Page 42 of The Southern Thirst Trap

“You’re making me nervous,” she pouts. “You have your intense gray psycho eyes on like you want to eat me, and I don’t usually have an audience when I’m cooking.”

“Come here,” I say, pushing away from the edge of the island now that I’ve managed to get control of my cock and motioning her closer.

She narrows her eyes at me, but she does as I say, stopping a foot or so from my stool. I take her hands in mine, feeling her hesitation as her delicate muscles tighten, ready to pull away at the slightest wrong move from me.

“You are amazing to watch. I learned more from a few of your videos than I have my entire adult life cooking for myself. You also made me spit out my coffee laughing at least once, which is saying something, because your jokes are bad, but you’re still funny without even trying.”

“You have such a way with backhanded compliments,” she says with faux sweetness and an acerbic smile. “You try being entertaining for an audience of millions while cooking and trying not to burn the house down or cut off a finger.”

I stand and walk her backward around the island, her hands still caught in mine, until she’s back on the squishy foam mat in front of her cooking setup. “Why don’t you show me how you do it,” I say, releasing her hands and hitting record on the small remote she has velcroed to the front of the cabinet, out of sight.

She blinks a few times, taking in my close proximity, then looks at the camera where she catches the red light and sees us standing next to each other on the small LCD screen. I can see when she makes up her mind. It comes in minor adjustments. The squaring of her shoulders and the intake of a deep breath. The smoothing of her hands along the marble and the shift of her hips. She transforms in front of my eyes, losing her nervous energy and radiating confidence, in her element once more and seemingly fine with me joining her here.

I pull at the unbuttoned collar of my white shirt and feel out of place, but I don’t move as she begins talking to the camera, repeating her rehearsed lines and glibly indicating me at one point, but otherwise letting me stand near her unobtrusively. This time, she doesn’t flub her lines and goes through the motions of the recipe steps with ease. I get lost in the way she weaves a story along the way, listening to her sweet rasp of a voice as I relax against the counter behind me.

“When I visited Singapore with my mom, she took me to the hotel she used to work at,” she says, directing her story to the camera while she sprinkles in ingredients, but I’m caught in the spell she’s weaving with the few words. “The bakers who made hundreds of desserts daily were so methodical, but each one told me they found pleasure in the steps, considering baking the culinary equivalent of science. Each ingredient must be measured precisely, or unintended consequences could arise and ruin the dessert.”

“Or cause a happy accident?” I offer with a smile as I lean my hands on the countertop behind me to keep from touching her as she moves through the steps of her recipe with ease.

She turns and considers me while she stirs the batter in the bowl in front of her. “Sometimes, yes. But most of the time, too much of one ingredient can throw off the balance of the finished product.” She turns back to the camera. “The hotel bakers needed to consistently create desserts by the batch. They didn’t have room for errorsorhappy accidents.”

“Good thing life doesn't have the same rules as a hotel kitchen,” I say, moving to lean my forearms on the island so I can be next to her, but it’s not enough, so I knock my shoulder into her side for more direct contact. I’m drawn to her whenever I'm in her presence, never getting my fill, and this is no exception.

“Don’t distract me, I’m busy creating culinary science,” she says. Then, with a wicked gleam lighting her eyes and quick as a flash, she glops a spoonful of batter on my face. She laughs, sounding shocked at herself, but pleased nonetheless. This is the Wildcat I know from the Maldives. She’s still in there, and still keeping me on my toes.

I gingerly wipe batter from my eye and feel it drip from my nose with a plop onto the marble. “You’re a naughty girl,” I growl, my arms quickly encircling her waist to keep her close and rubbing my face against her neck and chest, smearing the batter onto her skin and making her squeal.

“I’m sorry, oh my God, stop,” she pleads, laughing and squirming in my arms.

Instead of stopping, I give in to the feel of her and let my mouth trace over her collarbone, and lick up her neck to catch some of the batter I just put there. Harlowe makes a sound of surprise, but the grip she has on my shoulders tightens and her protests weaken. I find that spot on her neck and suck just the way I know will drive her wild and feel her writhe in my arms. Her back arches, body molding against mine, and I keep her there, biting at her neck again as my hand finds her ass, and press her tight against me, grinding against her softness. She makes a whimpering sound that I catch with my mouth as she turns her face to mine and opens to me, her hands in my hair, holding me close as I devour her mouth.

Fuck, she feels so good. She tastes even better than I remember, all honey and coconut, her plush lips soft and insistent against mine as my tongue sweeps against hers and captures a moan. I reach down and hook my hands behind her thighs and haul her up onto the counter without breaking our kiss, pulling her against me with my fingers digging into her ass and groaning into her mouth because she feels like heaven everywhere I touch and I can't get enough.

I can feel her pussy, hot even through our layers of clothing, as I rock against her with the steel hardness of my cock, and I bet she’s fucking soaking her panties. I want to slide my hand in to see, part her folds with my fingers and feel how wet she is, then taste her. I pull away from her mouth with the intent of doing just that.

“Zander, please.” The breathy plea isn't for more, and it snaps me out of my thoughts of eating her sweet pussy.

When I slowly release her, I’m cautious of the mood shift that just occurred. Having her in my arms felt so natural. Her curves fit against me even more perfectly than I remember, her skin warm and soft under my stubbly face. The taste of her drugging. My cock is rock hard from the brief moments I had her in my arms, my mouth on hers, and all I want is to feel her under me, on top of me, in front of me, again. But I acted without thinking, taking the physical from her without knowing if that’s what she wanted. It sure as hell felt like she wanted to be in my arms, kissing me, but what do I know when it comes to Harlowe, now? She stares at me with wide eyes, her body trembling, and I don't know if it’s from fear or from holding back.

“Now who’s ruining the recipe?” I ask to break the tension, the words vibrating deep with need as I let my feelings infuse into them.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have started that.” Her own reply is breathless as she hands me a dish towel, and grabs another to clean off the bits of batter from the caramel skin of her chest.

I catch a stray bit of batter she’s missed from the top of her cleavage and pop my finger in my mouth, tasting the honey and vanilla she stirred in a few steps prior. It tastes almost as good as she does. She holds my gaze, hand stilled from her task, mesmerized by the moment.

I nod at her camera and smile with evil intent. “I think that was some good footage. It’ll whip your audience into a frenzy of speculation and set the internet on fire.”

Fuck, it set me on fire. I want to watch the recording back over and over again to see how she reacted to my touch. I want her to put it online right the fuck now and show the world she belongs to me.

She looks at the camera and frowns, using the LCD screen as a mirror to clean off the rest of the batter. “It will probably end up deleted. I can’t use that.” She slides off the island and stops the recording.

“Don’t you want more views? I don't really know how YouTube works, but wouldn’t breaking the internet be a good thing for you? Because that’s what that little moment would do.”

A part of me is desperate to convince her to use it. It’s the part of me that is fully on board with breaking every rule, with throwing caution to the wind, and finally giving in to the attachments I’ve always run from.

It’s funny how quickly that part of me could be swayed for the right situation, the right woman, and how desperate I am now for her to be mine. It’s been there for five years, simmering under the surface of casual hookups and meaningless sex, knowing that I’d already found the best fucking thing to ever happen to me and I’d let it go, severed it from my life, because I was a fucking coward and couldn’t figure out how to make that work in the life I’d created. Now I’m willing to put it ahead of everything else, but I may be too late.

“It would be a hell of a way to announce we’re making this work.”

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