went to pick fragole di bosco, wild strawberries, and made love in a deserted old barn above the pastures, their lips still smeared with the pulp of the fruit. The next day it was misticanza, wild leaves for salad. Benedetta was scrupulous that they must always pick first. If anyone saw them walking home with empty baskets, she warned, tongues would start wagging instantly. So they filled their baskets with rocket, wild fennel, dandelion, and lamb's lettuce before temptation overcame them and they collapsed into a quiet corner of a field, hidden only by the tall fronds of the finocchio stalks. Bruno made her close her eyes, teasing her naked body with a spray of fennel: when he kissed her between her legs, the aniseed mingled with the faint, faraway taste of the sea. We were all fish once, he thought, and this is the proof of it, this whisper of oceans in the deepest recesses of the body.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“These truffles were a different thing altogether from the summer truffle he and Benedetta had found earlier in the year. Pale in color and as large as potatoes, they were both awesomely pungent and deeply intoxicating. Gusta and Benedetta threw them into every dish as casually as if they were throwing in parsley, and after a while Bruno did the same. He would never forget the first time they cooked a wild boar with celery and truffles: the dark, almost rank meat and the sulfuric reek of the tuber combined to form a taste that made him shiver.
He was aware that Benedetta was deliberately cooking dishes designed to bind him to her. As well as the truffles, there was robiola del bec, a cheese made from the milk of a pregnant ewe, rich in pheromones. There were fiery little diavolilli, strong chile peppers that had been left to dry in the sun. Plates of fried funghi included morsels of Amanita, the ambrosia of the gods, said to be a natural narcotic. He didn't mind. He was doing the same to her: offering her unusual gelati flavored with saffron, the delicate pollen of the crocus flower; elaborate tarts of myrtle and chocolate; salads made with lichens and even acorns from her beloved woods. It was a game they played, based on their intimate appreciation of the taste of each other's bodies, so that the food and the sex became one harmonious whole, and it became impossible to say where eating ended and lovemaking began.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“It's rich. And smooth. And thick. And fatty, but in a good way. Like butter, but with a deeper, fuller, nuttier flavor."
Max's inky black pupils start to dilate as he gazes down at me, his mouth cracked open, like he's hypnotized and intrigued at once. I cease breathing.
He clears his throat. "Damn..."
I nod quickly. "On hot, crusty bread, it is divine. You need to try it."
He nods right back, like he's in a trance. I'm in a trance too. I can't seem to stop looking at him as I wax poetic about one of my favorite food combinations.
"How is it served?" he asks, his voice between a groan and a growl. "The marrow, I mean."
I watch, mesmerized at the slow movement along his stubbled throat.
I swear I can feel my skin tingling as my internal temperature rises. Who knew talking about bone marrow could get me this worked up?
"Sometimes they cut the bone lengthwise and you can just scrape your knife along the hollow part of the bone and out comes the marrow," I say. "And sometimes they cut it into chunks and the marrow's in the middle, so you scrape out as much as you can, but there's almost always some left, so the best way to get it out is to just put the bone in your mouth and suck it out, really get your tongue in the hole and lick and...”
― Sarah Echavarre Smith, The Boy With the Bookstore

“For me, food is better than sex, and way more adventurous and innocent at the same time. I lose myself in finding the balance of the flavors. finding a way to invoke all the senses." I pause, meet his eyes. "What about you?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth," he says, leaning forward on the prep table. "I feel the same way, mostly." He chuckles. "But better than sex? No way."
This is a conversation I want to avoid, because all I'm thinking about right now is Charles picking me up, placing me on the prep counter, and ripping off my clothes. Angry sex. Passionate sex. Movie sex.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“Yes to oysters swollen through butter. Yes to thighs cooled on glass, my hand a hot knife between. Yes to prosciutto, it's salt slick; to avocados bursting, ripe. Our teeth clanged. I tasted blood and chocolate. Yes to the fatthicksweet of it, to cream, to froth that rises, to the crunched lace of the ear and the tender behind the knee, to that join at the legs where she softened, dimpled, begged me to bite.”
― C Pam Zhang, Land of Milk and Honey

