He plucked up the last piece of bread cut from the round loaf she'd served with the beans. "Is that a polite way of showing me to the door?" He tore off a corner of the dense bread and popped it into his mouth, moving toward her as he chewed.

Yes. Yes, it is. She wanted, needed, him to leave. He was making her loco with those eyes that seemed to see through her skin, mouth that fired up memories of how it felt on her breasts and lips, graceful, strong hands that made her insides curl up tight when she watched them. Right now, the look he gave her passed through and under her skin, making her limbs as pliable as bread dough.

"Of course I am not showing you to the door," Carisa answered. "I am cleaning and ... having conversation with you." She wiped her hands on her apron and backed away, calmly, deliberately, intent on showing him how his nearness in this tiny kitchen didn't strip her self-control.

Max's low laugh did nothing to settle her stomach or pacify her heightened female senses.

"For you." He raised his hand to her lips, a small bite of bread between two fingers. "The cook is always given the last piece." A challenge lurked in his smile.

She parted her lips, expression skeptical.

"Wider."

Butter, the scents of pan gallego, woodsy soap and fragrance of his skin created the sweetest, hypnotic perfume. She complied, eyes fixed on him. A muscle in his jaw twitched and she felt the bread on her tongue. She jolted when, instead of withdrawing his fingers, he trailed one across her lower lip.

"I should probably apologize in advance," he whispered, tracing her upper lip.

Carisa somehow managed to swallow the bread without choking. Her heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingertip when she asked, "Apologize for what?"

"I want you." A kiss marked where his finger had been. "Quite desperately in fact."

Her eyes widened. "D-do you?"

"Oh yes."

His hand cupped her neck, mouth left slow, moist kisses on her cheeks.

"No."

Max froze, hardly able to get the word out. "No?"

"No," she breathed. "Not here."

This could not be happening. Waiting for another opportunity would be torturous. "Here meaning the kitchen, or this home?"

Beneath his hand she trembled. "Let us go upstairs."