Thanksgiving Heat: Amanda’s Forbidden Feast

Good food. Bad decisions. One very hot holiday.

Amanda loved Thanksgiving, even when she ended up doing all the work. The kitchen was hot, the apron hugged her waist, and the smell of roasted herbs and cinnamon filled the house.

But her cousin’s husband, Blake, wasn’t supposed to stare at her the way he did. Leaning in the doorway, watching every curve as she bent over the oven, eyes dragging up her legs like he owned them.

He stepped in close behind her. “You always this sexy when you cook?”

“Go help your wife,” she breathed, pulse skipping.

“She’s busy. I’m busy admiring the view.”

His hand brushed her hip — slow, intentional — and she gasped. He smelled like flannel and heat and trouble, and she didn’t pull away.

“Someone could walk in.”

“Then come with me.”

He led her to the back storage room. The second the door shut, he pressed her against it, mouth crashing onto hers. She kissed him back hard, fingers gripping his shirt, her body already melting.

He lifted her onto the table, standing between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, grinding against him, soft moans slipping free as he kissed down her neck.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he panted.

“Show me,” she whispered.

He did — with hands, mouth, and a hunger that made her body snap in a pulse of heat that shook her entire core. Blake followed with a low groan, holding her tight as if the world outside didn’t exist.

When she finally returned to the kitchen, cheeks flushed and legs weak, Amanda stirred the sweet potatoes like nothing happened.