Chapter 3
Three
That was the best sex I’d had in my life.
Not that I’d had particularly mind-blowing sex in my life.
I hadn’t thought I was capable of having mind-blowing sex. I was always too in my head, too particular, not sexual enough.
Or so I’d thought.
I’d just never been with someone who could take me out of my head, show me what I didn’t know I wanted, somehow who knew my body, knew how to make it sing. Make me scream.
Scream his name.
I’d done that.
My throat even felt hoarse.
I might’ve felt ashamed if it were with anyone else. But Kane was so wild, he was so free, confident with his pleasure, being in an animal state with him felt completely natural.
Even though we were practically strangers.
Maybe because we were practically strangers.
There was a freedom in that.
He didn’t know me. Hadn’t slogged through the required amount of dates I required before I slept with someone. Hadn’t formed the idea of me as being maybe conventionally pretty but also somewhat cold and unemotional as many of my old boyfriends had.
“I feel like I have to fuck you politely,” one had said.
Kane most definitely didn’t fuck me politely.
“I feel like you’re grading me and making me a failure at having sex,” another had told me.
If Kane thought I was grading him, he didn’t make it known. And he sure as hell didn’t fail.
We hadn’t spoken. Not apart from the name screaming, and his exceptional dirty talk that made my toes blush.
The sex had concluded. At least I thought it had. But then we’d done it again. And again.
Once on the floor of the entryway, once on the floor of his bedroom and once in the actual bed.
My body was incapable of producing more orgasms, I was sure. And as impressive as Kane was, I assumed he’d need a cooldown period of some sort.
We were both fully naked, both flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
I wasn’t self-conscious about my perspiration. Kane’s tongue had already tasted it, and it hadn’t seemed to put him off. The opposite really; he’d loved the carnal act of licking my sweat, and despite my penchant for cleanliness in all areas of my life, I’d loved it too. It felt lascivious and dirty and right .
Nor was I self-conscious about the long period of silence we enjoyed as the dust settled. It was nice. I didn’t feel the need to stroke his ego, to tell him how amazing he was, didn’t feel insecure about my performance since he’d made it abundantly clear he’d enjoyed himself. He obviously didn’t feel the need to talk either.
Until now.
“Do you like fettuccine?”
I opened my mouth, searching for a response.
Though it stood to reason Kane would speak eventually, that was most definitely not what I thought he’d say.
There was only one way to answer when Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes asked you if you liked pasta after he’d fucked you three times.
“Yes.”
“Great, stay here. I’ll whip us up some.”
Kane leaned down to kiss me.
Not a peck on the lips kiss. He kissed me. Completely. With vigor.
I got the impression Kane didn’t do anything by halves.
That impression was helped when his hand trailed down my naked body to cup me possessively between my legs, fingers exploring the area that was sensitive yet immediately wet for him.
He grinned wickedly as he pushed off the bed and put those same fingers in his mouth.
“Babe, I make a bomb ass fettuccini, but I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything as fucking spectacular as that cunt.”
My eyelids fluttered.
Vulgar. Vigor. I liked it.
“Well, maybe once you try my food you’ll have a different opinion,” I replied, my voice lazy, soft almost.
His grin turned cheeky and playful. “I don’t doubt your capability in the kitchen, but I do doubt there’s a plate on Earth that can rival that .”
With that parting note, he got out of bed and left the bedroom. I could only guess that he was going to cook fettuccine naked.
Not something that would’ve been appealing to me in any other circumstances. It was unhygienic and impractical. But the image of Kane doing it was very appetizing indeed.
I sank back into the bed and stared at the ceiling.
He’d ordered me to stay here. No one ordered me to do anything. It was the other way around. Even in the bedroom … up until now.
I’d happily and without resistance submitted to Kane. I enjoyed it immensely, being able to let go of the reins and just enjoy the ride. No pun intended.
But now that the sex had concluded—at least for now, though a carnal and greedy part of me wanted more—I did not want to heed orders. I did not want to stare at a ceiling and guess whether Kane was downstairs cooking naked. I wanted to find out for myself.
Kane, in fact, was cooking naked.
