Great food is like great sex. The more you have, the more you want.
–Gael Greene
Scarlett
It happened again. He was standing there, being all handsome and smoldery in his plain old jeans and t-shirt. Every little part of him flipped a switch inside me, a sexy switch. From the stubble covering the hard line of his jaw, to his serious expression and penetrating gaze lasered on me. I can’t read him, but I want to, with my fingers. He’s like a contained tornado or something—like the intensity pulses off him and reaches into my stomach, making everything clench and want. I missed him. I missed this feeling, the butterflies and the excitement of being around him. So I take.
“I want you,” I say against his mouth.
The past couple of weeks, heck maybe the past year, has been an exercise in sexual tension and I think I’m about to spontaneously combust from pure desire.
He releases a deep and heady moan and the flame between us turns into a bonfire lit with dry wood and extra gasoline.
His mouth is an intoxicating flame against mine, licking at my lips, moving down to my neck, searing across my jaw, driving me wild. Arousal thumps between my legs. Forget foreplay. There can be no opening act. I want the final show, and I want it now.
I jump up on the counter behind me and pull him closer. It’s the perfect height for him to step between my legs and I wrap them around him, pulling his erection right where I need it most. But it’s not enough.
I reach between us, fumbling at his zipper and he pulls back slightly to help me tug his pants down. He’s wearing boxer briefs underneath and I yank at them, too, until I can grasp him with one hand.
“Scarlett,” my name is a groan laced with a plea.
“I need fewer clothes.” I wiggle on the counter, yanking my leggings down and off along with my panties. The steel counter is cold against my rear, but I barely notice it over the heat raging through my body.
I can’t wait any longer, but there’s one more thing. “Wait.” I reach over, pulling a condom out of the drawer next to us.
He frowns at it and then meets my eyes. “You just have those…there?” He’s breathing heavy, strangling back amused laughter.
“It’s a long story. I don’t, I mean, I haven’t done this here at all. Or anywhere else lately, anyway, I mean, I guess what I’m saying is despite the fact that I have twenty condoms hidden strategically around this truck, I haven’t actually been with anyone in a very, very long time.” Saying it out loud is a little scary. Vulnerable.
“Hey.” He takes my hands, kissing my fingertips and then running his palms up my arms. “Me either.”
He leans in and his soft lips brush my neck.
“Really?” He’s got to be lying, I mean, look at him. But I can’t think with him nibbling at me like I’m edible.
He pulls back, his hands cupping my face. “Really. I haven’t been with anyone in a while. Not since Marie.”
My eyes meet his. I can’t believe it. “No one?”
“No one.”
“Not even, like, a one-night stand with a gymnast?”
“Nope. I have the girls, so I don’t bring home strangers. It would confuse them. And oddly, I haven’t met or had many women with condoms hiding in random locations when I needed it.”
I shrug and lean my head back while he runs his nose up the side of neck, giving me shivers. “I like to be prepared.”
“I really appreciate that.” Soft kisses drop all over my skin like rain, peppering the corner of my jaw, underneath my ear, then his lips brush over my cheek, corner of mouth, sensitive hollow of my neck. “I really appreciate this, too,” he murmurs. One hand slips up my inner leg and my breath falters.
“Guy.” My voice catches when his fingers slip along the ridge of arousal, feeling how wet and ready I am for him. Sliding his knuckle up and down my folds, until I’m panting and moving my hips against him.
On a curse, he rips the condom wrapper with his teeth, and then he’s there—hot and hard and I think I might kill him if he doesn’t put it in me now, but he slows down, the head teasing my entrance.
“Guy,” I repeat, his name on my lips is part whine and part demand. If he drags this out any longer, I might literally die. The craving sinks into my skin and takes up a pulse between my legs and everywhere.
Arms around him, I grip him around the waist hard. Hands clenching—and after a few torturous seconds of holding on and breathing, he moves. Oh so slowly, presses into me.
My eyes fall shut.
He stops. “Scarlett.” I force my eyes open and they lock with his, the bright green infiltrating my entire view.
Once our gaze is secure, he surges in the rest of the way and then stops, filling me up, his entire purpose directed at me, showering me like a wave.
“Heavens to Betsy,” the exclamation comes out on a breath of air.
His head falls onto my shoulder and the warm puff of his laughter tickles the curve of my neck “Who is Betsy?” he lifts his head to meet my eyes.
“All the Southern I’ve tried to repress tends to fall out when I’m . . .” I search his eyes. “Overcome.”
