Don’t I deserve to be happy too, though?
I tell myself I do. And then I ignore the voice in my head that soundslike my manager warning me I’m making a huge mistake here as I carefully push open the swinging kitchen doors. The dinner service is long over, but as far as I know, Addison still hasn’t left the kitchen. She must be exhausted.
She’s been working really long hours the last few days, and I know it’s because her and the rest of the cooks are trying to get everything ready for the summer festival, which starts tomorrow. So I shouldn’t be upset that I haven’t seen her much—I’m like ninety percent sure she isn’t avoiding me—but I can’t help but feel disappointed by it.
She said I could kiss her whenever I wanted, and boy, have I been wanting to. I’ve thought about it constantly since the night in my guest room and then that teenage makeout session in her car. Whatever this thing is between us, it’s new and exciting, but I don’t think that’s what is drawing me toward her. It’s not the novelty of being with a woman for the first time that has me feeling desperate to see her and touch her. It’sher.
It’s an attraction that’s too powerful to deny it. And it’s how she makes me feel alive in a way that has made me realize I’ve spent maybe the last couple years simply going through the motions.
It’s how she encourages me, and feeds me, and looks at me like I’m worth more than the number of Grammys on my mantle back home.
I don’t want to walk into the kitchen uninvited. Technically, I shouldn’t even be sticking my head in like I am, but oh well. I’m desperate to see her.
“Hi,” I call out cautiously.
Addison’s the only one in here, standing at a prep table in front of a large silver mixing bowl. She looks up mid-whisk, and when she sees me, her smile is so big that it erases that ten percent of doubts I had about whether or not she was avoiding me. “Hey! You can come in.”
“You’re here so late,” I say, going over to stand beside her. I peek into the bowl and find a white, fluffy cream inside. “Is this homemade whipped cream?”
“I’m pretty much done,” she tells me. “And yeah, I needed to get it ready for the booth tomorrow to go on top of the strawberry shortcakes and the apricot honey crepes.”
My mouth waters at the thought of apricot honey crepes. That sounds delicious. “You ever heard of whipped cream in a can?” I tease.
She scoffs. “As if.”
“What about an electric whisk, at least? Your hand must get tired.”
“Yeah, this is a pain in the ass, but whipped cream is delicate. It comes out better if you do it by hand.” With a wicked grin, she adds, “And I don’t mind my hand getting a workout.”
I blush but ignore that innuendo, leaning over to peer into the bowl again. “It definitely looks good.”
With her free hand, she pinches the waist of my dress and drags me a step closer to her. Her eyes glint with something that makes my body tingle. “Maybe we need a taste test.”
She raises the whisk out of the bowl, white dollops of cream clinging to it as she holds it over a dishrag on the counter. Keeping her eyes on me, she swipes her finger over one of the loops, catching some on it. Then she brings the finger to my lips, and before I can open for her, she wipes the cream across them. As I dart out my tongue to taste it, she moves in to kiss me, sharing in the sweetness.
Her voice is a bit raspy when she pulls away. “What do you think?”
“Delicious,” I say breathlessly.
“Hmm. I think you might need some more to be sure.”
This time when she gathers the cream on her finger and brings it up to my mouth, she holds it there, waiting for me to part my lips for her. Which I do, eagerly. She slides her finger into my mouth, and I suck the cream off it, licking until she’s clean.
There’s a definite hunger in her eyes now as she pulls her finger from between my lips. And then she says two words that almost undo me.
“Good girl.”
Holy hell, why is that so hot? Any time a man has said that to me, I’ve cringed. But now this woman says it, and I need to grab the edge of the table because my knees are weak.
Smirking like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, she brings two fingers back to the whisk to get even more cream before she sets the utensil down on the rag. Then she uses her clean hand to gather up all my hair and sweep it over one shoulder, leaving my neck exposed to her. She wipes her fingers deliberately across my skin, leaning in to taste the cream she left there, licking and sucking until I’m sure it’s gone and now she’s just feasting on my neck.
My grip tightens on the table, and I grab her shoulder with my free hand. I’m not sure if I want to push her away or keep her there.
Keep her there.
Definitely.
Except that weak-kneed thing is becoming more of a problem.
