Chapter 5
Five
We were back at Kane’s borrowed brownstone. After having sex in my kitchen. Something wild and irresponsible … two words no one would use to describe me. I didn’t feel guilt or shame over the act, even though I thought I would. I took my work seriously, my kitchen seriously. It was like my church in some ways. Yet it wasn’t sacrilege to do what I did with Kane
Especially when he worshipped me.
Once he was done cleaning up our ‘mess’—not that there was any visible evidence of what had taken place beyond some palm marks—he walked me to his bike, which he’d somehow found a parking spot for in the alley that adjoined our kitchen, where the dumpsters were.
I didn’t ask him how he parked it there. Didn’t ask any questions, actually. I just got on the back of his bike.
This time, we didn’t have sex in the entryway, though I stared at the rug, ornate and very expensive looking. Again, no evidence of what had taken place on it last night, but my cheeks warmed at the memory.
“You eat?” Kane asked, smirking as his eyes followed mine.
I contemplated the question, unable to orientate myself between his sexual innuendos, unyielding carnal desires and then questions about my basic needs.
He toyed with strands of my hair that had escaped my tight bun after riding on the back of his bike. “You spent your entire night cooking for other people, cooking for me. After seeing you move in that kitchen, I’m going to assume you didn’t feed yourself.”
Kane was perceptive. And it did something to me to know he’d given this some thought. Been thinking about me beyond just being someone he was having sex with. This was a nurturing energy that I didn’t expect from the daredevil who emanated sex and danger.
“I ate earlier,” I told him. Not a lie. I ate like I normally did—a snack, usually, depending on how busy it was. Maybe some protein.
Kane stared at me, inspecting my more than ample curves that communicated I wasn’t exactly starving. “Not enough,” he decided.
Then without saying anything else, he directed me to the kitchen I’d been in in the early hours of the morning.
“Ass there.” He sat me in a seat before rounding the island to the fridge.
“I’m afraid that I’m not going to be able to create something anywhere near your level,” he said from the fridge. “But I do make a mean sandwich.” His arms were full of what looked like assorted meats and dressings. “That good with you?”
I didn’t know what to say. This man had wanted to feed me, to cook for me, two nights in a row. No one had done that for me in my adult life.
“People usually urge me to cook for them when they find out I’m a chef,” I chuckled.
“I’m not surprised.” He plonked the ingredients onto the counter without ceremony. A bottle of mayo rolled toward me.
I rolled it back, and Kane caught it.
“But I’m not looking to have you work when you're around me, Chef,” he said. The title made my fingertips clench the island. It was one I’d heard all my life but it was always used to establish deference, distance. Now it was used to create an intimacy I hadn’t known with another person. “I’m not gonna be another person wanting things from you. And this is also purely selfish on my part. I want you to have energy to go upstairs and ride my cock.”
Cue pussy tingles.
“You gonna let me make you a sandwich?” I nearly swallowed my tongue as I watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips.
I nodded curtly.
Then, after eating his—admittedly delicious—sandwich, I went upstairs and rode his cock.
I wasn’t practiced at ‘riding’ men.
Arguably, the act itself should’ve been part of my cache—it communicated control, agency, things I needed inside and outside the bedroom.
But it also required confidence.
Something I had plenty of outside the bedroom.
Inside, not so much.
My mother had more recently turned into someone who was ‘free’ in discussions of sex and anything else. But this identity was new. It had started after my father died, while I was starting to distance myself from her.
Before that, sex and even periods were something talked about in metaphors, with a heavy dose of embarrassment.
I’d therefore slunk away from sexuality, even though I got breasts early, which only made things more uncomfortable for me.
I’d focused on my goals, concentrated on my desire to be a world-renowned chef and hadn’t deviated. Losing my virginity had been awkward, painful and unpleasant.
Every dalliance afterward had been variations of the same. I’d let men take charge, hoping that one of them would clue me in as to why everyone seemed so obsessed with sex. None of them had.
