Happy Thanksgiving from me, Ink, Layla, Cal, and more!
Enjoy this sneak peek of a scene in my next Coven of Desire book Claw that takes place during Thanksgiving with sexy potato peeling.
With a forced laugh, I said, “You think I can cook?” Cal glanced to the oven where he put my mac and cheese and I snorted. “That one don’t count.”
“Well, you can either peel these potatoes, or watch me do it.” He tossed a spud the size of a baseball into the air and caught it. I watched its rise and fall, mesmerized, until he held it out to me.
With a resigned sigh, I accepted the potato and turned for the sink. I reached for the peeler, an old all-metal one, and began to slice off the skin. Warmth blossomed against my neck, then arms swept over my waist. Transfixed, I stared at the hands cresting against the back of mine. The veins prodding from the back, so blue below his pale skin. His nails chewed to the nubs with cooking grit under them.
Cal slipped his fingers to match with mine and he raised the peeler off the potato. I winced to find a massive gouge in its white flesh. But he didn’t say anything, only twisting the spud around and putting the sharp edge to work.
“What…are you doing?” I asked, my senses flooded with the touch of his chest gliding over my back and his hips pressing against my ass.
A slow laugh puffed against the side of my neck. I strained my head higher, aching for him to put his teeth to the tender skin. But Cal focused only on the potato, leaving me hanging in limbo. “Helping,” he said. The half naked potato spun in his fingers, and he resumed the strokes. Gentle, certain, never wavering, each brush of his hand peeled another layer off.
I was so enthralled, when he finished and placed the peeled potato onto the cutting board, I jerked my head to the side. It felt like someone ripped away my toy. But when he picked up another and was about to put the knife to it, he paused and placed the spud in my hand.
The same careful strokes sliced over the potato I held. Even with the sharp edge gliding close to my fingers, I trusted him. His free hand slipped over my belly, holding me tighter to him.
“Cal?” I whispered, my voice husky.
“Hm?” he answered, his lips brushing against my throat and up my jaw. A shudder danced through me, but I clung tight to the spud.
“How many potatoes do we need?”
He laughed and pointed to a bucketful beside the sink. There had to be at least ten in there. I nipped my lip and said, “Maybe we should get more. Just in case.”
Dragging his nose against the nape of my neck, Cal whispered, “Sounds…smart.”
Ellen Mint 