“Red lentil soup, although quite seductive in scent, is as simple to make as its name suggests. Marjan preferred to boil her lentils before frying the chopped onions, garlic, and spices with some good, strong olive oil. Covering the ready broth, lentils, and onions, she would then allow the luscious soup to simmer for half an hour or so, as the spices embedded themselves into the compliant onion skins.
In the recipe book filed away in her head, Marjan always made sure to place a particular emphasis on the soup's spices. Cumin added the aroma of afternoon lovemaking to the mixture, but it was another spice that had the greatest tantric effect on the innocent soup drinker: 'siah daneh'- love in the midst- or nigella seed. This modest little pod, when crushed open by mortar and pestle, or when steamed in dishes such as this lentil soup, excites a spicy energy that hibernates in the human spleen. Unleashed, it burns forever with the unbound desire of an unrequited lover. So powerful is nigella in its heat that the spice should not be taken by pregnant women, for fear of early labor.
Indigenous to the Middle and Near Easts of the girls' past lives, nigella is rarely used in Western recipes, its ability to soothe heartburn and abolish fatigue quite overlooked.”
― Marsha Mehran, Pomegranate Soup

“Most of the women I've known don't like that much garlic."
"No? But they were all right with the heat, I guess?”
― Brianne Moore, All Stirred Up

“Harper knew Wayne Storr must've told the kitchen staff to go all out with this dinner, because she couldn't believe the quality of every course. Seared scallops with charred scallions, slow-cooked lamb shoulder with fennel ricotta, grass-fed rib eye with polenta and salsa verde, finished with a tiramisu that made her eyes roll back in her head. At least, that's what it felt like, and if Manny's rapturous expression was any indication, he liked it too.
"That is categorically the best meal I've ever had." He patted his stomach and groaned. "And I'm not going to eat for the next week, so I'm stuffed."
"Me too."
But she knew a good way to burn off the calories, and she couldn't wait any longer. While the food may have been delicious, watching Manny eat had been torture. His lips wrapping around a scallop, his tongue flicking out to capture a dab of salsa verde on his lip, the small, satisfied groan as he spooned the final scoop of tiramisu into his mouth.
He'd driven her slowly but surely crazy.
It seemed like the entire meal had been one giant exercise in foreplay, and she'd been patient long enough.
Time for dessert.
In her case, greed was good.”
― Nicola Marsh, The Man Ban

“She didn't know that the brioches in her breakfast basket had been formed by my hand. She didn't know the macarons----two each night, sent in a small box----were mine. But I did.
In moments of weakness, I'd close my eyes and try to imagine her soft lips parting over jewel-bright confections, pink tongue tasting the flavors of me----achieved by the strange alchemy of whipping egg whites, infusing creams, and straining ripe fruits, all melded together into an intense burst of flavor.
Had she preferred the inky-black chicory chocolate, the butter-rich caramel and burnt pear? Or did she moan for the juicy brightness of the grapefruit honey or blood orange and rose?
It was enough to make a man hard.”
― Kristen Callihan, Make It Sweet

“Honeybee, I'll make you anything you want."
The promise slid over me like hot caramel. Anything I wanted. I knew he would.
My fingers curled into a fist from reaching out. "Surprise me."
His smile was wide and brilliant. Free. "You're on.”
― Kristen Callihan, Make It Sweet

“I know you don't like mangoes." A faint curl of humor danced on his lips.
"You know?" How? How did he know this?
"I've been feeding you this whole time, remember?" With his hot buttered voice, it sounded dirty, illicit.
"I remember." I sounded far too breathless.
He clearly noticed, that small private smile moved to his eyes. "You never eat the mango slices when I put them in any meals."
Understanding hit me, and I recalled that while I'd had breakfast fruit trays with mangoes, they'd stopped being included after the second time. Wide eyed, I silently gaped back at him.
Lucian's long clever fingers delicately picked up a cream puff. "Which is why I made some of these with vanilla-ginger cream."
Had I been gaping before? My mouth fell wide open. Behind me, I heard Dougal sigh, as if impressed. But I could only stare at Lucian, who looked smug but oddly shy as well.
"You did that for me?" I croaked.
His broad shoulder moved under his jacket. "That, and the combination of vanilla, ginger, and mango mirrored what Delilah and Saint had wanted in their original cake."
I could fall for this man. Fall hard. Maybe I already had, because my heart was too big, beating too fast. He gave me another small, barely there smile, his pale eyes gleaming with something soft and intent.
"Come now, honeybee," he murmured. "Try my cream."
I sputtered out a shocked laugh, and my face flamed, but as he'd commanded, I opened my mouth.
Lucian's nostrils flared. His hand shook a little as he lifted the cream puff and placed it one the edge of my lips. I opened my mouth wider, my tongue flicking out for that first sweet taste.
Rich, almost nutty caramel, the gentle crust of pastry, a burst of smooth light cream with a hint of vanilla and ginger spice. Slowly, I chewed, my eyes locked with his, my body tight, and my mouth in heaven. He stayed with me, feeding me another bite, cream getting on his thumb.
My tongue slipped over the blunt end, and he grunted. Hard.”
― Kristen Callihan, Make It Sweet