His smile is crooked and happy and something in my chest twists the longer we gaze at each other while he’s seated inside me.
Then he starts thrusting, slowly pulling out and driving back in, and I think I leave my body because nothing and no one has ever felt this good. I clutch his shoulders, running my hands down his back to his rear, yanking him closer. He smells like pine, mixed with the sugary vanilla scent of the truck.
He angles his hips and pushes into me, hitting the perfect spot, his lips trailing over my neck, lifting a thumb to my breast to gently tug at my nipple through my shirt, the motion pushing me right over the edge where I was hovering anyway.
I cry out, my arms going around his shoulders to hold him closer as the release pounds through me and then his pace increases and he shudders against me, tumbling over the ledge.
I keep my eyes shut, my head in the crook of his neck, his arms around me while I wait for my breathing to moderate.
When my senses return, I lift my head and glance around. The back door is open a half inch. We still have on most of our clothes. This was a conflagration of passion. Of everything I want and everything I fear. What if I could have it all? The passion and the love, the stable comfort…without losing myself in the process?
He pulls away and turns to dispose of the condom. I slide off the counter and blink dazedly, stuck in a post-orgasmic haze.
I’m never going to look at this counter the same ever again. I really need to remember to sanitize.
And with those thoughts, come an avalanche of concerns. What have I done? I let myself get carried away, with dreams of hearts and sweetness and love, but I know better. This can’t end well. He wants to get rid of me. What if he uses this as a piece of control? Just like every other person I’ve fallen for.
But then he’s there, his arms coming around me and pulling me into his chest. “You need help cleaning up?”
I pull away slightly to scrutinize him. His green focus is warm, like a spring day in the middle of December.
“Yeah,” I say.
He smiles at me and then grabs a napkin, kneeling on the ground in front of me. He cleans me up with soft but thorough swipes and then finds my panties and hands them over.
Being cared for with so much sweetness and attention does nothing but add another layer of terror. I can’t lose this. It’s almost worse than if he were perfunctory. This is something that will hurt once it’s over. We haven’t even discussed what we are! I should say something. We need to talk about this. Right? Isn’t that what people do? Especially considering he still wants this property and I’m still parked on it. We just christened the site of our conflict for chrissakes.
I will not be a doormat people pleaser who avoids conflict. We will talk about this. I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it.
“Can I make you dinner?” His eyes flick between mine, a little crease between his brows while he watches me. “We can go down to Savor. No one is there.”
He’s nervous I’m going to say no. Am I not the only one putting myself on the line here?
We could talk about it over food, right? No harm in that. I’m not running away again, I’m being proactive. And, besides, I am hungry.
I smile. “As long as it’s not vegan chili, I’m in.”
We barely make it into Savor before I jump him again. This time, we do it right inside the kitchen door, up against the wall, I stashed some condoms in my bra before we locked up the truck.
It’s his fault, really. He wouldn’t stop touching me. He held my hand, rubbing his finger across the back of my thumb, kissed my knuckles, pulled me into his side, rubbed a piece of hair between his fingers—all of that just on the short walk between my truck and his building.
“What are you doing to me?” he murmurs in my ear after we finish and I’m limp against his chest.
“Whatever it is, you’re doing it right back.”
I follow him into the kitchen. He hands me his chef jacket. It’s clean and undamaged. I pull it around my shoulders. “You got the burn marks out?”
“It’s a new one. Sit here.” He pulls out a stool and I sit a few feet away from the stove while he moves around the space, grabbing a knife from the wall, and finding a chopping board. He disappears into a walk-in fridge and then returns with a tray full of stuff.
I could watch him forever. Even his chopping is sexy, his hands moving with fluid grace, forearms flexing while he slices veggies with ease. Crushing garlic with the flat of his blade and tossing it in the pan. Aromas fill the space and my stomach rumbles.
“What are you making?”
“Chicken and seasonal veggies in a lemon garlic sauce.”
He tosses the food in the pan like the pro he is, and I appreciate the muscles of his forearms and wonder how long I have to wait until I can jump him again.
“Here.” He turns to me, holding up his spoon for me to taste.
I watch him while wrapping my mouth carefully around the utensil and then flick my tongue out to make sure none of the sauce lingers on my lips. His eyes trace the movements, the green darkening to viridian.
With a quick intake of breath, he turns back to the stove and finishes the meal, plating it with practiced hands and then pulling up a stool next to mine.
“Bon appetit.”
“This smells amazing.”