It was the view of his ass, his muscular and tattooed back at the stove that greeted me when I walked into the kitchen—not naked.
I’d put on a tee I’d found in a suitcase discarded in the walk-in closet, clothes spilling out of it. Kane was just staying there, after all, and it didn’t surprise me that he wasn’t the type to keep everything neatly folded.
I was the type to keep everything neatly folded and organized. Everything in my apartment and kitchen was color-coded, alphabetized, systematic. Messy men irritated me. Kane did not. For whatever reason.
I’d grabbed the first shirt I could find. It was soft from countless washes, worn so much the print had faded into nothing. It smelled faintly of laundry powder but mostly of him. Because of our height difference, it hit me mid-thigh. I had curves that meant I was never the woman who put on her boyfriend’s clothes and was dwarfed by them. Not that I was the type to put on my boyfriend’s clothes. What was the point in that? I had clothes of my own. I’d always thought it was a ridiculous thing that only happened in cheesy rom-coms.
I got it now. The act of wearing a lover’s clothing after they’d just owned every inch of your body. When you smelled of sweat and sex and him.
Yes, I got it.
I put on panties, though. Another thing I didn’t get. Walking around without underwear. It seemed impractical and unsanitary. Especially after sex. Even protected, which Kane luckily had the foresight and sensibility to ensure because I hadn’t even been thinking about condoms. I had no memory of him putting it on the first time, but I’d been a little preoccupied. Even though I was on birth control—for practicality’s sake more than anything—I had never been so reckless or so intimate with someone to have sex without a condom.
My bare feet didn’t make a sound on the hardwood floors, nor on the plush rugs as I followed the telltale signs of pots clanging in the kitchen.
My body felt relaxed and at home as I entered the kitchen to the smell of onions and garlic.
I didn’t say anything to Kane as I watched him move about the kitchen. He did it like he’d done everything else, with confidence, an ease in his movements. My eyes traveled over the tattoo on his back. It was the one piece on his body that was cohesive. It looked like it could’ve been painted on the ceiling of some old church in Europe. In the middle of his shoulder blades was a heart shape, wings behind it and various knives stabbing into it, blood dripping from the heart. Cherub-type angles were on either side of the heart and on the bottom, holding a chalice as if to catch the blood. Flames burned around the scene.
I didn’t know why, but the tattoo seemed beautiful yet somehow sad. I ached to know the history of it.
“I told you to stay upstairs,” Kane said as he turned toward me. Though I hadn’t spoken, Kane must’ve sensed my presence. He was grinning. He didn’t look like the man who would have such a sad scene immortalized into his back. “You’re a woman who doesn’t do what you’re told… I like that.”
I found myself grinning back even though I wasn’t someone who easily smiled. People, mostly men, often commented on my perpetual ‘resting bitch face.’
That didn’t bother me. Women who didn’t smile on command, who didn’t walk and talk the way men wanted them to, and most especially, women who had power, were more often than not labeled as bitches.
I looked around.
The kitchen was nice, like the rest of the brownstone. All renovated with hardwood floors, expensive art, tasteful furnishings. The long space contained quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances, everything top of the line and sparkling clean. Everything except where Kane had been. That area was an explosion of ingredients, chopping boards, plates.
I kept an impeccably clean kitchen. Didn’t tolerate any kind of mess. My staff knew their station had to be spotless at all times. This was absolute chaos to my relentless order. Yet for some reason, it didn’t set my teeth on edge.
I perched on the barstool at the kitchen island.
“I’m not one to do as I’m told,” I agreed. “Nor am I someone who lays in bed while someone else cooks for me.”
I didn’t add that I’d never had the opportunity to lay in bed as someone cooked for me. It felt a little pathetic.
His mouth twitched. “Well, we’re gonna have to change that, aren’t we?”
My stomach dipped at the way he said it. So offhand, as if there were going to be opportunities for us to change that, chances to use the royal ‘we.’ I told myself not to read too much into it.
“Wine? Beer?” He nodded to the wine fridge beside the subzero.
I licked my lips. I was thirsty. Not that I was a big drinker, but right then, a crisp, cold beer suddenly sounded appetizing.
