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“Not good enough,” she murmurs. “Are you from here? Where’d you go to school? Where were you on January 6? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” She flattens herself against my chest and presses a kiss into my skin for each question.
I answer in kind.
“I’m from Chicago.” A kiss on her neck. “Went to the CIA in New York.” A lick to her jaw. “Moved here to take over as the chef de cuisine at Adore.” A nip at her ear. “I was at the restaurant all day January 6, but I got the owner to donate the receipts at the end of the night to Fair Fight.”
“Oooh, a voting-rights guy,” she purrs, sitting up and reaching for her bra clasp. I groan when she lets it slide down her arms. Her tits are even prettier than I imagined, full and soft. Meringues waiting to melt in my mouth.
I surge upward to flip our positions so I’m on top and she’s spread underneath me. I pinch a nipple, then soothe it with a kiss, hoping that’ll make her forget that last question.
It works. She reaches for the button of my jeans, and my throat goes tight. I’m still at a simmer from kissing her outside, and when she works my zipper open and wraps her hand around my straining cock, my blood comes to a boil. I tangle my hands in her hair as I kiss her, tugging a little to remind her that every dish needs a little acid.
She breaks the kiss, her laughing eyes meeting mine.
“And the worst thing you’ve ever done?” She strokes my dick through my open fly as she says it, and I’m so turned on that honesty drips from my mouth.
“I threw a container of radishes at a sous chef who didn’t answer fast enough when I asked if lunch prep was done.”
Her hand stills. “Oh.”
Shit. Too much honesty. It only took ninety seconds for me to fuck this up.
“It was my eleventh shift in a row,” I say in a rush, “and I’d just rolled in hungover.” Straight from a stranger’s bed, but she doesn’t need to know that. “And he was wearing headphones, which was against kitchen policy. And I threw the radishesnearhim, not at him. And I never did it again.”
She still hasn’t moved.Shit.
“You’re right. This was a bad idea.” The beautiful milkmaid never belonged in bed with someone like me. It’s good she figured it out before things went any further. “I’ll still cook for you though if you want.” I swallow my bitter disappointment and am starting to rezip my jeans when she grabs my wrist.
“Are you planning to throw anything at me?”
“What?” My brain stutters to a halt at the thought. “God no. I was an idiot kid then. I don’t do that shit anymore.” It took a while, but I’ve mostly beat that wildness into submission. My house might not have curtains yet—I needed that new Yu Kurosaki sujihiki knife more—but it does have a bed frame and a coffee table and towels that match. I bought that stuff to impress a woman like Grace. Hell, I think part of me bought all that to impressGrace.
I haven’t completely become the stable, settled adult I want to be. It’s like I’m still missing the key ingredient that binds this new life together, that lets me temper the hot-bloodedness that drives me in the kitchen. But I’m closer to that person than I’ve ever been before, and that person is so damn grateful that Grace is still here.
She’s staring at me, her cheeks flushed the color of pomegranates, and rather than pulling away, she lets go of my wrist to brush a finger over the tattoo running along my forearm.
“Am I an idiot for desperately wanting to sleep with someone who thought a whisk wrapped in barbed wire was a good tattoo?”
Although my cock twitches atdesperately, I bark a laugh. All the women I’ve fucked over the years, and nobody ever gave me shit about that ugly-ass tat until now.
“Lost a bet.” My skin prickles as she traces the black lines on my skin. “That same sous chef picked it out for me.”
“Great revenge,” she deadpans, trailing her fingers along my biceps to the cast-iron skillet inked there, then over to my chest, where she touches the swordfish arcing along my ribs, the pasta shapes running down my side. “Penne. Campanelle. Orecchiette. Gemelli.” Her eyes dance as she reads the words under each one. “You’re a walking menu.”
Something warm ignites in my chest, and I don’t know whether to laugh or to kiss her. Plus,fuck, she’s still naked from the waist up.
“The pasta was all my idea.” My voice is strained, and she gives me another of those grins that scour a little of the grease off my soul.
“I mean, what else do I really need to know?” She pushes my jeans over my hips, taking my boxers with them. “So you tossed some radishes. You also brought meals to Mrs. Goldbaum for two weeks after she had surgery.”
I kick the tangle of fabric the rest of the way off and return the favor, unbuttoning and tugging with more enthusiasm than finesse. “And you loaned your car to the lady down the street when she needed to get to that last-minute job interview.”
We’re both naked now, and I settle myself on top of her so my thigh presses between her legs. She grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling it just hard enough to make my blood sing. “Do you ever tie this back with a bandanna?”
“Sometimes. Should I go get it?” I trail my fingers down her sides, shifting so I can reach between her legs. She’s hot and wet, andnowI’m in heaven.
“Next time,” she says with a gasp.
“Fuck yes, next time.” But right now, it’s our first time. And I’m planning to start by licking this beautiful girl until she screams.
