Page 8 of Filthy Chef

He helps me work it off and then, so politely I could die, takes it to the closet and hangs it on a hanger.

Fucking marry me.

At this point, I finally get a good look at the two-room suite. It is beautiful, far too hip and rich for my blood, but I’ll take it. The sitting area is fitted with ultra-modern furniture that looks too precious to sit on, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Dallas skyline.

Peeking through the second room, I find the most oversized hotel bed I’ve ever seen.

“Holy shit. A family of four could camp here comfortably for a week and never fight about who’s touching who.”

The low laugh behind me sends shivers down my spine. Jay warms me with his hands on my shoulders and his face pressed against my hair. He inhales deeply.

“God, you smell good.”

My eyes flutter closed. “Um, so do you. And thank you for lunch.”

He grunts, shoving my hair away out of the way, and resumes his worship of my skin, this time over my nape.

“And thank you for the room,” I add, pushing back against him, finding his hardness with my lower back. “I can’t believe they let me check in before 3 p.m.”

“The owner is a business associate. He owes me.” Why does this feel like a throwaway comment, meant to keep me from asking questions? Instead it makes me wonder if he’s in the mob. Does Dallas have mafia guys?

“You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

Jay spins me around and resumes kissing my mouth. “As if I had a choice.”

I want to argue but he’s so good with the kissing and the desperate, needy hands roaming my hair, my throat, my upper back.

“I’m not a complete mess, you know,” I say, letting my eyes close while he begins working loose the buttons of my shirt.

We are going to have sex. That is a thing that is happening imminently. I didn’t come to Dallas to get lucky. Well, not this lucky.

“Of course you’re not. You’re fucking sweet and fun, and you turn me on so much; I wanted to do a lot more than kiss you on my lap in that restaurant.”

My top hangs open, the buttons undone, revealing my bra and stomach, which I attempt to hide by crossing my arms. Jay swats my arms away and replaces them with the warmth of his hand, palming me there. I don’t let anyone touch me like this. Not ex-boyfriends, not even doctors when I had a mysterious pain that turned out to be my appendix.

When I say I’m self-conscious about my stomach, I mean I head straight into badger mode when anyone tries to tickle me.

Yet I feel like if I told this man how much I didn’t like my own body, he wouldn’t like it.

Jay has a way of glowering at me when I tell him negative things. For example, when we were in the car, I made an offhand comment about dads and the way they comment on their daughter’s eating habits. But that’s everyone, isn’t it?

five

Jason

“Stay with me, shortcake.”

I don’t know where she went just now but her midriff tenses under my touch.

And it all started when I finally got my hands on her soft, pleasing tummy. I’m taking a moment to absorb this image: Journey’s hair tousled, her lips swollen from our kissing, her pink top unbuttoned, the white of her full-coverage bra contrasted against her flushed skin, and my hand spanning the gentle curve of her bare stomach.

But her eyes… she’s disassociating and I won’t have it.

“I’m…here.”

Her breathy voice, full of apprehension, forces me to ask a question I don’t want to ask. Because I know the answers will only make me more attached to her. Make me want to fill every square inch of her that hasn’t been cared for in the way she deserves.

“The fuck you are.”

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