We eat and talk—about the girls, about the holidays—all while carefully avoiding any topic of conflict, even though I should bring it up. But every time I get up the nerve, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
It doesn’t help that he’s constantly touching me. Squeezing my knee, running a hand up my arm, cupping the side of my face in his palm and leaning in to kiss the corner of my jaw, even as I’m chewing.
“You’re going to kill me,” I tell him when heat floods into my nether regions, yet again.
“Really?” He takes my hand and puts it over his burgeoning erection.
My grin is uncontainable. “Again?”
“I find myself in this state basically whenever you’re around. I don’t know if I could ever get enough.”
My heart melts in my chest and some emotions lumps in my throat.
“I almost forgot something to drink. Do you want some wine? I have some nice vintages—we need something good because this feels momentous. Doesn’t it?” His brows dip and he stops to watch my reaction to his words. “Tell me if it’s just me.”
I blink at him in surprise. “It’s not just you,” I admit, heart pounding. Waiting for him to laugh and say he was kidding or something.
But he doesn’t.
He smiles. It’s large and the rare dimple makes an appearance.
Heat rushes straight south. I want to do him again. Now. Here. Wherever, really.
I shake my head. “You have to stop smiling at me or we’ll never leave this room, and I didn’t bring another condom.”
He disappears for a second around the counter, voice muffled while he rummages in the wine fridge. “Why didn’t you?” he calls out.
“Bringing one was wishful thinking.”
“You could go get a couple more and grab some dessert while you’re at it.”
“Any flavor preference?”
“I would really like to try the ‘Guy Chapman is a butt-sniffing douche double chocolate with nougat’. I’ve heard good things.”
I laugh. “It’s a best seller.”
We smile at each other like a couple of dopes.
“Hurry back,” he says.
“Right. Be right back.” Flustered, I turn to the door and push my way through. I’m excited. Drinking wine and eating cupcakes and having more sex sounds like the best version of heaven I could imagine.
I hug his thick chef coat around me. It smells like him, the extra fancy forest, and I’m inhaling it, stepping out into the cold.
“Is Guy here?”
My smell party is halted by a feminine voice.
A throaty, sexy voice. She’s tall, with cheekbones that could cut glass. Dark, perfectly highlighted hair waves around her face like she’s just come from a salon. I don’t know anything about fashion but whatever she’s wearing is like something you can’t even buy in stores yet because she yanked it off the runway. The woman is gorgeous. My hair is all day work followed by sex hair. Which, although it might sound hot and torrid, is really a jumbled frizzy mess. And I didn’t even put on mascara this morning when I woke up at three am.
My thoughts are swirling and I only half register the taxi pulling away from the curb.
She’s waving a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Is Guy Chapman in there?”
“He’s…inside.” The words are forced through suddenly cold lips.
She sizes me up, her eyes lingering on Guy’s jacket hanging loosely from my shoulders. She smiles dismissively, maybe even a little condescendingly. “Thanks.” She moves past me, but then stops and turns before she makes it more than a few steps. “You might be wearing his jacket but I’m still his wife.”
I stand there like a statue and watch as she disappears into Savor.
The words don’t register at first, like a dog barking nonsense in my mind, but then they do and I’m a little shocked. Still his wife? Still?
Was she lying? What if she wasn’t? I glance back at the door quizzically.
How did she know he was here? This restaurant isn’t even opened yet.
I should go in there and ask. But I don’t think I can face him, not standing next to the glamazon supremo. He would look between the two of us and realize what a huge mistake he’s made.
Do I even have a right to demand an explanation? We aren’t even…I mean we just slept together, and it was intense, and he said it was momentous, but he’s never promised me anything. He’s never even said he wants to be exclusive, and here I am jumping in bed with him. Not even bed, a counter. I jumped on the counter with him. And the wall. And ugh I keep making the same mistakes over and over.
But is it a mistake? It’s not one-sided. I didn’t imagine the sweetness, the private side he only shows to me and to his sisters. I should trust my gut.
But past history considered, my gut is usually an idiot.
Okay, I’ve got it. I take a few deep breaths.
I’m not going to jump to conclusions. I hate it when people do that. I’m just going to go in there and ask him what’s up like a normal adult would.
I stalk back to the door and then stop with my hand on the handle. But…what if they’re making up? What if I walk in on…in my imagination, he’s taking her up against the wall instead of me.
I shake the image off. It’s not happening.
One more deep, calming breath that does nothing at all to calm me, and I shove back into the warmth of the restaurant.