Chapter 49 #2
Wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulls me to him. “Then I advise you to stick around, love.”
A delightful warmth floods through me. A light laugh bubbles up as I wrap my arms loosely around his neck. He sways me gently, his own chuckle a warm rumble against my chest.
He pulls back, his hands lingering at my waist. His eyes sparkle with a radiant light that makes me feel like the only person in his world. “Wanna help me bring it all together?” he asks, his gaze turning mischievous.
“Me? Help you?” I arch an eyebrow. “I’m not sure you want to risk it. I don’t remember the last time I actually cooked, cooked.” I take a half-step back, gesturing with a flourish down the length of him in his apron. “Besides, you look like you’re in your element.”
His smile widens into a devastating grin of unfiltered happiness. It melts my insides and makes my heart feel impossibly light. “I’ll take my chances. But first, wine.” He gestures to a small wine rack. “Glasses are in that cabinet right there, if you would?”
“Yes, Chef!” I tease.
I retrieve two large-bowled glasses and place them on the granite island.
Matthew is already there, peeling the foil from a bottle of red.
The soft pop of the cork is a satisfying, homey sound.
He pours a generous amount of the velvety ruby liquid into each glass.
I pick up the one he slides toward me as he raises his own, his eyes finding mine.
The mischief melts into solemn sincerity.
“What shall we toast to?” I ask softly, my heart giving a hopeful flutter at the shift in gravity between us.
He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze incredibly direct, searing. “To new beginnings.” The words are a low, meaningful vow. “And to no longer being afraid of them.”
The words land directly in the heart of the fear I was paralyzed by just a short while ago in his driveway.
My throat tightens with a surge of emotion. “To new beginnings,” I echo, my voice thick with gratitude.
We clink our glasses. The clear, ringing sound feels like a tiny, perfect bell marking this new chapter. I take a sip; the wine is rich, bold, and warms me from the inside out.
“Okay.” I set my glass down. “I’m all yours. What are you gonna do with me?”
Matthew gives me a look so full of raw desire it makes my knees weak. He reaches behind his back and unties his apron. In one smooth motion, he lifts the loop over his head and lowers it over mine. The fabric engulfs me, ridiculously large.
He steps up behind me, his body a solid wall of heat at my back.
“I can think of all kinds of things I’d love to do with you.
” He wraps the long ties around my waist twice, pulling me flush against him as he leans in close.
“But then we’ll never get to dinner,” he murmurs, his chin brushing my cheek as he ties a snug bow at my front.
Then, with unexpected tenderness, he gathers my hair. His fingers glide along the sides of my throat, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. He deftly braids the strands, letting the plait fall down my back.
“There,” he whispers, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the newly exposed skin of my nape.
I suck in a sharp breath.
I watch, mesmerized as he walks over to the stove. With long tongs, he lifts two large pieces of beef from the simmering sauce, placing them in a bowl.
“Your station, Chef Beckett,” he announces, bringing the bowl over to the island and holding two forks out to me.
I approach and take them. “Shouldn’t I have a knife?”
“Not to shred these, no. They’re very tender,” he explains, his eyes glinting.
“O…kay…” I frown, pressing my lips together in confusion.
Matthew laughs, coming to stand directly behind me, his chin resting just over my shoulder. “All you need is firm, steady pressure,” he instructs in a husky rumble. His hands cover mine to guide the forks.
With his fingers strong over my own, he shows me how to press the tines into the meat and pull it apart. The beef yields effortlessly. “See?” His breath stirs the hair at my temple. “When you know how to handle it, it just falls apart for you.”
He guides my hands through the shredding of a few more pieces, his hips pressed into mine.
His lips so close to my ear I can feel the vibration of every word.
My hands tremble under his; my whole body hums with awareness.
After showing me once more, his hands release mine.
His arms wind around my waist, pressing my back to his chest. His chin comes to rest on my shoulder, his lips a breath away from my ear.
“Alright, Chef. Show me,” he murmurs. The teasing vibration travels straight through me, coiling in my belly.
My hands feel clumsy. My heartbeat pulses frantically against my wrists. I try to focus on the task, on the simple mechanics of pulling the impossibly tender meat apart. But all I can feel is him.