Until Kane.
Now I got what all the fuss was about.
I didn’t feel self-conscious about my size and whether I’d be too heavy for him. Though for a second, I was concerned about my lack of experience and whether it would show. But Kane kissed those doubts right away. My body took over, my instincts. I reveled in watching the pleasure on Kane’s face as I moved up and down, the new angle a perfect fit for me and capable of giving me an orgasm within minutes. I’d raked my hands down his chest, covered his tattoos. He’d pulled my hair free from its bun so it had brushed his skin. Our lips crashed against each other’s, our damp skin grinding.
Yes, I was now a definite fan of this position. Though I suspected any position with Kane would be enjoyable.
I’d cleaned up then gone back to bed in nothing but my panties. Kane was naked. The second my knee had hit the mattress, he’d grabbed me by the waist and tugged me to him.
I was half splayed on top of him, his arms tight around me. Possessive. Warm.
Kane wasn’t so much of a cuddler but a claimer. Every inch of my skin felt like it belonged to him.
I liked it. It didn’t make me feel suffocated or submissive. It made me feel something else. Revered? Safe? I didn’t want to inspect the feelings a man I’d known for only two days was giving me.
It was late. I’d been up early, worked all day and barely had any sleep the night before. I’d had very athletic sex. Twice. Technically, I was exhausted. But my body also felt wired. I didn’t want to sleep. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? It wouldn’t bring Kane and me in this bed with the world ceasing to exist outside. Normally, I sank into bed, eager to go to sleep, then to get away from the quiet of the night and back into the bustle of my kitchen.
Not this night.
Kane was still awake too, if the tautness of his muscles and the way his grip around me hadn’t relaxed was anything to go by.
“What made you want to be a chef?” he asked, breaking the thick, comfortable silence between us. He’d obviously sensed I was awake too.
I looked up at him, resting my face in my hands.
“What made me want to be a chef?” I repeated.
“The way you move in that kitchen…” His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “It was magnificent to watch. It was like you were born to do it. Like it was effortless.”
I laughed. “No, I was just trained relentlessly in some of the toughest kitchens in the world, drilled to make it look effortless.”
“You can’t train that, the way you were,” Kane disagreed tenderly. “That’s something in your blood. Was one of your parents a chef?”
The mention of my parents gave me pause, momentarily shoving me back behind my shields, into the cool embrace of my ice queen persona.
But Kane’s warm body, his firm hold and the sincere curiosity behind his question gently coaxed me back.
I cleared my throat. “No, my parents weren’t. My father was an amateur chef, a foodie. He’s where my love of it stemmed from, but it grew into something bigger than that for me.”
I was anxious to get off the topic of my parents, especially my father, so I did something I rarely did; I babbled without thinking entirely about what was coming out of my mouth.
“Food is chaos and control in one. You get to nourish people and give them an experience they’ll never forget. There are rules. Some you can’t break, some you absolutely can and have to if you want to be remembered. But there is order underneath it all. Or that’s what I like to think.”
I shrugged, feeling self-conscious about what I was saying.
“You don’t want to hear this.” I looked downward at the comforter.
Kane stopped playing with my hair so he could tilt my chin upward.
“I want to hear everything there is to know about you,” he said softly. “Every word.”
Again, he was being completely sincere. He wanted to know me. He was interested.
“Continue,” he demanded.
“Um, well... I just, like it. Like the order and the chaos. Like that I can be comforted and surprised in the kitchen, and it gave me something I wanted—no, something I needed. Without it…” I traced the ridges of his abs. “Without it, I don’t know who I’d be.”
I stopped talking because I needed to take a breath.
“Aside from Kiera, I don’t have friends,” I confessed. “No interests, hobbies. I don’t travel unless it’s for work. I don’t take vacations. I don’t really speak to my family. So this is it. Inferno is my life. Food is my life.”
