“Oh my god,” I say as I hand back the fork.
“Yeah?”
“That’s incredible.” I laugh slightly, full of wonder. I’ve had pasta before, great pasta, but none of it would hold a candle to this simple dish. “We made that?”
He gives me a self-satisfied look. “Yes.”
“We really just whipped that up in under an hour.”
He nods, taking a bite himself.
I stare at him in astonishment. Nearly everything I’ve tasted in this kitchen has been delicious—minus my rookie mistakes, like burnt broccoli and dry chicken—but this is transcendent. It blows everything that we’ve made so far out of the water.
I drag him into a hug.
I don’t know what I’m thinking. The more accurate way to describe it, probably, is that I’m not thinking at all, but right now, I don’t care. That tasted like a gift. A little slice of perfection.
He’s stiff for a beat, long enough I nearly pull away with an excuse, but then he returns the embrace, his big hands spreading out over my back. I suppress a shiver, breathing in that pine scent, mixing with flour and tomato. My eyes slide shut. I focus on his heartbeat—elevated, like mine—and his ragged breathing. When he hugged me at my apartment, it helped calm my panic. This time, however? His embrace feels like approval.
“That felt like magic,” I mumble against his apron.
He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out strangled. “Yeah. Sometimes cooking is like that.”
He strokes down my spine once, lightly, before we break apart.
Chapter 24
Notes of Caramel
Poppy
Jack rolls over in bed, pressing against my back. His hard, generous length rubs along my bottom, just barely contained by his sweats. He kisses my neck, then sucks on my earlobe, one hand wandering to my breasts while the other slips between my legs. He cups my pussy like he owns it, the heel of his hand grinding just above my clit.
“Jack,” I whine. I rub my face against the pillow. He huffs out a laugh as he continues to tease me, a finger slipping into my core and crooking at an angle that makes me pant. I push back against him, shamelessly seeking more friction. He’s big and solid in all the right ways, and I want his weight pressing me into the mattress until I can’t think.
“Poppy,” he replies with amusement.
“I need—”
“I know what you need.” His teeth graze my neck, nipping the sensitive skin. I clench around that lone finger until he adds another, breath hitching. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a man. Not Ryan; he didn’t come close to the way Jack is working me over. Playing my body like it’s an instrument he invented himself.
I abruptly roll over. We kiss, hard enough it’s a clash of teeth and spit. He stuffs two fingers into me, his thumb teasing my clit.I’m riding his hand, and he’s smiling against my mouth, his pine-scented beard scratching my jaw. I drag my nails down his bare chest, that collage of tattoos, and dig in. I want to make my mark on him as well. Leave an imprint for him to remember later.
“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice more tender than I’ve ever heard it. I clench around his fingers so tightly he groans. “Just like this. Now, sweet girl.”
I wake with a start.
The smell of sea air fills my nose. I squint in the darkness. My core is throbbing, on the edge of release and needing just a little bit more. I inch my hand down my panties, making a face at the wetness coating my fingers.
I had a sex dream.
A sex dream about Jack Hartman.
In hisbed.
At least he isn’t down here. He has no idea that I was just dreaming of him touching me. Praising me. If I didn’t wake up, I’m sure dream-me would have ridden dream-Jack’s cock. I wonder if I said anything aloud. Thank god he wasn’t here for it. I’d be mortified beyond belief.
I scrub my clean hand down my face. It’s impossible, anyway. Jack would never praise me like that. He’d never call mesweet girl. It’s impossible not to notice the begrudging heat coming from him when he looks at me, but nothing will ever happen. Period. End of story.