“Beer,” I responded. “But I can get it.”
“Keep that luscious ass in that stool.” He pointed at me with a spatula. “I got it.”
I pursed my lips. It went against everything in me to not just heed the command but to let someone run after me, let alone a man. I was about power balances, not owing anyone anything, not seeming weak, vulnerable.
An intuitive voice inside of me told me that Kane was the most important person to guard myself against, yet I ignored it. I kept my ass in the stool as he strutted to the fridge to get me a beer.
I watched his naked body move. It was covered in tattoos and scars. A lot of scars. I’d noticed them when he undressed, but I had other things to concentrate on at that point. I didn’t really think about what being Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes meant. But it meant pain, by the looks of those scars. Risk.
The scars, the tattoos, the muscles, the bone structure all spoke of a dangerous life, yet the cheeky grin he wore spoke of something else too. Something more playful. Safer. Or maybe that made him all the more dangerous.
The hiss of a bottle opening sounded before Kane rounded the island to place the beer in front of me, pulling up my hair to kiss the back of my neck.
I shivered.
The casual affection was unnerving.
But what was more unnerving was that it felt natural. Right.
“Gotta say, babe, I thought of you as more of a fine wine type of gal,” he said, walking back to the pan where he resumed the process of cooking.
I put my shaking hand around the bottle dripping with condensation, taking a long drink to wet my dry throat.
I contemplated his words. “I suppose that aligns with what little you know of me.” I wiped the wetness from the bottle onto his tee. “I don’t mind wine, especially the expensive stuff. It’s my job to know it, pair it with the dishes I serve. Well, it’s technically my sommelier's job, but I don’t hand over reins easily.”
“Well, that tracks with what little I know of you,” he teased, looking over his shoulder at me.
The underlying assumption being he thought of me as a control freak didn’t feel like an insult. Kane didn’t seem to feel threatened by the control I liked or my ‘abrasive’ personality, my inability to go with the flow—all things previous boyfriends had been vocal about.
Then again, he’d just met me, and I’d uncharacteristically gone with the flow, so he hadn’t really had the full experience. My throat clenched at the thought of someone obviously reckless and free like Kane knowing the real me… My schedules, my routine, my order. He would not like that.
For the first time in my adult life, I wanted to change myself for a man. A man I just met.
I shook that feeling off, taking a sip of my beer before putting it down. “I don’t drink often,” I continued, my voice notably cooler. “I don’t enjoy it. Being drunk.”
To my surprise, Kane nodded, sipping his own beer. “Yeah, it’s more fun to do crazy shit sober. Doing anything with a buzz just kind of … cheapens it. For me anyway.” He shrugged. “Each to their own, though. I’m not saying I haven’t gotten fucked-up. I have. Plenty. But in my old age, I enjoy making decisions based on needs, not on a chemical reaction to booze. And it would’ve been a fucking tragedy if I hadn’t been sober for the last two hours.”
I crossed my legs, needing friction as all of my hastily-gathered cool melted.
“I don’t know about wine pairings, but I’m thinking beer and pasta go pretty well with mind-blowing sex.” His voice was thick with mischief and lust.
There was nothing I could say, so I just nodded my head and watched him cook.
He didn’t press the conversation further.
It was nice, lapsing into comfortable silence, no need to force conversation.
I didn’t remember a time in my life when I felt more relaxed.
Though my instincts told me to get up, to clean up after Kane, to take over, I ignored them. I just sat and watched Kane “The Devil” Rhodes cook me pasta.
Naked.
I filed that away in my memories, knowing even then that it was something I’d revisit long after he’d forgotten about me.
I placed my fork in the center of my clean plate, licking my lips. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to finish the mountain of pasta Kane had served me, but I was obviously hungrier than I’d realized.
“That was amazing,” I said honestly.
He smacked his lips, his own plate empty too. “I get the chef’s stamp of approval?” he asked without self-consciousness.
I nodded. “You definitely do.”
In more ways than one , was what I left unsaid.
I leaned over to get his plate, stacking it with mine. “I’ll get the dishes.”
Kane caught my wrist. “Fuck the dishes. They’ll still be there in the morning.”