It was a rather shameful admission, one I hadn’t fully intended on giving. Kane, by all appearances—and some hefty googling—had a full life. Bursting at the seams, really. He didn’t specialize in a single profession. His main sport seemed to be motocross, but he also had Olympic medals for snowboarding, and he raced cars ‘for fun’ yet had qualified for some of the top races in the country.
He’d climbed Everest, for heaven’s sake.
In addition to those accomplishments, he had what appeared to be a glittering social life. He was pictured with countless celebrities at parties, on yachts, walking down the streets of various cities with his arm slung around the shoulders of famous models and actresses.
Yes, it was rather shameful to admit to this man that my kitchen was all I had.
I was attempting to burrow into myself, hiding behind my shields.
But Kane flipped us so I was on my back, and his body was covering mine. He braced himself on his forearms, his lips inches away, barely brushing mine.
He stroked my eyebrow, searching my face.
“I’ve never had a passion like that,” he murmured quietly. “Never had something so deeply embedded in the core of me.” He clicked his tongue. “At least not in the past.”
My throat burned upon hearing that last sentence. It couldn’t mean what I thought it meant. It couldn’t mean me. No. Absolutely not. I was hearing things.
“It’s precious, something to be immensely proud of that you have that talent,” he continued, his voice low. “I find you very fucking impressive, Avery Hart.” He moved so I could feel his hardness pressing into my core.
I gasped, instantly responding.
His lips pressed down on mine, kissing me slowly, purposefully, lazily. But it was also a claiming. His kiss felt like a brand.
With devastating slowness, he pushed inside of me.
My body writhed with the unexpected pleasure of it. I arched my back against the bed, clawing at the sheets as he took his time filling me.
Once he was fully seated, he didn’t give me the friction I sorely needed. Everything inside me felt raw. Not just from the sex earlier in the night but from the admission, from opening up in a way I hadn’t before.
This didn’t feel like the sex we’d had before—hot, animalistic, carnal. No, sex after learning personal details was intimate in a way that felt terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.
“Chef, open your eyes.”
I hadn’t realized I’d squeezed them shut.
Slowly, I heeded his request.
Kane was hovering above me, taking in all the details of my face. “I like you, Avery Hart,” he whispered. “And I consider it a great fucking honor to have my cock inside of you.”
Though the admission was tender, serious, I couldn’t help but let out a small giggle.
A giggle.
I didn’t giggle.
I rarely laughed.
But a giggle was something that feminine, carefree women did. I was not that.
Yet there I was, giggling with Kane inside me.
Not likely to be good for his ego.
I waited for his eyes to shutter, his body to tense as he lashed out at me for the giggle.
But instead, his lips stretched into a large grin.
“Like that.” He nuzzled my neck. “Hearing you happy like that while I’m inside you.”
He moved, and my giggle was gone, replaced by a moan of pleasure.
“Yeah,” he said, more seriously. “Like the laughter, but I’m gonna aim for the screaming of my name now.”
And he got it.
I screamed his name, but it also felt imprinted on my insides.
Kane turned up at the restaurant again the following night. After dinner service. He just sauntered in the back entrance as though he owned the place, had every right to be there and had done it a million times before.
It wasn’t easy to just walk in the back door, or the side door that led to the dumpsters and the alley. I’d ensured that, for the safety of my staff. There was a keypad on the exterior door, and there were security cameras and multiple people whose job it was to notice if there was someone at the back of house who wasn’t supposed to be there.
Kane had, apparently, charmed his way back there.
I wanted to be mad about it. I really did. Except the vision of him watching me go about my end of night chores as if I was performing a strip tease sent all logical thought from my head.
“Hey, Chef,” he murmured when I looked up to see him standing there.
And there went my cool. The greeting sent fire into my veins.
His hair was long enough to be pulled back into a man bun. I hadn’t liked that kind of thing. But pulled back, it showed off his angular chin, clean shaven this time. His heavy brow, contrasted by those electric-blue eyes. The crooked nose, and the scar on his lip was more prominent somehow.
