Chapter Thirteen #2
He huffs a quiet laugh, lips brushing my cheek. “I could ask you the same thing.”
My insides melt to mush.
“Don’t move.”
Move?
I’m not sure I remember how to.
I watch as he turns to the cabinets and pulls out a bag of sugar. There’s an edge to his movements, tight and controlled, like he’s barely holding himself together. And the way his muscles move when he reaches for the heavy cream has my fingers itching to touch him.
But I don’t.
I stay still.
Very, very still.
He moves differently when he cooks. Calm and precise. No wasted motion. Like his body knows exactly what to do without consulting his brain.
I’m not like that in a kitchen. I check the recipe a hundred times and still manage to start things on fire.
He sets a whisk on the counter beside me, and his hip brushes my knee. “We’ll be using a whisk instead of a beater.”
I shift to watch him. “Why’s that?”
“A beater is loud, and we don’t want to wake the house, do we?” He pours the cream into the bowl.
I shake my head as he starts whisking the cream.
Quick.
Hard.
The metal scrapes the bowl in sharp, fast circles.
Heat coils low in my stomach as I watch his forearm flex with every stroke.
“Well, if the beater’s off-limits”—I lean down and kiss his arm—“I can think of a part of you that wouldn’t mind my attention.”
He pauses for half a second.
Acknowledging the offer.
Possibly debating it.
Then he whisks harder.
I dip my finger in the cream, just beginning to fluff.
He catches my wrist. “It’s not ready for tasting.”
His fingers wrap tight around my wrist, warm and firm, and the air between us thickens.
“It looks ready.”
His eyes lock on my smeared fingertip. He drags my finger straight to his mouth. He doesn’t just lick. His lips close, pulling my finger in.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
He groans like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.
His tongue swirls, and his teeth scrape.
He takes my finger to the very back of his mouth, then pulls back slowly, lips dragging, leaving my skin cool and wet. Inside, I’m shaking and wrecked.
And his mouth still hovers like he’s not finished.
“Wait until it’s ready,” he orders in a low, rough tone.
My free hand brings a dollop of whipped cream to my mouth. I spread the white cream over my bottom lip. Slow and smug.
He freezes. His jaw locks.
“Oops,” I whisper.
His stare drops to my mouth.
Hard.
Predatory.
In an instant, his hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing under my chin, tilting my face up to his.
His mouth slants over mine, and he licks the sweet cream with a filthy hunger that steals my breath. His tongue sweeps and chases every last drop before he sucks my lower lip into his mouth.
“Keep teasing me like that.” His voice scrapes low against my ear. “And we’re not going to make it to dessert.”
My teeth itch to drag down his throat. My hands twitch to pull him closer.
But I can’t.
Because this can’t go any further than kissing.
Not here. Not in someone else’s kitchen with paper-thin walls and sleeping strangers.
I let him whisk.
He clears his throat. Sharp. Like he’s shaking himself out of it. It looks like a small effort to stay on track and resist the urge to make out with me.
“Tell me what else is on the agenda?”
“The agenda?” I lift a strawberry to my mouth.
His hand snaps out and takes it away. “These need to be washed.”
I pout, and his eyes darken.
“Your solo retreat.” The words sound painful for him to say. “Are you painting sunsets? Writing bad poetry in small B&Bs?”
I smirk and wrap my fingers around the edge of the counter to keep from reaching out again. “Photography.”
His expression changes. “What kind of photography?” Genuine curiosity softens his voice.
I’m used to fading into corners. Letting louder people take up the light.
But somehow, with him, the conversation always turns back toward me.
“Urban landscapes. Night shots. People I barely know.” I default to short, choppy answers.
Short answers are safer—less space to be seen.
“People you barely know? Like me?”
“I feel like we know each other a little more than barely.”
He chuckles, adding vanilla and sugar without measuring. “Fair.” His gaze settles back on me. “So what is it about night shots?” He doesn’t look away when he asks.
Like he’s actually waiting. Like my answer matters. He turns it back to me, like he’s not done listening yet.
One answer leads to another, then another, and before I realize it, I haven’t stopped talking.
He has a way of drawing things out of me I’ve long packed away. Prying them loose.
The more I talk, and the more he listens, the version of me who believed photography could be more than a hobby lets herself imagine galleries and bylines and a life shaped by what I’d once seen through that lens.
It’s thrilling.
Terrifying.
Alive.
By the time the whisk slows, my insides are alive again with pure desire to chase my dream.
He stops whisking, but when he looks at me, he waits. Like he knows I’m right on the edge of saying something that matters.
The moment hits me hard. Harder than he’ll ever know. Not because he gave me anything, but because he made space for me to remember what I already want. And in that space, my dream comes rushing back—whole, and unmistakably mine.
And when he finishes, he holds up the whisk.
“Go on.” A mischievous grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Lick it.”
My stomach flips hard.
I lean in, and my tongue darts over the cold metal. The soft cream melts across my tongue—sweet, fluffy, and vanilla-rich.
My eyes widen. “Wow. That’s incredible.”
“Was it worth the wait?”
“Yes.” My tongue traces the rim of the whisk he’s still holding.
“You’re thorough.” His eyes are half-lidded as he watches me.
Heat climbs up my neck. Down my spine. Pools low.
“We need strawberries before I kiss that whipped cream off every last inch of you.”
The idea is thrilling, naughty, and scandalous to an extent I can’t wait to cross.
We slice strawberries and dip them into his whipped cream creation. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
The teasing and talking continue. So natural. So easy. Until he drops a tea towel on the floor in front of me and bends down to pick it up.
Muscles ripple under his smooth skin. Tight and strong. The curve of his shoulders, the way his spine flexes as he leans forward, is hypnotic.
I can’t look away.
And crouching brings him so close, the warmth of his body brushes against mine.
Then he’s on his knees. The sight sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with logic.
His fingers curl around each of my legs, warm, firm, and calloused.
I swallow hard when he lifts my calf to his mouth.
My heart hammers, caught between needing to pull away and knowing I can’t.
“I’m still hungry.” He looks up at me with smouldering eyes. “I need to taste you.”
I can’t say anything.
“Tell me I can taste you.”
I nod.
It’s all I can do.
“Say the words, Shay.”