My eyes went to the chaotic kitchen, to our plates. Again, it went against all my instincts to leave such a mess.
“Give you a little brain aneurysm thinking of this sitting overnight?” Kane teased, this thumb gently rubbing the inside of my wrist.
I looked at him. He was smiling. Again, he wasn’t put off by my obvious Type-A personality. He seemed to find it … endearing?
I smiled back without even meaning to. “Maybe.”
He didn’t reply, just looked at me with too much knowing and tenderness.
Suddenly, I was uncomfortable under that gaze. Uncomfortable in his shirt, with a stomach full of his food. It was easy. Too easy.
“It’s late.” I yanked my wrist out of his grasp, voice cold.
It was the middle of the night. I wasn’t tired. Though I should’ve been. I’d been up since dawn, worked to get everything prepped at the restaurant for one of my very rare nights off. I was on my feet for hours out of the day, and I wasn’t athletically fit. Then there was the physical exertion of the sex.
Despite that, my limbs tensed, ready to bolt. “I should go.”
Kane quirked a brow. “Babe, I’m far from fuckin’ done with you.” Clearly, he was not bothered by my tone, my change in demeanor. Not threatened by it. He nodded his head to the dishes. “That was just to fuel the tank. You want to go?” I’d opened my mouth to argue, but he spoke first. “Really want to go? Or you think you should? Just like you think you should do the dishes?”
My spine straightened at the way he spoke. Plainly, challenging me. But there was no judgment or malice.
I chewed my lip. An anxious tic from my youth that I hadn’t done in years. He was picking away at me, at the shields I’d thought were iron but he tore down like they were made of paper.
“Yeah,” he nodded, even though I hadn’t actually said anything.
With ease and strength, he tugged at my barstool, turning it to face him. He cupped my face. “Just for tonight, I’m gonna push against all that order inside of here.” He stroked my temple. “Gonna give you a taste of chaos.”
And then he kissed me. With chaos.
And all of my doubts went up in flames.
Kane’s tongue between my legs woke me up.
He didn’t even say good morning.
Just dove. Right in.
“I’ve got to go,” he rasped, mouth still glistening with … me.
I deflated, my limbs boneless as my body twitched with aftershocks.
Of course, he was eager to flee.
I’d literally fucked him on the first … not even date. We shared less than one drink together and one bite of a shitty appetizer and a midnight bowl of pasta.
I’d traded jokes and small talk full of sexual innuendo, got on a bike with him, then let him fuck me on the floor of his entryway.
Then on the floor of his bedroom.
Then in his bed.
Yep.
That sent a message.
One that did not coincide with us sharing breakfast together.
One that did not coincide with anything more than a one-night stand. One of the best nights and mornings of sex I’d had.
Ever.
A frantic sort of panic clutched on to my lungs, making it hard to breathe for a handful of seconds.
I’d never see Kane again.
Yes, I’d only met the man the previous night, and I certainly didn’t believe in love at first sight—I knew I wasn’t in love with him. But I was in …. something with him. I felt changed in a pivotal way. It felt wrong and strange to go back to my life from before without Kane, without him touching me, looking at me.
I shook myself from those thoughts.
I was not being myself.
I did not get wrapped up in men.
I did not let men twist me up and ruin me.
“Yes, so do I. I’ve got to get to the docks.” My voice was cold.
His brow quirked playfully. “You work at the docks too?”
I got up from the bed, wanting to hide my nakedness with a sheet but unwilling to seem self-conscious. Being comfortable in my skin was a power move, so I gritted my teeth and didn’t think about the cellulite on my thighs or the likelihood that Kane bedded women who didn’t have a speck of it. “I need to get the catch of the day so I can plan my menu from there.”
Kane didn’t hide the way he stared at my nakedness. It was clear he was not looking at my cellulite. No, it was with sheer desire that his eyes skimmed my body.
My skin prickled at his hungry gaze.
“Don’t you have people to do that kind of thing?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious as he rested his elbow on the bed and leaned into his hand. “You’re the boss, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I told him, trying to act comfortable that this seemingly benign conversation was happening with both of us naked. “That doesn’t mean anything, though. If anything, I need to work harder than anyone else.”