He managed to look menacing, mysterious and mischievous all at once. Oh, and masculine. Hugely masculine. I noted his tattooed hands had nails that were painted black. Something unexpected, yet he pulled it off, and it only added to his appeal. His effortless style.
Meanwhile, I was in my chef’s whites. My face was likely flushed from the heat and the business of the kitchen. No gloss on my lips, no mascara to help make my brown eyes ‘pop’ as Kiera said. But Kane was looking at me as if I were dressed to the nines.
I bit my lip and finished my chores in record time. We didn’t have sex in the kitchen again. It felt like a one-off. A sacred memory. A pivotal one.
I walked with him to his bike as if it were a foregone conclusion we were going home together. All of the dating advice from people like Kiera would go against this. Play hard to get, establish space, boundaries, independence. Don’t make yourself too available for him. She’d drilled such things into me many times.
But I didn’t want to play games with Kane. He seemed unflinchingly honest with me. Treating this, us, like it was natural. As easy as breathing.
And nothing came easy to me before, most especially relationships.
So I was going for it.
“What’s your address?” he asked, leaning me against the bike. He’d kissed me senseless prior to this, so I didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything but rattle off my address, let him put a helmet on me and get us on the bike.
Riding through the city on Kane’s bike had quickly become my favorite thing in the entire world. The cool breeze, the lights flashing by, the roar of the bike. I had no responsibilities but to hold on to Kane and let him take the wheel. It was thrilling.
Peaceful.
Peace…
Something I’d never known until I met Kane “The Devil” Rhodes.
“This is your place, huh?” He had walked inside, doing a slow spin to take in the entire area. It didn’t take more than a spin. And it didn’t need to be a slow one either.
My studio apartment was big by Manhattan studio apartment standards. The sleeping area held enough space for a queen bed, two side tables, a trunk at the end and even a set of drawers stacked neatly underneath the large window that looked out at the skyline.
The entrance separated my sleeping area from my living area, which consisted of a green velvet sofa that had admittedly seen better days but was soft and comfortable and covered with throw pillows and blankets Kiera had bought. Kiera bought most any and all decorative objects that didn’t serve as a direct function of the apartment.
I was a bare bones kind of woman. I didn’t spend a lot of time on the couch, certainly not enough time to flip through hundred-dollar coffee table books or burn candles that likely cost the same.
My flowers were fake, which again, was Kiera’s doing, only after she fought relentlessly to get me to brighten up my space with fresh flowers. I didn’t see the point when they’d eventually die.
So because of my friend, my apartment had a slight bit of personality and wasn’t totally devoid of warmth. The personality wasn’t my own, though. It was borrowed from my best friend, who knew me well enough to make it look like me. Or attempt to. My personality and interests were one in the same: my job. I didn’t have time for much else and didn’t define myself by anything else.
The kitchen was small, with new appliances that I’d purchased when I’d bought the apartment. I hadn’t bothered to do much other than that, so the shiny appliances looked out of place against the faded linoleum and yellowing paint.
I had never been self-conscious about my apartment. When I was outside the kitchen, I found myself around a lot of wealthy people—despite my best efforts. Regardless, I had never felt pressure to live up to the expectations of others.
I didn’t feel the need to own outrageously expensive bags or jewelry. I liked good quality clothing, but it was simple pants, shirts, tees. I hadn’t needed to prove myself to anyone. My food did that.
With Kane’s eyes on my living space, I wasn’t embarrassed about how small it was, how all of the furniture was second hand… But I was mindful of the quiet markers of wealth I’d caught off the man. The expensive but not splashy watch, the low-key but well-made clothes. The general way he carried himself. Oh, and the fact that he was world famous.
He was renting an entire brownstone. His penthouse was being renovated, no doubt by some outrageously expensive interior designer. Not that he seemed like the kind of person bothered by all that, I just knew that’s how celebrities rolled.
