Page 27 of Things We Burn

“You can,” he agreed. “But let me.”

I relented without a fight, stepping into my pants and panties before letting him pull them up. After pulling my body upright, he put on my shirt again, buttoning with steady, tattooed fingers.

I watched, still trying to catch my breath.

One of those fingers went under my chin, tilting it upward.

His ice-blue gaze smoldered with intensity.

“Chef, that was indescribable,” he murmured before he gently laid his lips on mine. “I’ll wipe down the counters, ensure you don’t get a health violation. Then you’re gonna come home with me.”

Even though this was my kitchen and I called the shots, all I did was say, “’Kay.”

Five

We were backat 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 urgemeto cook forthemwhen 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.

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