Page 6

Miranda

I bang my head on the underside of the kitchen table when I jerk upright at Mr. Fischer’s shout. He’s wearing dark denim jeans for the first time since we’ve met and a short-sleeved burnt orange polo shirt with a white Longhorn logo embroidered on the pocket. The material is stretched across his broad shoulders, his hair slightly damp and messy. He’s so big and handsome that I forget to breathe as he rushes toward me at my pained yelp.

Mr. Fischer slides an arm around my waist to haul me off the floor and pulls out one of the two kitchen chairs. We’ll need more soon enough if everything goes according to plan. He sits me down before grabbing a plastic bag and loading it up with ice from his freezer, then kneels before me, holding the ice to the back of my head, his brows pinched with worry. “Are you ok, angel?”

I sniffle and nod, and he scoots closer. It’s all an act. It didn’t hurt that much, but I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. It just surprised me to see you here. Forgive me?”

I nod and make a whimpering sound. Mr. Fischer scoots so close that I have to part my knees to make room for him as he fusses over me, not at all the grump he pretends to be at the office. This is the second time he’s apologized when I should be the one apologizing to him for being a bit of a stalker.

I pout a little when he sits back on his heels and questions, “How did you get in here anyway? I locked the door.”

I sheepishly answer, “The back door was unlocked. I know you said you didn’t need the help, but I was here anyway, so I might as well put myself to work while you were in the shower.”

Mr. Fischer sucks in a breath and puts a hand over his heart. “You didn’t hear anything while I was in the shower, did you?”

I squirm and wish he would touch me again. “No, sir.”

He looks relieved for a second, though I don’t know why. Looking toward the door on the back wall of the kitchen, inset with a large window in the upper half that faces the brightening backyard, he says, “I always forget to lock that one.” And then he catches a scent in the air that has his nostrils flaring. “What’s that smell?”

My cheeks turn warm. “I made cherry pies for the party. I hear it’s your favorite.” I lean close enough to feel his breath on my lips when I say, “I made one just for you, sir. It’s warming in the oven.”

Mr. Fischer groans, licking along his bottom lip. But then he shakes his head, pats his belly, and grumbles, “I don’t like pie.”

Liar . He’s practically drooling, and I’m going to figure out why he keeps lying to me. I stand and motion for him to sit in my vacant chair. Dropping the bag of ice in the kitchen sink, I pull on the red checker oven mitts I found in one of his drawers, hoping they didn’t belong to a former girlfriend of his, and pull the warm cherry pie from the oven, golden and flaky on top, smelling like heaven.

Mr. Fischer drums his fingers on the tabletop as I cut and plate a large slice, grab my bowl of homemade whipped cream from the fridge, and bring them to the table. I scoop a generous amount of cream with a spoon and plop it on top of his pie, then hand him a clean fork.

He refuses to take it. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t like pie,” he lies again.

I brace my hands on the table, pushing my breasts out as I stare down at him, and say coyly, “I bet you’d love my pie if you tried it, sir.”

Mr. Fischer swallows repeatedly, unbuttoning the top of his collar to pull it away from his neck. “Maybe…maybe a small bite.”

I beam at him and wait in anticipation as he finally takes the fork and cuts the teeniest, tiniest bite, skipping the whipped cream. His eyes shut as he drops his head back and savors the flavor, my lower belly fluttering at the sight. It’s the same expression he wore when he orgasmed in his office. When he finally opens his eyes, his cheeks are flush with heat.

“So…how was it, sir?”

“Delicious,” he whispers with a husky voice. “Thank you.”

My cheeks ache with the force of my smile, but then it fades when he sets his fork down on his plate and pushes it away.

“It’s even better when you get every layer,” I say, picking up his fork and cutting a larger bite before bringing it to his lips.

Mr. Fischer flattens them, and I silently plead with him to open his mouth. I blow out a puff of air when he finally does, and pleasure rockets through me when he allows me to feed him. He moans as I slide the fork out, and I cut another bite, ready to feed it to him again.

Mr. Fischer shakes his head. “Better not.” He pats his belly, which I realize he does quite often when I offer him one of my desserts. Add in the way he frantically covered his broad upper half when he was shirtless, I finally put two and two together. I’d bet my bottom dollar he’s self-conscious about his body, which makes my heart sore for him.

Deciding that questioning him about it might do more harm than good, I offer, “How about we split the rest so it doesn’t go to waste?” I don’t wait for his answer. Instead of dragging the other chair around to sit next to him, I boldly shuffle between his legs and sit sideways on his hard left thigh. I was right. Comfiest seat in the house.

Mr. Fischer sucks in a harsh breath, his hand coming to rest on my lower back. With my heart beating out of control, I bring a bite of pie to my mouth, licking the fork clean before nervously handing it back to him, wondering if he’ll accept it now that I’ve used it.

His right hand trembles as he cuts a piece. I’m even more nervous—and entirely thrilled—when I lay my left palm on the middle of his belly, slowly rubbing circles over it. His hand trembles worse than before as he brings the bite to his lips. I nod in encouragement, stroking up and down his torso, leaning in closer when he finally puts the fork in his mouth.

When he tries to hand me the fork afterward, I don’t stop rubbing him. I part my lips, silently suggesting he feed me himself. Mr. Fischer doesn’t blink once as he cuts a bite and brings the fork to my mouth, his left hand drifting lower toward my bottom. I moan when he slowly slides the fork in and out, my hand smoothing up the middle of his chest and back down again. I push past his belly button toward the hard bulge in his jeans before I lose my nerve and bring my hand back up, shakily reaching for the fork.

Mr. Fischer’s thigh flexes beneath me, and I lean in, pressing my breasts against his front after cutting another piece for him. My breath comes faster when his hand drifts further down, now resting on the top of my butt.

I tease the seam of his lips. “Would you like another taste of my pie, sir?”

“Oh god, angel, yes,” Mr. Fischer says with a groan, his hand now squeezing my backside.

The fork clatters on the floor when I drop it, palm the back of his head, and kiss him. His taste, sugary sweet, is as delicious as my pie.