Kane’s flirty smile faltered, replaced with an expression that was impossibly intense and probing.
Luckily, it lasted only a moment before the smile returned.
“Well, far be it for me to keep you from your fishing.” He held out his hand to help me up.
Again, panic swirled beneath my sternum at the prospect of going about the motions of getting ready to leave. Internally scolding myself, I pushed past it.
By the time I’d used the facilities and the toothbrush I found in the bathroom, Kane had brought up my clothes from last night.
He was wearing underwear. That was it. I restrained my urge to drool at his six-pack, his tattoos, inspect his scars. There was no point in doing that, trying to learn more about a man I would never see again.
Instead, I took my clothes.
He sat on the bed and watched me dress. “What does your normal day look like?”
The simple curiosity in the question took me aback. He wasn’t asking because he felt like he should be polite and pretend to care about it; he genuinely seemed like he wanted to know.
“It depends on the day, but usually, the first thing I do is source protein for the restaurant. If I want to or have the time, I may go to look at artisan producers of ingredients. Then I go to the restaurant to get started on prep, and I’m there till close.” I kept my tone brisk as I pulled my halter over my head. I knew I’d have to stop at my apartment to change. Not to shower, though. I wanted to smell like Kane all day.
“What does your normal day look like?” I asked him as I put on the last of my clothes. I’d obviously forgotten what I told myself moments ago when I’d decided I didn’t need to learn more about him.
He showed his teeth, creating a smile with an edge. “Baby, I haven’t had a normal day in my life, and if I’ve got anything to do with it, I won’t have one till the day I meet the reaper.”
We couldn’t have been more opposite if we’d tried. Completely wrong for each other.
“I’ll walk you down, get you a cab.” He pushed off the bed then went to the closet, presumably to retrieve something from his exploding suitcase.
“You don’t have to; I’m quite capable of hailing a cab,” I called to him, suddenly feeling awkward and needing to get out of there so I could get distance from him. Surely, once I was out of his orbit, sense would return, and I’d realize he was just another man. A handsome one, a muscled one, and one with a talented tongue, but a man, nonetheless.
“I know you’re quite capable.” Kane emerged as he pulled a shirt over his head, wearing cut-off sweats. “But grant me the boon, at least.”
He was charming. Effortlessly so. And I felt myself falling for it.
“Fine,” I huffed.
He walked me down the stairs with his hand on the small of my back, my steps becoming heavier and heavier.
Kane’s gait was easy, unhurried, casual. Of course, it was. He’d likely done this dance countless times, hence why he was so effortlessly likable. He wasn’t holding on to last night like it was something sacred. It was a night of passion, of fun, of chaos that was nothing but another night to him.
I strove to treat it as something similar for myself. A taste of his life, of recklessness. I could channel it into my food. Store last night away somewhere like I did all the other complicated experiences in my past.
The air was crisp, the morning light still emerging, though the city was thriving as it always was. The flurry helped center me. Though I didn’t love chaos, the wildness of the city helped to center me. I wasn’t a New York native, but it had been home to me for almost my entire adult life.
At the curb Kane whistled, and within seconds, a cab was there.
My heart hammered.
Kane took my hips, pressing our bodies together so he could kiss me. Fully.
Despite my panic, I returned the kiss with fervor.
The horn of the impatient cab driver ended the kiss. Cab drivers in New York didn’t care about life-altering moments. I was sure they were immune to couples thinking they were main characters in some love story by now.
Kane smiled against my lips. “I don’t think the cab driver will take lightly to me fucking you against the hood of this car like I’m tempted to, so I’m gonna have to let you go.”
My body sailed with lust at the mere mention of such an act. For anyone else, it would be nothing but a ridiculous comment. For Kane, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was into that kind of thing.
I wasn’t into that kind of thing, I reminded myself.
I put on my mask of indifference, trying to step back from Kane, but he held fast.
He cupped my face. “I’ll be seeing you, Avery Hart.”
It sounded like a promise.
But it was just another line. We didn’t exchange numbers, make plans. He was being polite.
