Tasty (14 page)

I
feel Cal’s gaze on me as I stand there in the doorway. He steps
closer, until I feel the heat of him behind me, and every strand of
hair on my body stands on end. He really is electric, as highly
charged as the storm that rages outside.

I
turn around. My body brushes his as I do. But he doesn’t
startle back. He’s calm, easy.

“Let’s
bake something,” I suggest. He brings a broad hand down against
my hip. I like the weight of it there, heavy, steady.

“That’s
a great idea,” he says.

#

If
Cal seemed reserved when we were talking about his past, then he’s
a new man in the kitchen. There are no cookbooks here. Only his
hands, strong and gorgeous, as he mixes the batter for an angel food
cake that he’s promised me will be divine. As he stirs, I watch
the bulging shape of his muscles. He whistles happily. I’m
sitting up on the center island, watching him, letting my eyes drink
in every single inch of that gorgeous man.

“Tell
me, Juliette. What’s the first thing you ever made?” He
steps forward after asking until his weight rests against my knees. I
should feel shy, guarded, but I don’t. Instead, Cal’s
kitchen feels like the safest place in the world.

“Poptarts,”
I say, and he laughs louder than I expected. “What? I was
eight. Latchkey kid. My parents were no great cooks.”

“They
didn’t have them on my side of the pond.”

“No?
You missed out. Frosting. Sprinkles. What’s not to like?”

“You
like frosting, eh?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. His gaze
drifts to the piping bag that he’s already got prepared on the
counter. My eyes go wide. Okay, so the frosting thing’s always
been kind of a fantasy of mine. But I remember the bar night chatter
during culinary school. It is for most bakers, right? From the way
that Cal is leaning in against me, his cock stiffening in his jeans,
I suspect it is for him, too. I edge my hand forward.

That’s
when the oven beeps.

Cal
grins wickedly at me. His cock is still pressed against my hip as he
drizzles the batter slowly into the pan. It’s white and thick
and rich. After he pops it into the oven, he dips his finger along
the bottom of the now-empty bowl. Mr. Reynolds would have his hide
for food safety, but Mr. Reynolds isn’t here right now.

“Want
a lick?” he says, offering his finger to me. I lean forward on
the counter. I’m aching to feel his body against me again. But
instead I wrap my mouth around his hand. The batter is sweet and
rich. I lick it off, smiling coyly. He’s watching me intently,
his mouth closed. But then I suck his finger deeper into my mouth.
His falls open. He’s breathing heavily. I am, too.

I
deep throat his finger, letting my tongue massage the base of his
hand. He lets out a moan, jutting his hip so that he’s even
closer to me. He wants me. I want him, so I go for it.

I
kiss him, my mouth still perfumed by vanilla and sugar and a hint of
orange extract. His tongue against mine is heavy and urgent. Kissing
him feels easy, like talking, like eating. Something about the way
our mouths fit together, just right. I throw my arms over his strong
shoulders. He leans me back against the counter, and my legs entwine
around his waist. His cock is right up against me, but there’s
too much clothing between us for my liking.

I
hesitate only a moment—so small, he probably doesn’t even
notice. Because this is the closest I’ve been to anyone in
ages. The storm is raging outside. The kitchen is warm from the oven
and our shared heat. For once, I’m not in the middle of a
murderous rage while he’s touching me and I’m not sure if
I’m ready for that vulnerability.

His
cock is right against my pussy, and god, I want him inside me. I’ve
spent enough time fantasizing. We’ve had enough teasing. I
don’t want to wait any longer, don’t want to think or run
or hide. So I don’t. I rip off his shirt in one swift movement,
my hands touching every inch of him. Smooth skin, soft curling chest
hair, and hard muscles beneath. My fingers trace his abs and trail
down. His hips angle into a perfect V, like an arrow pointing to his
cock. I follow that line, easing down his button fly one button at a
time.

“No,”
he says, putting firm hands on mine. I feel a moment of dismay,
confusion. Is he seriously going to make me wait again? But then he
reaches for the piping bag. “Not yet.”

