Wicked Pleasures by Tori Carrington Page A

of the newspaper that were left open, she guessed sports dominated much of his viewing.
    She smiled to herself as she walked around, the aroma of chicken frying filling her senses.
    She paused in the door to the bedroom. Hello. Okay, makes two things that were different: the TV and their beds.
    She stared at the king-size mattresses and the dark sheets and spread that were tangled on top and her hand went to her throat. Of course, he was tall, his feet hanging over the end of her simple double bed whenever he slept over, so perhaps the larger size was necessary.
    But all she could seem to think about were the naughty things they could do together there…
    “You can go in if you want.”
    She felt Linc’s words against the back of her neck more than heard them with her ears. She shivered, her nipples growing sensitive as they hardened against her bra cups.
    “Um, is anything in danger of burning?” she found herself whispering.
    He nudged her hair aside and lightly kissed the back of her neck, her full-flush reaction anything but light. “Only me.”
    Regina instinctively leaned against him, her bottom against his front. She felt his arousal press into her lower back. Any thought of food vanished from her mind, leaving only a deep hunger for him.
    He chuckled softly. “I have the feeling we’re going to need the, um, energy, so maybe we should eat first…”
    She hummed her response, her eyes fluttering closed as she enjoyed his warmth.
    She felt his hands on her arms, caressing before bracing her, holding her upright as he stepped back away from her.
    “Beer?”
    She blinked her eyes open and turned to smile at him. “Share one with me?”
    “Deal.”
    She preceded him into the kitchen, taking a seat at a small table that was set for two, including what looked like an emergency candle that had been fused to a small plate, the small flame flickering from their movements as they settled themselves.
    “Fajitas.” She appreciated the amount of work done in a short time. Warm flour tortillas were wrapped in foil. A skillet held strips of chicken breast, white onions and red peppers. Sliced tomatoes and fresh shredded cheese were in bowls. Then, of course, there was the salsa. Regina plucked a white corn chip from another bowl and dipped it.
    “Careful,” he warned.
    Too late. She’d crunched on the chip and felt the heat of the sauce before the word was all the way out of his mouth.
    She coughed. He handed her a plain tortilla and nudged her water glass closer to her.
    Thankfully she hadn’t eaten much, so another chip, this time without sauce, was all it took to stop her eyes from watering.
    She laughed. “Hot.”
    “How I like it.” His gaze raked over her face, telling her that’s not all he liked hot.
    He opened a beer and poured half of it into her chilled mug and the other into his while she went about putting together her fajita.
    “You cook like this often?” she asked.
    “Every day.” He slid a tortilla onto his plate. “When you’re on assignment, you have little say in what you eat. So when I’m home, I make a point of cooking for myself.”
    “Like this?”
    He shrugged. “More or less.”
    “I can’t tell you how often I just bring home something from the diner.”
    “I would too, if I worked there. It’s as close to home cooking as you can come outside of home. At least from what I had.”
    She watched as he expertly rolled the filled tortilla, his hands dark against the white, his fingers thick and long.
    She had difficultly swallowing the bite in her mouth.
    He squinted at her. “The salsa again?”
    She shook her head and finally managed to get it down. “No. The cook.”
    His eyes smiled at her as he took a bite of his fajita.
    There was something sexily elemental about watching him eat…especially since he seemed to feel the same way, his gaze fastened on her mouth as she chewed.
    “Your friends seem nice,” she said, taking a sip of beer.
    “My friends are