“I’ll be seeing you, Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes,” I replied back with a flippancy in my tone I was proud of.
He held me a beat longer before opening the door to the cab. I all but fell into it, forcing myself not to look at Kane again as he closed the door then banged the top of the car.
My body sank into the faded leather of the seat.
I wouldn’t be seeing Kane again.
A good thing. Since he was the antithesis of everything I was. A near miss. That’s what that was. A brush with a meteor that very well could’ve leveled me. I closed my eyes, sinking back, inhaling the smokey smell of the cab while running through my day. I forced Kane from my mind, promising myself I wouldn’t think of him again.
KANE
I hadn’t wanted Avery to leave. Watching her get dressed, walking downstairs and hailing her a cab had gone against all of my better instincts.
Not that I thought I had better instincts.
The sheets smelled of her. My mouth tasted of her. As soon as she left, I felt the urge, the fucking hunger to chase her down the street and fuck her against a brownstone. Fuck who was watching.
In fact, the thought of doing it, doing her in the street, had my cock standing at attention. Not that it wasn’t already painfully hard from her walking around naked, apparently not feeling the need to cover up. If I had it my way, that woman would not wear a thing to hide the perfection that was her body. Her curves.
Except the thought of another man glimpsing the dark pink of her nipples or the hair covering her pussy had me clenching a fist. I was not jealous. Not by a long shot. All of my relationships—if you could call them that—had been open. I wasn’t into chaining a woman to me, and I sure as fuck didn’t want chains. It didn’t bother me that the women I was with were also with other men—sometimes other women. It comforted me. I didn’t want the pressure of being their one and only. Much too dangerous.
But the thought of another man, or woman, touching Avery, tasting her, even fucking holding her hand… I shuddered with fury.
A shower. A cold fucking shower was what I needed. Giving in to the fury licking at my throat would do nothing for me. Would ruin years of work.
The cold shower did little to help. I made myself come against the spray thinking of Avery. Not of her tits nor her ass nor her cunt. But to that half-smile of hers that I got the sense people didn’t see often. I felt possessive over that smile.
“You’re late,” Julian, my publicist informed me when I called him.
He was on the set of the fucking photoshoot I’d regretted agreeing to since I woke up with Avery’s body in my arms this morning.
“I need you to get me into a restaurant,” I said in reply.
“And I need you to get to 450 West Thirty-One Street five minutes ago. Have you even left yet?”
I’d closed the door to the brownstone just seconds before he posed the question. I had the urge to buy it off of Kris now that I had the memories of fucking Avery in the entryway.
I’d have to pay over market because the fuck liked to make money, and he’d sniff out that it was personal. But I didn’t give a fuck. I wanted to halt all renovations on my penthouse, sell it and move into the place where I’d first tasted, first owned, Avery Hart.
“It’s called Inferno,” I said, jogging the few feet to my bike.
My cock twitched at the memory of her behind me last night, her heat pressing into me. I’d been sure I’d have to ease her into the ride; she was uptight—in a way that made me desperate to unwind her. Classy. She was not someone who looked used to being on the back of a bike. She’d surprised and delighted the fuck out of me when she’d demanded I’d go fast.
Trust... She’d trusted me with her life within ten minutes of meeting me. And that was something I’d gathered was out of character for her.
“Are you fucking with me?” Julian practically shrieked.
I considered what it was about me that made a woman as beguiling and interesting and in control as Avery Hart to trust me. “No, I need a table there tonight.”
“You are not shitting me,” Julian muttered. “The waiting list for Inferno is two years long.”
Though I expected some kind of waiting list, that gave me pause. When she’d said that last night, I thought she was teasing me. Clearly, she wasn’t. Avery was good at what she did. Powerful. Talented. I liked that.
“You good at your job?” I asked Julian.
I could almost feel his chest puffing up. “I’m the best in the fucking business.”
“Well, get me that table.” I fingered the leather she had sat on last night, imagining fucking her against it at some point.
“It’s impossible.”
“Buy the fucking restaurant if we have to,” I demanded. “I’m getting that table.”
I got on the bike.
I wasn’t done with Avery Hart.
Not by a long shot.