I’m
waiting on the counter, my knees still propped up against the edge.
He leans over me and with perfect, fluid confidence, he undresses me,
one piece of clothing at a time. Sweater. T-shirt. Shorts. I’m
left in my black cotton bra and panties. Not what I was planning to
wear when I was undressed by America’s favorite celebrity chef,
but it’ll have to do. He runs a hand smoothly over my ass,
teasing at the edge of my panties. “Cal,” I moan, my back
arching.

Then
I feel something cool against my skin. He’s
piping icing over my stomach, one single star-shaped dot at a time. I
look down, watching him above me. He flicks his tongue downward,
lapping the icing up.

I
gasp at the sensation of his lips skimming my body. Every place his
tongue touches, it feels like fire, hot and teasing. I arch into him,
raising my hips, wishing he would give me what I need, what I’ve
been begging for since our first encounter. I’m opening for
him, full of desire. I whimper. Damn, I want to feel that tongue
everywhere. But he takes his time, teasing me, tasting one drop of
icing—one inch of skin—at a time.

I
swear to god, if we get interrupted again, I’m staging a coup.

I’m
so wet, I’m practically aching.

“You
like that, Juliette?” he asks.

“Yes,”
I whisper. He puts another dot of icing on my inner thigh. I feel it
there, cool and slick. My legs open. I’m desperate. I need him
to push that perfect tongue inside of me and never come out. But he
doesn’t, not yet. Instead, he puts icing on the other thigh.
Then he kneels in front of me and begins to lap the icing off my
skin, careful motions, left thigh, then right. He feels so good that
I’m quivering, gripping the edge of the counter for dear life.

My
hips are rising off the counter to meet him. My clit is throbbing in
my panties. It’s too much. It almost hurts, how badly I want
him.

“God,
Cal,” is all I manage. I need release. I reach down, sliding my
hand beneath my waistband. It’s been too long since I had a
guy’s mouth against my pussy. But his own hand shoots out and
covers mine, holding it there on my thigh.

“Naughty
girl,” he says, pausing a moment between my legs. My skin feels
like it’s on fire. “Have you been touching yourself
lately?”

Fuck,
he has no idea. My pussy’s still throbbing, hot and wild and
wet. And then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, I
feel his mouth against me, licking me right through my panties. His
tongue is stroking the cotton, tasting my lips. Pleasure trembles
through my belly. My hips buck. My ass clenches.

His
mouth starts to move faster, making hard, rough circles around my
clit. It feels unbelievable. I rake my fingers through his hair,
holding his mouth deep against me. Finally, he pushes aside the
cotton with rough fingers and I gasp. His tongue travels to my clit.
“Fuck, Cal,” I manage, as he sucks with unbelievable
pressure. Fire and spice erupts everywhere our skin makes contact and
I’m shaking against him. I’ve been fantasizing about this
for so long. Now that the moment is here, the sensation is even
hotter than I imagined.

He
slides two fingers inside me, and I shudder. My body is slippery and
tight around him. I ride his hand desperately, taking him deeper and
deeper inside me. Cal moans, takes my whole clit in his mouth and
sucks.

My
thighs start to tighten. My hips quake. And I’m just at my edge
when he curls his fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot. I cry out,
bucking against him. Pleasure explodes from my belly and I feel wave
after wave rolling through me as I come harder and harder. I’m
shaking so much that I send a wire whisk off the counter and tumbling
to the floor.

He
keeps moving even after I come, letting his hands pulse inside me for
a moment more. When I finally stop writhing, I reach down and pull
his face up toward mine.

I
kiss him. He tastes like me and orange extract. It’s the
hottest thing I’ve ever tasted. He should bottle that shit,
sell it to the commuter crowd at Mecca Cakes.

“You’re
incredible,” I tell him. And it’s true. I’ve never
been touched like that before. It’s like Cal McKenzie is a
recipe concocted just for me. He laughs and buries his face in my
neck.

“I’d
give you five stars on Yelp, too,” he says.

#

Cal
finishes the first cake and starts whipping up another. I duck into
the bathroom to clean the icing off my thighs. I’m sticky and
tender from the wild pressure of his mouth. But I guess that’s
the price you pay for eating out with the Cake Master. I dry off with
a hand towel, then pull my shorts back on.

“Hey,”
Cal calls to me from across the bungalow. “What’s your
favorite substitute for cream of tartar? I’m all out.”

I
surface from the bathroom into his living room.