The solid weight of his body.
The heat of his hands on my hips.
The intoxicating scent of wine on his breath as it fans across my neck.
I manage to shred a few strands of beef, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. Matthew trails his lips up my neck to the sensitive skin just below my earlobe. My hands falter, the forks clattering against the ceramic bowl. “You smell incredible,” he whispers, sending a sharp tremor down my spine.
“Pretty sure it’s the beef,” I manage, letting out a shaky giggle.
He hums against my skin, a sound of pure satisfaction. His thumbs begin to draw slow, lazy circles on my hipbones, just above the waistband of my sweatpants. A touch so light, yet so charged, it feels like he’s branding me.
“Matt,” I breathe. The word is a weak, helpless protest. “I’m t-trying to work here.”
“You’re doing great.”
His praise is raspy and intimate. Combined with the agonizingly slow caress of his thumbs, it is a pure, exquisite torture. Systematically dismantling my ability to think. To function. To do anything but feel.
I bite my lower lip, forcing my hands to move again.
But my focus is gone.
My body is alive with a desperate, liquid heat. Every deliberate pull of the fork feels linked to the deep, aching pull he’s creating inside me.
“Sh-shouldn’t you be working, too?” I ask, my voice breathless.
“I am,” he whispers, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck. My knees buckle. His hands slide from my hips to my stomach, palms flat and warm, pulling me even more securely against him.
“Done,” I whisper. The last piece of beef is finally shredded.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. The words are possessive against my ear, making my core clench.
He turns me in his embrace, my back pressing against the hard edge of the island.
Before I can process his intent, he scoops me up and sits me on the granite countertop.
He steps between my legs, hands flat on either side of my hips.
His face is inches from mine. He drops his gaze to my mouth for a long, torturous moment before turning to the ragù simmering on the stove.
He picks up a wooden spoon and scoops a small amount of the rich sauce, dipping his index finger into it.
He brings his finger, coated in the glistening ruby-red sauce, to my mouth. “Taste.” His command is a gravelly, non-negotiable whisper.
Surrendering, I lean forward. My heart hammers as my lips part to wrap tentatively around his finger.
The taste is an explosion of tomatoes and herbs, but it’s secondary to the feel of his skin on my tongue.
A muscle in his jaw works, his expression one of intense, sensual concentration.
When I slowly draw back, wicked delight zaps through me at the sound of his sharp intake of breath.
“Good, isn’t it?” The predatory smile returns to his face, full of triumphant heat.
A faint, needy sound escapes my throat, a sound I barely recognize as my own.
Without breaking eye contact, he dips his finger into the sauce a second time. This time, he paints it directly onto my lower lip.
My eyes flutter closed.
“Open your eyes, Amy,” he commands in a silken rasp.
When I do, he’s right there. His deep greens bore into mine as he leans in and licks the sauce from my lip with an excruciatingly slow swipe of his tongue.
My whole body ignites.
He pulls back a fraction, his breath hot against my mouth.
Both of us panting. His hands slide from the counter to my thighs, gripping them firmly, making me gasp his name.
With a low growl deep in his throat, his mouth crashes down on mine.
The kiss is deep and searing. A frantic claiming that speaks of hunger, of possession, of a fire now completely untamed.
It tastes of wine, rich herbs, and him. I meet him with equal force, my arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.
Then, with a groan torn from his very soul, he rips his mouth from mine. He wrenches himself back with a shuddering effort.
Hands still gripping my thighs, he presses his forehead to mine, eyes squeezed shut. “Dinner,” he forces the word out. “I promised you dinner.” He gives me one last, hard kiss, full of that broken promise, then forces himself to step back. Leaving me breathless and burning on the island.
I watch, captivated. He grabs the bowl of beef and turns back to the stove.
Every movement is efficient, graceful, unapologetically masculine.
He adds the shredded beef to the sauce, gives it a final stir, then drains the pasta.
Sipping my wine, I follow his every move as he combines the pasta and fragrant ragù in a large pan, tossing them together with a deft flick of his wrist. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flex under his form-fitting T-shirt.
The air is thick with the rich scent of food and our own palpable, unresolved desire.