I didn’t feel judged, having the rich and famous daredevil in my compact apartment. But I felt … naked. And the man had seen me naked. I wasn’t someone who considered her apartment her sanctuary or anything. I wasn’t someone who searched for sanctuary, beyond my kitchen. Chaos, noise, movement … that was what I relished. Therefore, I wasn’t in this small and quiet apartment more often than I needed to be.
It was with Kane’s presence that I realized I didn’t have a space that reflected who I was. Unless you counted the huge, gleaming kitchen and the stainless-steel appliances, cleaned to the point of shining every day—everything cold and hard and lifeless. Until I got in there and sparked the fires, brought in fresh produce and scented the air with food. Which I hadn’t done in a long while, admittedly.
“Not impressive enough for you?” I asked him without snark. I was genuinely curious as to what Kane thought of my apartment. I didn’t think he was the kind of person to judge based on possessions, but I couldn’t know him completely in the short time we’d spent together.
In my experience, people with money and power were excellent at putting on acts. Some of them were genuine and good people. Most had been at some point before the opulence and the sharpness of the world turned them into something entirely different.
Kane’s eyes shot to me. “I’m plenty impressed by you, Chef, and I’m not someone impressed or otherwise by real estate. It’s just … not what I was expecting.”
I leaned against the counter. “Interesting. And what were you expecting?” Again, I didn’t ask the question with any bite or offense; I was simply curious as to what kind of image Kane had built of me.
He moved to my bookshelves which contained countless paperbacks that had been bought with good intentions yet hadn’t been touched, and recipe books so worn, some of the covers had been almost ripped away entirely.
I didn’t cook using recipes often these days, but starting out, I made it my mission to learn everything I could. It was the old adage, ‘you’ve got to know the rules in order to break them’ or some such thing. I wanted to know food, cuisines, front and back. Every technique, from every culture, I took it upon myself to master.
“Well, from what I gather, you’re somewhat of a celebrity chef…”
“Ugh, I am definitely not a celebrity chef ,” I rolled my eyes, spitting out the two words with distaste. “I have not appeared on a single reality show bearing my name, I don’t judge cooking competitions, and I haven’t slapped my name on a line of subpar cookware sold at big-box stores.”
I had been offered each of those things, with money that made Kiera’s eyes pop but hadn’t swayed me in the slightest. Kiera had tried to convince me the first few times I got the offers, but now she understood the answer would always be no.
Kane winked at me. “Okay, tell me how you really feel.”
I smirked. I guessed that was a little snarky. “I’m not judging chefs who go that route—”
“Yes, you are,” he interrupted. “Which is fine with me. You don’t have to get political with your answers. I like the truth.”
I licked my lips. His eyes followed that movement, and my nipples pebbled. “Okay, I do judge them,” I admitted slowly. “But I’m sure they judge me on my snobbery about how they earn their living.”
“Or maybe they’re insanely jealous of your principles.”
I shrugged. I didn’t have friends amongst my contemporaries in the culinary world. Partly because I didn’t party like a lot of them did, and I wasn’t friendly. But also because the world was competitive. “Doubt it.”
“Anyway…” He peered at me after putting a book down, his eyes twinkling. “I won’t say the C word since I now know it’s a trigger, but from what I understand, you’re a well-known chef at a restaurant that charges fifty dollars for a salad. I can’t presume to understand how payroll works, but I do know it’s your name on the door.”
I nodded, understanding where he was going with this.
“Though the neighborhood is good,” he continued, speaking of the Upper West Side. “And I know the criminal cost of rent in this city, I’m guessing at this stage in your career, you could get a one bedroom if you wanted.”
There was no judgment, just curiosity. Kiera had said the same thing, many times, urging me to go apartment hunting with her.
I shrugged. “I like the building. It’s close to the restaurant, and I don’t need more than this.” I gestured around my living room slash kitchen slash bedroom.
