Page 58 of Tastes Like Summer

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” His voice does things to me, heating my already ignited skin. With a slow, frustrating pace, Michael slowly moves my underwear aside, moving his fingers up and down my wetness. “This for me?”

“God,” I call out, leaning back on the steel counter, supporting myself with my hands.

“No, not god. You know who I am, don’t you?”

It takes me a second to grasp what he means—the lust fog caused by the way his fingers play between my legs not helping the situation—but then: “Yes, Chef.”

And with those words, I know I’ve fully unleashed Michael. He drops to his knees and pushes my legs apart, making room for himself. His torturous, slow kissing up my thighs drives me to the edge of insanity, but he thankfully does not hesitate once he reaches his intended target. With one slow swipe, I melt over the counter, hair spreading everywhere. My hands fly to take hold of the edge when his tongue reaches my clit, and my back arches when he slides two fingers into me. Breathing ragged, my mind blurs as it tries to process this pure, unbelievable pleasure. As it tries to parse the loving words he breathes against where I’m wet and pulsing—So fucking beautiful and been wanting to do this since the day I met you and most perfect woman in the world—and the rough way his fingers wrap around my thighs as he holds me down.

I’m close. So close. So goddamn close.

And I think I’ve said the words aloud because Michael’s movements grow faster, more intense. His fingers are magic, tapping in just the right spot and pulling me under as his mouth on my clit finally sends me into sensation overload. And I’m there, clenching around his fingers, calling his name over and over again like a prayer. Because, my god, this is the closest thing I’ve come to a religious experience in my life.

I never want to be without it again.

After a few minutes of trying to catch my breath, I somehow manage to sit up. Michael helps me clean up the remnants of honey all over my chest with a smirk on his face and a damp, clean dish towel. The way he puffs up his chest in pride is so adorable I pull him in for a soft kiss. When our lips meet, he inhales deeply and holds the breath in, as if wanting to keep my scent with him always.

The need for him builds almost immediately once again, a hunger that might never be satiated.

“I need to take you home. And I need to get home, too,” he whispers against my lips.

With a sigh, I nod, and pull away.

“This kitchen is wild,” I tell him, hoping the complete change in subject will knock my one-track mind in a different direction.

I pull my shirt over my head and try not to ogle Michael as he looks around at the room for his t-shirt, bare-chested.

“It’s good for now, but I’m hoping for something better for our brick and mortar. If we find the space.” He sighs, finally putting his t-shirt on.

My pout is immediate.

All of a sudden, my conversation with Jonathan about Michael’s current financial situation pops into my head.

“Jonathan mentioned you were having financial issues,” I tell him.

His head whips in my direction. “He what?”

“Relax,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulder. “This was before he knew I knew you. When we were on our way here and he was telling me about his super talented friend who was opening a restaurant and was hosting this dinner for him in order to get him to invest.”

“He said that?”

“Yes. He also said it was an unnecessary dinner because he already knew how talented you were, and that there was no question he was going to invest in your place.”

Michael takes a step back and runs his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “That was before I took his date from him. Even though he said it was fine…” He shakes his head, looking at me with weary eyes. “It still wasn’t cool for him to show up with the most beautiful woman in the world and then have her be taken away from him.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, first, I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world. Second, no one took me; I left willingly. And he’s not going to back out. Jonathan doesn’t seem to be the type of person to hold a grudge. Plus, he seemed genuinely happy you’d found—” I stop myself, because we’re both making very big assumptions.

He stole his date? Jonathan was happy Michael found someone? Are these all givens now? We haven’t even talked about what’s going on between us—at least not really—and there are already so many absolutes being casually thrown around in conversation. Weren’t we going to use this time after dinner to discuss what this is?

“Have I?”

“Have you what?” I ask.

He takes my hands in his before bring them up to his lips, pressing a kiss to them. “Found someone, I mean. Have I found that someone?”

I inhale sharply, a rope around my heart tightening at the idea of him and I together.

This. I want this.