At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins
be in a position to know.”
“And I do know,” she snapped, then caught herself “Why am I arguing with you?” She sagged, frustrated and upset and so maddeningly hot for the man.
“I don’t know. Frankly, I’m in no position to criticize. My sofa’s got a permanent sag from my brother sleeping there, my remote is stained orange from his Cheetos, and I’m here doing his homework.”
She laughed lightly. “So, you’re a soft touch, too?”
“Just ask my secretary.”
“I don’t know why I’m so defensive,” she said. “Maybe it’s because I know you don’t approve of me.”
“Maybe I just don’t understand you.” He was being kind.
She appreciated the gesture, but couldn’t quite let it stand. “And what you do understand, you disagree with.”
“Not…exactly.” He rolled his shoulder. “We’ve got détente. Let’s leave it at that, why don’t we?”
“You’re right. After you cut up the star fruit, maybe you can help me arrange the furniture?” And during the meteor shower, maybe he’d sense their cosmic bond and they could get past butting heads.
Right, and maybe Huffington and Pistol would do a minuet on the kitchen table.
4
IN THE KITCHEN, ESMIE WATCHED Mitch stop dead at the display of fruit tarts, chocolate-covered strawberries, frosted brownies and the fruit tray she’d prepared. She’d also set out plastic champagne flutes and was icing several inexpensive bottles.
“Wow. You went all out.”
“Except for the star fruit. See how it’s missing?” She indicated the tray of raspberries, blueberries, kiwi, lychee and persimmon, where the horseshoe design left an obvious spot for the missing fruit. Stars had always been significant in her life, and she incorporated the image wherever she could. She’d have mentioned that to anyone but Mitch, who, at best, would give her the indulgent smile reserved for a child who’d heard reindeer on the roof on Christmas Eve.
She frowned at the thought, handing him a paring knife. When he took it, their fingers met and heat shot through her. She lifted her gaze to his. Light glinted off the knife blade and made her blink. Or maybe it was the glare from his glasses.
Something made her knees go weak. Wasn’t there something about friction making sex hotter? Sounded like a Cosmo tip, not something Esmeralda believed. She wanted sexual feelings to be comfortable and easy, not jagged and unsettling and a little bit rough.
“How do you want it?” he asked softly.
Anyway you give it.
“Thin or thick or in between,” he added.
It all sounds good. She caught herself, realizing he meant the fruit, though his tone had simmered with heat. “Whichever.” She swayed, off balance, and bumped the tray with her hip, jarring it forward.
“Easy there.” He set down the knife and steadied her by her arms, his fingers covering her straps. “You’ve got to do something about these.” He lifted them, one at a time, back in place, running a slow finger over each one.
“When I move, they slip,” she breathed.
“And you move a lot. You’re very…wiggly.”
“You think so?”
He nodded slowly.
She became aware of that tightness between her legs and a swooshing feeling inside, like a wind that could lift her off her feet.
Mitch released her, but his eyes held hers, studying them closely. “You have incredible eyes. I never forgot them.”
They were her most powerful feature, she knew. Their color churned from jade to turquoise to crystal blue and back in a way that made people stare. Turquoise signified psychic ability, of course, but her mother believed Esmie’s irises revealed she had a rich soul.
“I remember yours, too.” White-hot points of desire gleamed from the center of each dark marble at the moment.
“Just an ordinary brown.”
“Not ordinary at all.” She felt tugged in, pulled to him.
The moment stretched, they leaned closer until Mitch’s hip bumped the tray, which brought them both back to what they were doing.
“I’d better get cutting.” Mitch grabbed the knife and sliced the first fruit open, baring its juicy yellow center. The air filled with that sweet smell that took her back to the night they’d kissed, fruit juice on their lips.
The click-snick of Mitch’s knife teased her ears and she was entranced by his deft movements. What great fingers he had. Jupiter…Saturn…Apollo…Mercury…all working together in perfect rhythm. Strong and long, with the square tips of an analytical person. How would they be on her body? Probing, seeking, sure of what they wanted, giving pleasure with every slide and twist and stroke and rub….
Stop that. The fingers were more than just sexual tools. They were predictors of a person’s strengths and challenges.
Noticing her stare, he stopped cutting. “Too thick?”
“No, no. I was just studying your fingers. They’re nice.”
He held up his hand, wiggled the digits, shiny with juice, then shrugged. “Look normal to me.”
“Finger shape and angle reflect personality,” she said, deciding to share some knowledge. “For example, you have smooth knuckles.” She lightly skimmed the backs of his fingers. “That signifies leadership ability.”
“Oh, yeah?” His gaze flickered at the contact.
“Yes. And your fingers have a lateral curve, especially Jupiter—the index finger—which means you’re a serious person who guards his emotions.”
“Ok-k-kay.” His skepticism seemed to be competing with how much he liked her hands on him.
“That’s also indicated by your long Saturn finger—” she touched his middle finger “—which shows a strong sense of duty and responsibility.” Her voice had gone shaky. “The square fingertips show an analytical nature.”
“If you say so.” He cleared his throat again, not being analytical at all at the moment.
She imagined lifting this juice-sweet hand to her breast and melting against him. Her sex was a throbbing pulse.
He took her hand and looked it over, running his fingers along its edge. “Your fingers curve, but you’re not guarded.”
“It’s not the same kind of curve. My hands are different.”
“They’re smaller…and softer,” he said, looking up at her, still holding her hand, sending electricity flying between them.
She shivered and her strap slipped again.
“Allow me.” With his free hand, Mitch slowly dragged it into place, leaving a moist trail of juice on her arm.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“My pleasure.” He wiped the moisture from her skin, still holding her gaze.
This was ridiculous. They were holding hands, fondling straps, wiping up juice and staring at each other. She had to get this under control for now. For later, well, they’d see.
“The furniture,” she blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s finish with this and move the furniture, huh?” She pulled her hand away, grabbed the stars he’d cut and turned to arrange them on the tray, grateful when Mitch’s knife began clicking away again.
She hoped