“You
can skip it. It doesn’t need it.”

Cal’s
voice comes back immediately. “No you can’t. That would
be a disaster.”

“Sure
you can. Hold on, I’ll prove it.”

“How?”

“Chef
Google.” I spot his laptop sitting on an armchair in the corner
and grab it, draping myself across the arms.

That’s
when Cal appears in the doorway. I give him a sleepy, satisfied
smile. But he’s not smiling back. In fact, he looks furious.

“What
do you think you’re doing with that?” he asks, and,
stalking forward, he swipes the laptop out of my hands.

Cal’s
anger doesn’t surprise me, not entirely. I’ve watched him
bitch out two employees now, and he’s infamous for his temper
in the gossip rags. More kitchen scuffles than barroom brawls. He’s
a passionate know-it-all, not a fighter. I always figured that if he
turned that anger on
me
that I could take it—and I can. I’m no soggy cupcake.

But
I’m absolutely flabbergasted that he’s being so shady
about his laptop. Still shirtless, he stalks off toward the kitchen
and tosses the closed laptop down on the counter with a
thud
.
I wince. What’s he hiding, anyway?

“What’s
the big deal?” I demand as I follow him to the kitchen, my
heart pounding furiously in my chest. He looks at me, and then down
at the computer again. Then he lets out a laugh, but it’s dry,
and really not funny at all.

“Damned
if I don’t love your pussy, Jules,” he begins. My cheeks
flush, even though I sense a
but
coming. And sure enough . . . “But I hardly
know you. I’ve got my business plans in here, recipes, scripts
for my next show—”

“I
thought it was
reality
TV,”
I say bitterly, even though my experiences on
Park
Avenue Princess
should have taught me better. It’s not as if I haven’t
been skeptical about Cal’s show, but somehow, I thought he was
different.

“It
doesn’t matter,” Cal snaps, his grip on his computer
tightening.

I
scowl. Of course his show wasn’t
real
.
Makes me wonder what else is fake about him. And what he’s
hiding in that laptop.

“All
this over cream of tartar?” he continues, his expression
growing stony. “Don’t be ridiculous, Juliette.”

God,
this is all way too familiar. I remember how careful my ex was with
his phone. He never told me the passcode and was on edge if I so much
as looked at it. Once, he left it at my place by accident—and
drove over at three in the morning to get it, even though he had to
work at six. He pretended it was a sexy a booty call. It was only
later that I learned the truth.

He
didn’t want to risk it, in case his wife called.

“Don’t
change the subject,” I sputter. Cal’s trying to play this
off as a joke, trying to make it seem like it’s no big deal.
But I learned this lesson the hard way last time. What kind of man
doesn’t let you see his communications? A man who has something
to hide.

Cal’s
expression is cool, infuriatingly mild. I can’t decide if it
makes me want to sock him in the face or snatch that computer out of
his hands. “Tell me what’s in your laptop.”

“Files,”
he says pointedly in that maddening Scottish accent. I set my hands
on my hips.

“You
know, this isn’t my first time in the kitchen. I’m not
trying to seduce you to learn your secrets.”

“I
never said you were, Juliette.”

“Then
why don’t you trust me?”

Cal
stalks forward, reaches for my hip, and holds it firmly. Then he
pulls me close. Half of me wants to melt into him, enjoy his hands
covering every inch of my body. But that’s the half that got me
into this mess last time, that idiot sliver of my brain that sees a
sexy man keeping secrets and doesn’t know to run away. The
masochistic half of me that falls head over heels for sexy liars
again and again.

Cal
begins to kiss my neck roughly, as though he owns the soft flesh
there. Pulling away for just a breath, he looks at me, green eyes
piercing. I could run my hands through his hair. I could kiss him.

But
I don’t. Instead, I put both hands on his strong, carved
shoulders and shove him back into the counter.

“Tell
me what you’re hiding, Cal,” I say evenly.

I’ve
spent five years obsessing over every conversation I ever had with my
old boss. Every phone call he had to take in the bathroom on a date.
Every night he claimed he had to go fix some emergency at the
restaurant so that he couldn’t stay the night. I can remember
every single lie he told me, and the flat, firm way he told them,
too. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes, the one that made
me feel crazy and uncertain and small.