Chapter 9
Having a half-emo, half-fancy culinary menace launch himself into my lap and kiss all over my face is… not exactly standard operating procedure for me.
I know what I look like. Serious. Hard edges. Resting do not approach face. People don’t usually climb me like a tree.
But Beckett does. And apparently, I laugh now. It feels… different. Good different. Dangerous different.
“I think I know what I want to do,” he says finally, breath warm against my jaw. He moves to slide off, but I hold his hips in place.
“What’s that?”
“Every good cookbook needs a story, right? Mine is going to be about found family.” His whole body vibrates with excitement. “I was thinking I could ask Olly, and maybe he can contribute a dessert… or two. I’m so not a baker.”
A megawatt smile spreads across his face, with a spark of excitement in his eyes. My stomach dips and swoops like a basketball star.
He’s lit up like the North Star—eyes bright, smile huge, hands moving as he talks.
My stomach does another low swoop. A smiling Beckett is a fucking showstopper.
I’ve had too many weeks of the sharp, wounded version.
Then he was replaced by a smart-mouthed, angry Beckett.
I do love a smart-mouthed Beckett, just not the angry one.
“Oh, what about the old ladies? Do you think Ms. Brandy would contribute one of her wine recipes? That would be fun.”
He exhales, softer now, settling a little heavier into my lap like he’s decided I’m a piece of furniture. “So what about you, Dom? If you could pick one dish, what would it be?”
“Oh,” I say. “Is this your way of asking me to be in your cookbook?”
“Depends. Is there a fee for your services?” He gives his ass a little wiggle, causing my cock to try rallying.
I swat his ass, my palm landing a little too satisfyingly. “Down, boy.”
He rolls his eyes, full brat. “Whatever you say, Domy.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Daddy?” he tries wickedly.
“Nope.”
“Fine. Sir?”
I try really hard to keep the smirk at bay. “Much better. Now, behave.”
“Please, sir, will you contribute to my cookbook? Help a young lad out.”
This boy.
I dig my fingers into his ribs, and he explodes into squirming laughter, wiggling on my lap in a way that does not help my self-control.
“You’re pretty brave, little mouse,” I murmur, catching his wrists and pinning them to my chest. “Most people wouldn’t dare mess with me. They actually believe the scary reputation.”
Beckett’s eyes spark. “Maybe I like the consequences.”
I let my voice drop, slow and deliberate. “If I decide to give you consequences, I’ll take you right to the edge and hold you there. Make you feel every second. You’d be a jumbled mess, begging me to let you come.”
He stops squirming. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, we have already established that I would.”
“Ugh, why do you have to be such a fun crusher?”
“Somebody has to keep you in line. Now, about this cookbook.”
He wilts forward until his forehead rests against my chest, breath warm through my shirt. “It’s a dumb idea,” he mutters. “No publisher is gonna care about my weird little found-family project.”
I curl an arm around his back, keeping him close. “You’re wrong,” I say. “And I’m going to prove it. Starting with my dish. Aunt Sofia’s Tuscan Chicken recipe.”
He peeks up at me, doubtful and curious, still sitting right where I want him.
He makes the cutest O shape with his mouth.
Cute.
Psh. I don’t say cute. I say things like hot, filthy, obscene, not cute. I’ve been saying a lot of weird shit lately.
“Come on,” I say, needing to do something that isn’t staring at his lips. “All this talk about sex and food is making me hungry.”
I stand, keeping my hands on his hips and bringing him up with me. He lets out a surprised yelp that lands warm in my chest. I don’t acknowledge it. I just walk us into the kitchen, his feet shuffling along with mine, and then I lift him like it’s nothing and set him on the counter.
He blinks down at me, cheeks pink, thighs around my waist.
“I don’t have much,” I say, opening cabinets just to give my hands something to do. “But I can make pasta and garlic bread.”
“You’re going to cook for me?” he asks, like I’ve suggested cannibalism.
I arch a brow. “You’re a guest in my home. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, when you’re a chef, people usually expect—”
“Unless you want to cook,” I cut in. “But I’m not asking you to. Especially not in my kitchen.”
His mouth curves. “I don’t mind sitting back and watching you make pasta.”
“It’s just spaghetti with jar sauce,” I mutter, filling a pot with water. I apologize under my breath. “Sorry, Aunt Sofia, for I have sinned.”
He grins. “You’ve mentioned her twice now. What makes her Tuscan chicken cookbook worthy?”
I set the pot on the stove and turn on the burner. “She grew up in Sicily, lived there until her teens. Then her parents moved to New York.”