“Hold still."
Emma squirmed again, her lush lips curving in a smile as she gazed up at me coyly. "But it tickles."
My dick pulsed, sheer lust twisting my insides up in knots. But I kept my hands steady. "Almost there."
I piped another series of rosettes along the curve of her breast, heading for the pretty little pouting nipple, now deep pink and stiff. Her breath hitched, and I gave her a wicked smile. "Be good, or I won't lick it off."
"Liar. You can't wait." She was laid out on my bed, wearing nothing but the lemon-buttercream flowers and swirls I'd decorated her lovely body with.
"Guilty as charged." My mouth actually watered with the need to taste her, mix her flavors with my cream. Fuck up into the tight, silky-hot clasp of her body, where it felt both like home and the best pleasure I'd ever had in my life.
My hand shook a little as I circled her perky nipple, choosing to highlight rather than cover it. Emma bit her bottom lip, her lids lowering as she subtly arched into the tip of the pastry bag. Heat rippled through me, and I tossed the buttercream aside.
"Now, where to start?" I wanted it all at once. Every delectable inch of her. Always. All the time.
Impatient and aching, I stroked my shaft, keeping the hold light lest I blow now. Because nothing looked more delicious than Emma Maron spread out before me, smiling in that way that said she was all mine.
Happiness warred with lust, making for a heady cocktail in my veins. I had Emma right where I wanted her----with me. Everything else took a back seat to her and the way she watched me palm my dick, all greedy need and anticipation. It fueled my own.”
― Kristen Callihan, Make It Sweet

“He sips a latte, complimenting the yummy nutty-vanilla flavor of the ube before taking a giant bite of his croissant. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he moans, and I nearly choke. I'm one thousand percent certain that I've never heard a sexier sound in my life.”
― Sarah Echavarre Smith, The Boy With the Bookstore

“She'd been covered in sweat after her hike with Leo, for instance. And also after their session in his bedroom...
But she didn't have time to think about him, because she had to crack pepper over the plate of Nicoise pasta she was finishing. The fresh spaghetti was plated onto a rich nest of heavy cream, basil, garlic and Parmesan cheese. Transcendence on a plate, the most satisfying thing... outside of Leo's head between her thighs.”
― Erin La Rosa, For Butter or Worse

