Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(55)

“Treats?” I sit up, already feeling better.

“Chocolate ice cream drizzled with Kahlúa.”

My gasp is low and thrilled. I thrust out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “Gimme.”

“No, we’re sharing.” He scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and eats it, watching as I lick my lips. Then he scoops a spoonful for me and holds it out.

I let him feed it to me, feeling awkward but also comforted, like the time I had strep throat when I was ten and my mother fed me soup at my bedside. That was the last time I can recall that she didn’t make a disapproving face as she watched me eat.

“S’good,” I say around a cold mouthful of deliciousness. “But it’s not on my diet.”

“That’s why it’s called a treat.” He takes another bite, savoring it, licking the spoon like it’s a woman’s thigh. Or maybe that’s in my imagination. Watching him eat is distinctly sensual. “Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.”

He feeds me more ice cream, and I’m feeling better by the second. “You’re a very good hugger, by the way.”

“I know.”

We smile at each other.

“But am I a good kisser? That’s the real question, lass.” He eats more ice cream, waiting for my response with lifted brows.

“You waited until I was in a vulnerable state to ask that, didn’t you?”

“I’m not that stealthy. Here.” He holds out the spoon.

I savor the mouthful of creamy goodness, trying to make it last as long as possible as I wrack my brain for a neutral answer that doesn’t reveal just how thermonuclear I thought our kiss was. I decide on, “You seem very experienced.”

He makes a face. “That’s awfully clinical.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is your ego throwing a tantrum because I didn’t say it was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had?”

He’s about to put another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth but pauses, holding the spoon to his lips. “Was it?”

Those damn piercing hazel eyes. I look down at the blanket, picking at a frayed bit of yarn. “It might . . . be up there.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him under my lashes and find him grinning at me.

“Oh, shut up, prancer,” I mutter.

He wolfs down the bite of ice cream, smacking his lips. “For the record, it might’ve been up there for me, too.”

I’m startled and commence blinking rapidly like a crazed owl. “Really?”

“Really.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Am I?” He takes another bite of ice cream, smiling around the spoon.

I flop backward onto the cushions and pull the blanket up over my face.

I hear a chuckle, low and pleased. “I’m tellin’ the truth, lass. You’re a champion kisser. Very fine. And not fine the way you Yanks use it—fine as in excellent.”

I flip the edge of the blanket down and peer at him.

“I don’t mean to make it sound like I don’t have anything else I could teach you,” he says casually, licking the spoon. He glances sideways at me. “For Michael, of course.”

I chew the inside of my lip. “Like what?”

“You want a list?”

Now I’m indignant. “A list? There’s that much to improve on? I thought you said it was fine as in excellent!”

He lifts a shoulder, nonchalant as can be. I’d like to smash my pillow into his face, but that would probably send the bowl of ice cream flying. His stupid face isn’t worth a wasted bowl of ice cream.

I sigh and sit up, pulling my legs off his lap. “Okay. Hit me. And don’t leave anything out. I want to hear the whole ugly truth.”

He looks at the ceiling, lightly tapping the spoon against the side of the bowl. “It’s not really one of those things you can talk someone through.”

Getting more and more worried, I furrow my brow. “So how am I supposed to improve?”

He turns his gaze to me. His expression is solemn and regretful, like a doctor about to inform me of the inoperable tumor in my brain. “Practice.”

Without waiting for a response, he scoops me more ice cream and holds it to my lips. Then he watches with his wolfish eyes as I suck the spoon into my mouth and swallow.

After I work up the nerve, I venture, “So you’re saying . . . you want to kiss me again.”

“I wanna help you get your heart’s desire, lass,” he counters briskly. “Which is Michael, right?”

Those wolfish eyes again. I’m getting confused. “Um. Yes. It’s . . . Michael.”

His eyes flash, but he nods, apparently satisfied he’s made his point. “Right. Think of it as trainin’. Like if you were gonna run a marathon, you wouldn’t just run twenty-odd miles in one go. You’d work up to it a bit at a time. Day after day, week after week, a wee bit at a time, until you’re in prime shape for the big event.”

When I sit in silence for too long, just looking at him, Cam shakes his head.

“You’re right. It’s a bad idea. You’ll get all attached, and it’ll be funny between us. You’ll be heartsick. I’ll be uncomfortable. You don’t know this, but it’s not easy for me to break a lass’s heart. I can only stand so much beggin’—”