After putting down a well-worn recipe book, his piercing eyes searched my features. “You really mean it.”
I nodded. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Though Kane made it his business to really look at me when he was staring, the weight of it, in my apartment of all places, was suddenly too much.
I moved to the kitchen, deciding I needed to busy my hands, even though they’d been busy all night. I couldn’t just stand there with Kane ogling at me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking down at the counter.
“Making dinner,” I explained, following his eyes.
“ Dinner ?” he repeated, his lip curled in disgust. “This is what the Michelin Star chef cooks herself for dinner?”
I bristled, leaning back and folding my hands across my chest. “There is nothing wrong with a humble peanut butter and jelly.”
“You’re not wrong,” he agreed. “I’ve consumed many in my life and have been perfectly satisfied. But I’ve also eaten your food which made me realize that I’d never been truly satisfied until I put something you made in my mouth.”
My knees trembled, and my stomach did a weird flip thing all the way down to my pussy.
Kane looked up at me, his irises dancing with hunger and mischief and palpable sexual energy. “You are capable of creating greatness. And you deserve to eat better than peanut butter and jelly.”
I stared at him, slack-jawed for a second or two. Then I composed myself, clearing my throat. “I cook food all day. Wonderful, complicated food. Every waking hour is concerned with menus, with the most minute details from where the fish is obtained to the garnish on the plates. Whether or not parsley puree should be squeezed, spooned or left off completely. I do not have the energy to make any more decisions about garnishes and proteins. It’s cliché, but I’m sure it’s on par with the house cleaner living in a mess or therapists being craziest of them all. I’m sure with your chosen profession you take it easy when you’re not racing motorcycles or hurtling down the side of a mountain or whatever. You’re more careful.”
Kane had been staring at me intently as I spoke, hanging on every word. I’d never had anyone, let alone a man, listen to me with such rapt attention.
Okay, that was a lie. Everyone in my kitchen listened to me like that, taking notes of the most minute details.
But a man, a romantic partner, never had. Granted, I didn’t have a whole lot of experience with romantic entanglements, but the few I’d had rarely listened without a phone in their hand, one eye on the TV or just a general glazed look in their eyes.
The weight of having the attention of a romantic partner, of a man like Kane, was hard to stand under.
He didn’t speak for a long time, just stared with his intensity, with that smirk that held something deeper, something more reverent and something all too heavy for a Tuesday evening.
“I was more careful when I didn’t have an audience,” he said finally. “But I’m beginning to understand there’s nothing careful about me right now. I’ve never been in more danger than standing here in this apartment.”
My heart tried to escape my chest. I got his meaning, what laid beneath his words.
Me.
Us.
Was there an us?
He left the words hanging there for a long time before he rolled up his sleeves, striding toward the kitchen to open the fridge.
He surveyed the contents, clicking his tongue.
I couldn’t be entirely sure what was in there—maybe an old takeout box or some expired condiments. A bottle of champagne that Kiera had put in there, since she was of the opinion that one must always have champagne in the fridge ‘in case of emergency.’
“You’re a chef,” he chastised, popping his head over the door. “And this is what you have in your fridge?”
I couldn’t deny it, so I didn’t respond.
He looked from me to the fridge then went to my cupboards.
“Well, I do love a challenge,” he muttered as he leaned into the fridge and grabbed the champagne. “Open that, won’t you, Chef? Then go and relax, although I have a hunch that word isn’t even in your vocabulary. Sit, watch your man perform a miracle if you must.” He winked. “Otherwise, drink, read, watch TV. My only requirement is that you get off your feet.”
I looked at him as he opened cupboards until he found a frying pan, setting it on the stove. He didn’t ask me where anything was.
I was still holding the champagne.
He looked over his shoulder at me, raising a brow.
“I’m hoping to fuck that you have proper glasses for that.” He nodded to the bottle. “I’m a heathen; I’ll drink out of a coffee mug if I must, but you deserve better.”
