She was as expressive as a dancer as she moved around the large kitchen, opening one cedar cabinet that was filled with spice before shaking some over her creation—smelt like cumin to his trained senses—and then she rocked back in her sandals, humming to herself as she took out the pepper and garlic. “Lots,” Luke said. “I like it hot and spicy.” Come to think of it, Sian cooked the way she had sex. She smiled at him, oblivious to his evil thoughts. “You always want a ton.” “Yeah.” Unlike other nights, he didn’t pretend to read the local paper. Instead, he watched her openly, her long, slim, tanned legs, her shorts that curved around her ass so he wanted to cup that fullness in his hands as she fell back against him, purring… And yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. They’d had sex, they’d fucked. They had not made love. He had no reason, no excuse to go over and put his hands on her shoulders, to kiss her and use the intimate voice of a lover in her ear. He could fuck her, but he couldn’t have her.
