Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [63]
That cautionary note in Frankie’s tone gave Jess the good shivers, because it meant Frankie was trying, in his own way, to protect Jess. Even if it meant denying himself what he wanted.
And man, didn’t that thought send a zing of pleasure straight through Jess.
Frankie wants me. Me. Maybe even likes me a little.
“I wouldn’t break my own rules for just anyone,” Jess said, choosing his words with care.
Naked lust and something else flared in Frankie’s black eyes and he inched closer, his body a burning line of sinew and muscle at Jess’s side. Jess was vividly aware of his own rising desire and the almost uncontrollable urge to wriggle on the tall barstool. He itched under his skin, his whole body jumpy and ready for something, anything.
And then Frankie bent his head and slowly, deliberately, thumbed aside the open collar of Jess’s green work shirt and pushed his nose into the divot of Jess’s collarbone. Jess jumped at the light, searching touch, the rasp of Frankie’s stubble on skin he’d never realized was so sensitive.
“This spot,” Frankie breathed, rubbing his prickly chin along the line of the bone where the thin skin burned and quivered, suddenly alive with sensation. “This spot here has been taunting me for days.”
And he licked Jess’s collarbone.
One hot, wet swipe of rough tongue and Jess nearly fell off the barstool.
Frankie’s hand clamped on his shoulder, steadying him, just in time to hear the dismayed, “Oh, crap” from across the room.
Jess jerked upright and stared at Adam in absolute horror. Adam’s expression wasn’t much better, total exasperation mixed with resignation. His hair was even more tousled than usual and his shirt was a wrinkled mess.
“Christ Almighty, Frankie, what did I tell you about that kid? Were you even listening?”
Jess tensed, his mind whirling with the ugly possibilities of what Adam might have told Frankie, but before he could get himself too worked up Frankie replied coolly, “I heard you, mate. And you knew then it was a waste of breath, so don’t bother repeating yourself now.”
“Shit.” Adam sounded unhappy, but although Frankie’s eyes never left Adam’s, he relaxed against Jess enough to start fingering the collar of his shirt again. He tugged at the point, nudging the fabric over the still-damp patch of skin on Jess’s collarbone. Jess shivered and batted at the offending hand, not quite able to look Adam in the eye.
Until a terrible thought popped into his head.
“Chef?” Jess said, hating the quaver in his voice. “Where’s my sister?”
Frankie and Adam broke off their staring contest to zero in on Jess.
Even in the midst of his own burgeoning meltdown, Jess noted that Adam’s cheeks stained a dull red at the mention of Miranda.
“Uh, she was tired after the cooking lesson so I sent her home to, um, freshen up before service tonight.”
“Right,” drawled Frankie.
“Shut your damn mouth.” Adam rounded on him fiercely.
“Could you . . .” Jess faltered when the chef turned blazing eyes back on him. “I mean. Could you not mention this to her?”
The fire left Adam’s face, to be replaced by dawning comprehension.
“She doesn’t know you’re . . .” Adam gestured toward Frankie’s encroaching fingers, now still against Jess’s shirt, and Jess wanted to sink into the ground.
“Um, no. She doesn’t. And I’d really like to be the one to tell her.”
Adam groaned, sounding even less happy than before. He muttered something that sounded like “the death of me” before giving Jess a hard look.
“Soon. Because I don’t like secrets. And I won’t out and out lie to Miranda. So make with the true confessions, kid, before she finds out some other way.”
“But not from you, right, mate?” Frankie pushed, as serious as Jess had ever heard him.
Adam gave Frankie another look, sort of a quizzical head-cocked one, and whatever he saw made him smile. “Nah, not from me. Just be careful, boys. You’re not the