“I have glasses,” I replied robotically. I did because like the champagne, Kiera ensured that I had champagne flutes. I also had Bordeaux, pinot and cabernet glasses. Not because I drank a lot of wine but because on the off-chance I did have a glass—usually with Kiera—I needed to have the proper vessels.
Same with all of my pots, pans, knives and cutlery. Everything was top of the line, out of place in the faded-paint cupboards.
“This is for a celebration,” I finally said, referring to the champagne.
“Every day we’re walking this lump of rock hurtling through space is a time to celebrate,” Kane quipped. “And finding you on this hunk of rock is reason to celebrate. Open the wine, Chef.”
The last part of his sentence was uttered lower, his tone sultrier.
I did the only thing I could do. I opened the wine.
“This was amazing,” I said honestly as I set my napkin on my empty plate.
Somehow, Kane had made a meal for us using the scant amount of ingredients in my kitchen. Linguine. With caramelized onion, garlic and some fried pancetta I had in the fridge. Simple. But everything done right—the exact balance of flavors, the pasta perfectly al dente .
“Glad you liked it, Chef,” Kane replied. “We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow, to ensure you have food in your fridge to sustain life.”
I gaped at the offhand comment. We. Plans for tomorrow. I had a million things to do for the restaurant tomorrow. Like I did daily.
But I couldn’t say no to going grocery shopping with Kane. Something so pedestrian. Something so … normal.
“People, men most especially, don’t cook for me,” I said instead of addressing the grocery plans. “And if they do, they don’t do it three nights in a row.”
“There a question in there, Chef?” Kane asked, lazily playing with a tendril of my hair.
He did that, touched me. Often. As if it were normal. As if he were unable to keep his hands to himself. Even when we sat at my already compact table, he’d wrenched my chair closer to his so our sides were pressed together.
“Why?” I asked.
There was a lot more than a question about the food in that word. Why was he here still? Why me? In my googling, I knew I looked nothing like the women he usually dated. Models. Stunning, shiny, slim.
I was not ugly, but I was not stunning. Definitely not shiny. I always had more than one hair out of place, too busy to be worrying about beauty routines. And despite the sporadic nature of my meals, I was not slim. Food was my life; I needed to actually consume it in order to be good at my job. Plus, I had a naturally curvy body. Being slim wasn’t in the cards for me.
Kane, although he hadn’t known me for long—four days, was it only that?—seemed to understand that the single word wasn’t a simple question.
He stared at me, still toying with my hair. “Because, Chef, I’ve never tasted anything like what you cook. Never looked into someone’s eyes and wanted to drown in them. And I’ve never felt more anchored to this hunk of rock than when my hand is on you. When I’m inside you.”
My chair screeched as he snatched me from it. I was straddling him in a couple of heartbeats. He was already hard.
“You’re addicting, Chef,” he murmured, lips brushing mine. “And I’m not at all mad about that.”
Then he kissed me. Hungry, claiming, without reservation.
I kissed him back with the same fervor, grinding against him.
He stood without obvious effort, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around his hips. Never breaking the kiss, he walked us through my apartment.
“Though I plan on fucking you on every surface of this apartment, I think we’ll be conventional and start with the bed,” he growled against my mouth. “My woman’s had a long day, and she needs comfort. And multiple orgasms.”
“I should shower,” I gasped as he threw me down on the bed. “I’ve been working all day.”
The past few nights, I hadn’t thought about the reality of sleeping with Kane after such long days, but I was suddenly self-conscious. He didn’t shy away from oral sex, from inhaling my scent, and surely it couldn’t be … pleasant.
“We’ll shower.” Kane bared his teeth. “Together.” He leaned over to take off my pants then inhaled me over my panties. “But I like this smell. Fucking love it. I’ll show you just how much.”
And he did.
Then we showered.
And it wasn’t until I was just falling asleep in his arms when I realized he’d referred to me as ‘his woman.’