His eyes light up. “I’d kill to go to Sicily. The food must be to die for. Did she teach you to cook?”
“She tried,” I say. “I’m not great. She is. Her lasagna is my favorite. Perfect layers, just enough cheese, no weird shortcuts.”
“Does she make her own pasta?”
I give him a look.
“Right,” he says. “Dumb question.”
“She used to say her grandmother would roll in her grave if she used boxed,” I add, dumping boxed spaghetti into the boiling water.
He snorts. “And yet…”
“I try,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”
I grab a few slices of bread, seasoning them with butter and garlic, then stick them in the toaster oven.
“We have dinner once a week,” I offer. “You could come next time, if you want. She’d talk your ear off about lasagna and let you steal a recipe for the cookbook.”
His eyes go wide. “Really? You don’t think she’d mind? I’d love to write something with each recipe. Hear the stories.”
“Of course.”
“Awesome, sounds like a date.” He gives me a cheeky wink.
I roll my eyes, throwing a dish towel at him. “Do something useful, will ya?”
He catches the towel and quickly hops off the counter like his ass is on fire. “I almost forgot. The other reason I came over here.” Beckett jogs out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I hear the front door opening.
I lean against the counter, listening, a smile tugging at my mouth. He keeps me on my toes. I’d never admit it out loud, but I like it. I like… this. The noise. The movement. The feeling of not being alone in my own house.
I could add that to my list—that I’m totally not keeping—of the reasons Beckett is different from all the other partners in my past.
Ever since that first kiss and my world-class disappearing act, I’ve had these stupid dreams of growing older invading my sleepless nights.
I’m always sitting on Parker’s Peak, a rocky cliff looking out over the ocean, but I’m not alone.
I can’t see anyone, but it’s like I can feel someone right next to me.
I remember waking up and reaching an arm out, like I’m expecting someone to be lying next to me, and there’s a twinge in my chest when my hand hits the cold sheets.
The sound of the front door closing pulls me out of my thoughts, then a winded Beckett appears holding a laundry basket.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I walked to the laundromat yesterday, but it’s closed. Pipe burst, whole place flooded. So I figured…” He lifts a plastic bag full of quarters. “I come bearing offerings.”
“Shit, your washer.” Guilt niggles in my chest. “No matter what, you can always use my washer and dryer. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear. But that does remind me I need to call the hardware store in the morning to see if they were able to get it ordered and the estimated delivery.
“To be fair,” he calls as he heads to the laundry room. “I was mad at you, so your washer and I weren’t on speaking terms.”
While he’s doing that, I set the table and finish cooking dinner. I’m just taking the garlic bread out when he comes back into the room.
“Umm, that jar sauce smells amazing.”
I level my best warning eyebrow at him, then step behind his chair, hands on his shoulders, guiding him down. Once he’s seated, I lean in, my mouth brushing his ear.
“Careful, little mouse,” I murmur. “Every warning you rack up is one more time I edge you. And you won’t know when. Could be tonight. Tomorrow. Next month. You’ll never see it coming.”
“Fuck me,” I hear him whimper.
“And if you ever speak of this jarred sauce to anyone… when the time finally comes, I’ll make it go on and on for days.”
He turns his head, and our noses nearly bump. He zips his lips with his fingers. I wink, giving him a chaste kiss before sitting down at the table.
My chest does that traitorous flutter I’m starting to recognize.
Odd feeling number 2346: me sitting at my kitchen table with someone after enjoying mutual blow jobs. And I don’t actually hate it.
Huh, interesting.
“You know, even for being boxed pasta, you cooked the noodles perfectly.”
Fork halfway to my mouth, I pause. “One,” I say.
His eyes flash, bright and hungry.
Yeah, I’m in trouble.
Except for a few text messages back and forth about getting his car in next week to have it looked at, it’s been a week since I’ve laid eyes on Beckett.
If it weren’t for another round of mutual blow jobs before he left last week, I’d worry I pushed him too far.
I didn’t edge him like I’d threatened. I’ve been saving that for a day I can take my time, take him apart slowly, learn every reaction he has, and claim each one. I just didn’t expect it to be this long before I got another shot.
Work’s been insane. Tommy came in so we could finally finish his sleeve; a couple of those nights I didn’t walk out of the shop until after midnight.
The days I wasn’t closing, I was opening—ten a.m. appointments, eleven a.m. walk-ins, repeat.
By the time I got home, I didn’t trust myself not to fall asleep mid-text, let alone invite him over.