“Food is my life---my calling, my raison d'être---better than sex, better than anything.
I get lost in sensual experiences when I prepare a meal---the way the juices run all sticky and sweet on my hands as I cut fresh fruits like an orange or a fig, the way the flavors dance on my tongue when I taste my fingertips, the way salty and sweet fresh oysters kiss my lips at first, followed by a lustful intoxication when they slide down my throat, or the way a fragrant soup heats up my entire body, my soul.
Foreplay is the preparation, and the climax comes with the finished recipe, bringing all the senses together while balancing flavors. Food is passion in its purest form and one of the reasons I became a chef.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“Confused, I taste the steak and, as I lick my lips, I'm immediately transported with visions of Anti-Keanu and me embracing, so real it's like I'm there. He's unzipping the side of my dress and pulling it over my head. He kisses my neck, and his tongue gently licks my clavicle. My body is covered in spices---peppery and floral. I'm in a bed of flowers, now naked, his tongue exploring my body. A tribal drumbeat surrounds us, and my body rocks to the rhythm, to his touch. My neck grows hot, covered in a thin sheet of perspiration---”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“After Charles rinses and scrubs the mussels, side by side, we prepare the meal. While I slice the galanga, Charles braises the shallots, ginger, and fennel, adding in the lemongrass. I'm in a trance, now in Thailand. With him. We're floating in a pond filled with lotus flowers, the water warm, and I'm getting ready for a spiritual awakening---
"The galanga," says Charles, and our hands touch as I pass it over. He adds it to the pan and a moment later, after adding in the coconut milk and squeezing the lime juice, he holds out a spoon. "Taste this."
The flavor is warm, with a little heat and sweetness, infused with the citrusy lemongrass, ginger, and garlic. I let out a soft moan.
"What do you think?"
"I think you're incredible," I say, quickly recovering. "Um, this sauce is heaven on my tongue. My palate is awake." I will my legs to stop quivering.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“Needing to shake off the negative energy, I decide to prepare one of the desserts---something sweet to take away the sour taste of fear infiltrating my mouth. I'm going to tackle the strawberry and lavender sorbet---the herb from Garrance's rooftop garden, the strawberries sweet and juicy. Thankfully, the recipe is easy---especially when you have three Thermomix machines at your disposal.
After commandeering most of the ingredients, I smell the lavender Garrance had bestowed upon us and another fantasy sets in. Charles and I are running through a field bursting with purple flowers in the South of France, smiling and laughing. We're kissing, softly at first, and then we're naked, exploring each other's bodies, his rippled stomach, and floating on a cloud made from the fragrance of the lavender---sweet and woodsy---
"Kate, where'd you go? You look all dreamy," says Charles.
"Nowhere. Just thinking," I say.
"You're sexy as hell when you think. You bite those full lips of yours and it's kind of distracting when I'm trying to work.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“We only have five minutes before dessert's ready," she protests.
"I can do a lot to you in five minutes, sweetheart."
"Then what are you waiting for, boyfriend?"
He moves with purpose, hooking his hands around her thighs so that he can lift her up and lay her down on the kitchen table. The dishes have already been cleared, save for a pair of forks that clink together with the sudden movement. His skillful hands make quick work of the front of her jeans, tugging them off hurriedly before kneeling on the kitchen tile between her thighs.
They've already eaten dinner, but he's ravenous. With the time now sitting at four minutes and thirty seconds, he wastes no more time and dips down to enjoy his meal.
The sounds she makes. Alexander's so hard, it's almost painful.
He teases her with his tongue, his fingers; makes his business her pleasure. Eden reaches her peak just as the timer on the oven beeps. Alexander can't help but smirk at himself. He always knew he worked well under pressure.
"Mmph, thank you for that," Eden mumbles. "Sit tight. I'll go get dessert."
"I've already had dessert."
She rolls her eyes. "Cheesy."
Alexander reclaims his seat just as Eden returns with a piping hot baking dish. It's a layer of molten chocolate topped with a gooey marshmallow layer and a buttery graham cracker crust. She also retrieves a tub of vanilla bean ice cream from the fridge and a can of whipped cream...
Which she immediately sprays all over his chest. He's momentarily shocked by the cold, but then Eden gets on her knees with that mischievous glint in her eye that he adores so much.
"Food needs to cool," she reasons. "We've got time to kill.”
― Katrina Kwan, Knives, Seasoning, & A Dash of Love

“You're staring at my boobs." Her tone is wry but somehow not insulted.
"I am aware." I should be sorry, but I'm not. "I'm staring at your peachy butt, too, if we're being totally honest here."
"Macon."
I glance up at her. "Your body is fucking luscious, Delilah. Bitable in the best way possible. A juicy peach, a sweet apple covered in caramel. Do you know how much I'd kill for a caramel apple right now, Tot? And me stuck on this hell diet. It's a torment, I say."
"I don't think this is very professional," she says weakly.
"I should hope not." God, I love teasing her. Her whole body lights up when I do it. Foreplay. Does she realize that's what we're doing? "I was just thinking---"
"What did I say about you thinking?" she warns.
"They don't look like bananas now, Tot."
"Oh my God, you're terrible." But she's grinning now. Fighting damn hard not to show it, but definitely grinning.
"More like peaches. Ripe, juicy peaches."
She sways in my direction before catching herself doing it and shifting her weight. "You called my butt peachy." A dry complaint. "My boobs can't be peaches too."
Maybe I have a thing for peaches."
Somehow, we're only a foot apart, the space between us humming with something. It licks over my tender skin, tickles the back of my neck. Take it slow, Saint. She's skittish. Back off. My body resents this greatly and strains toward her warmth.
Her voice is a thread, drawn tight. "You're still staring."
"Paying proper respect," I amend quietly. "You don't ignore a body like yours. It would be rude."
"Pretty sure you have that backward." She's breathless now, her glorious breasts rising and falling with agitation.
I lean down, take in the warmth of her scent. "Come on, Tot. I've grown up, seen the error of my ways. Give me your bountiful banana pie."
Again she sways into my space, laughing softly. "Pervert. You're not getting any pie from me."
I hum, heat and need making my head swim. "But I have this craving."
She's whispering now. "Disappointment can be character building."
"I'll need my strength for that. How about peach pie?" Kiss me, Delilah. Or let me kiss you. I'm not picky.
The pulse at the base of her tanned neck visibly beats. The scent of her skin is like honey.
"I thought you wanted banana cream," she says, a dazed look in her eyes.
The tips of my fingers touch the collar of her shirt. "I don't think pie is what I want anymore.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy