His Ultimate Temptation. Susan Crosby

      Two

      Ben heard the distant sound of humming and the sizzle of something frying. And he could smell—he sniffed the air—sautéing onions. Was there a more-mouth watering fragrance on earth? Erin must be anxious to get to the slopes.

      Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he followed the scents and sounds to the kitchen. It wasn’t his junior-chef daughter, however, who stood at the stove humming “Jingle Bells.” It was his ex-wife.

      He leaned against the door frame and watched her. She looked competent as she sliced mushrooms with a large chef’s knife, the rocking motion she used an indicator that this wasn’t the first time she’d handled such a utensil efficiently. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes...

      “You’re cooking,” he said finally, unable to hide his amazement.

      “Jingle Bells” faded away. She turned around, knife in hand, a smile on her face. “Good morning.”

      Lord, she looked good. She wore a long, loose, red cotton shirt over black leggings. He could see the ridges of her undershirt, scooping low. No bra. She hated bras, believing they were designed by a torturer bent on sadistic pleasure. Her breasts weren’t small, but not large, either. Perfectly formed, easily aroused. His gaze lingered, traveling down her long legs, stopping at her bare feet.

      He’d almost forgotten her other aversion—shoes were the second most torturous of man’s inventions. He hadn’t forgotten nibbling on her toes in a shared bath. The picture branded itself in his mind as clearly as if they were neck deep in bubbles right then, teasing each other. Who would’ve thought that toes could be erogenous zones?

      “Still not talkative in the morning, I see,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

      “When did you learn to cook?”

      “Erin’s been teaching me what you teach her,” she said, the pink in her cheeks deepening. “And then, of course, there was the matter of survival. How could any decent mother raise her child on a consistent diet of cereal and fast food? The amazing thing is, I kind of like to cook.”

      She seemed to retreat a little then. Embarrassed? Uncomfortable? He didn’t know.

      “I’m not a quarter as good as you, of course,” she continued. “But we’re eating healthy.”

      “You’ve put on a few pounds. You look good, Les.”

      She turned away to add the mushrooms to the onions. “I work out now. The pounds are muscle, I think.”

      “Need any help?” he asked, moving beside her at the stove.

      She made a quick sidestep and grabbed a bowl containing beaten eggs. “Nope. Thanks. Table’s already set. Fried potatoes are in the oven staying warm, along with some cranberry-and-nut muffins. I’m just going to cook the eggs. Coffee’s ready.”

      “Not waiting for Erin?”

      “She’ll be up.”

      “I didn’t hear any noise from the bedroom as I passed the door.”

      “She’ll wander in. Timing is everything.”

      He wondered how she could be so cheerful, after what he’d seen during the night. Especially when he could see the aftermath of tears in how fragile she still looked. “You’re feeling better this morning.”

      She dumped the eggs in the pan with the onions and mushrooms. He handed her the salt and pepper without thought.

      “Thanks. Amazing what a little sleep will do. Ben, if you really want to help, you can quit hanging out watching my every move. It’s hard enough cooking for a master chef. With you critiquing—”

      “I wasn’t critiquing. I’m still in shock.”

      “Life goes on, doesn’t it?” She stirred the eggs. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get your vacation started. I’ll clean up when we’re done, then hit the road.”

      “I think you should stay, Les.”

      She frowned at him. “I can’t do that. Where would you and Erin go at this late date?”

      “Nowhere. I mean, I think we shouldn’t lie to Erin or disappoint her. We’ve always put her first. We can do this for her, too.”

      She held the spatula motionless in her hand as her gaze connected with his. “Are you sure?”

      He nodded.

      Looking away she started pushing the mixture around the pan again. “I don’t know what to say.”

      “Merry Christmas Eve.” Her timing impeccable as predicted, Erin wandered into the kitchen, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

      “Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep okay?” Ben asked.

      “Of course she did. She had all the covers,” Leslie said. “You are a real blanket hog, my darling daughter.”

      Leslie watched Erin snuggle against her father. It had been all she could do not to kiss him good morning when she’d turned and seen him propped against the door, like something out of her dreams. And now, his offer to stay.

      She gave him her answer in her next words, but didn’t look to see his reaction. “I think I’ll have to sleep on the couch tonight, instead.”

      “Why don’t you just sleep with Dad? He probably doesn’t hog the covers. He’s used to sharing.”

      Leslie’s gaze locked with Ben’s for five long seconds. Two pictures fought for control in her mind—Ben sleeping with another woman while Erin was staying overnight, which she didn’t believe he did. And the other, more vivid image—her sharing his bed again. She wondered whether Erin’s suggestion was as innocent as her expression indicated. Ben’s expression, on the other hand, was far from innocent.

      “The couch will be fine,” Leslie said finally, dumping the contents of the frying pan into a serving dish. “Breakfast is ready. Take a seat. Both of you.”

      “But, Mom, I heard you tell Aunt Mimi that you’d give anything if you could sleep with Dad one more time. Now you can.”

      Leslie didn’t dare look at Ben, who hadn’t budged. She could feel the heat of his gaze burn through her clothes, the memory alone teasing her nipples instantly taut, achingly hard, needing his mouth there to take the ache away. Liquid heat gathered low in her abdomen from remembering his touch, remembering the feel of him joining with her, that full, wonderful, indescribable sensation that started slow, built fast and then took its time reaching a satisfying peak after hovering near the edge of danger for a long, long time. His big body blanketing hers, his hands cupping her rear, pulling her closer. His thrusts strong and sure.

      He took a step toward her.

      “Sit...down,” she said, her words harsh and curt. She plopped serving dishes in the middle of the table, then retreated to the bedroom, feeling stripped naked and vulnerable. And aroused. Why couldn’t she feel this way with

      Alex? Why didn’t his kisses make her want to throw caution to the wind, scream her pleasure to the rooftops, cherish his body until he did, too.

      Ben. It was always Ben. Sex between them had been phenomenal, even their first time, the night they graduated from high school. They’d told their parents they were going to Santa Cruz beach for an all-night grad party, but had already arranged for a hotel room instead. They’d spent the night exploring each other’s bodies, granting themselves the freedom to go all the way after years of increasingly intimate kisses and caresses