by K. K. Allen
I grin. “You said he can cook, didn’t you?” I nod to the frozen dish sitting next to him. “I’ll bet he prepared that too. I love a man that can cook.” Wiggling my eyebrows has the desired effect.
Zach’s eyes narrow and he tugs at my hand from across the island. “C’mere.”
Without letting on how fast my heart has started beating in my chest, I step around the slab of granite just as he’s pulling what looks like a menu from a drawer. An assortment of exotic desserts decorates the page. “Which one do you want to make?”
“Me?”
“No, the other hot superhero in suspenders.”
I smirk and scan the menu. It doesn’t take me long to start salivating over the triple chocolate cake. There’s a strawberry garnish on the plate in the photo, so I figure it’s more than appropriate for this evening.
I point to it and Zach’s deep rumble shakes his chest. “I’m not sure why I even asked.” He works his way around the oversized stainless steel kitchen, grabbing ingredients I could never name. The low lights hum around us as he works. I watch him, turned on by his passion for something other than football. Intrigued by the history that has clearly influenced him. And amazed that such a big guy can move around all domestic-like and make it look effortless.
He wouldn’t be impressed with my cake baking skills, but I’m not about to announce my flaws in the kitchen while he’s so darn confident.
We don’t talk much while he’s gathering ingredients, but when he’s standing over a bowl of sugar he asks for me to join him. He positions me so I’m centered in front of him. He goes first, adding the butter and vanilla into the bowl, and then he places an egg in my hand before starting the electric mixer.
The cold, hard object feels odd in my hands. I know what he wants me to do with it. I’ve seen people do this. Unfortunately, every time I’ve tried to crack an egg I’ve ended up with shell in my teeth.
With heat in my cheeks, I turn my head to meet Zach’s amused eyes. The buzz of the electric mixer stops. “Do you have something to hold your hair back?”
I remove the elastic from my wrist and grin. “Yup.”
In a swift move, he takes it from me and turns my head back to the food. This is new. Before I can stop him or offer to do it myself, he’s moving his fingers through my hair, working it into a ponytail. Chills break out over my skin when he leans down again. This time he reaches over me and grabs an egg, cracking it perfectly in one palm. I watch as he carefully releases only the clear bits before tossing the yolk in the sink beside us. No shell in the bowl.
How did he do that?
I watch him do it again with the second egg and confirm that his hands are, in fact, made of magic. As he starts up the mixer again, I make a move to step aside—I’m obviously in the way—but Zach uses his arm to keep me in place. He’s done that a lot tonight. I like that he doesn’t let me walk away so easily.
“We’re doing this together, Cakes. Half cup of sour cream up next. Can you do the honors?”
We mix the cake batter and set it aside, its rich sweetness scenting the air. Moving to the boiling pot on the stove, we add in cocoa and chocolate chips, melting it down as his hand rests on mine. We stir the thick, velvety mixture until it softens and cascades off the spoon in a slow stream.
There’s a thrill racing through me as I watch everything come together. No one has ever taught me to bake. My grandma was too forgetful to use the oven, and mom stayed away from the kitchen like it was the devil’s lair.
Zachary hands me a wooden spoon and places his hand over mine. This—watching him cook, feeling his hand on mine as he moves me around his kitchen … it’s sexy. But not any kind of sexy I’ve experienced before. I’m starting to think I wouldn’t mind the night ending in a heady make out session. After the last month of build-up, we kind of deserve it.
“Rockwall, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“How’d you wind up here?”
I find myself rushing my words, trying to avoid answering a slew of questions about my background. Other guys have tried to get to know me before, but it’s always been so easy to distract them with an extra bat of the eye or a touch of the arm. I have a feeling Zach won’t let up until he knows every detail. And that can’t happen.
I swallow, wondering how well my vocal chords will work against my nerves. “Unfinished business.”
I feel him lean down. Hot breath escapes from between his lips and hits my neck. That’s the moment I realize how close he is to me. He’s right there, master conductor to my every nerve ending. Then he intertwines his fingers with mine and gently touches his nose to my neck. “I won’t let you get away with that answer for long, Cakes.”
A chill causes my entire body to tremble beneath him. He doesn’t miss a beat. I hear his light chuckle as he picks the wooden spoon up from the chocolate mixture and blows on it until it’s safe to taste. He nips at it and licks his lips, then holds the spoon close to my mouth. I open up to take a taste, never breaking eye contact.
“So good.” I’m not trying to be seductive. It’s truly mouthwatering.
His lids lower at the sound of my voice, and then he moves to turn the knobs on the stove to their off position and sets the heated pot to the side. There’s a hitch in my breath when he leans into me, planting a sweet kiss in the crook of my neck. “Is this okay?” he questions, mouth hovering over my skin.
My senses grow hazy as I nod.
He kisses me again, this time beneath my ear. A groan rumbles low in his throat. “You smell amazing, Cakes. Like chocolate, strawberries, and just a hint of mint. My new favorite scent.” His nose grazes my neck again. “I need to bottle you up so I can steal a taste whenever I have a craving.” He presses his lips to the tip of my shoulder.
There’s no hiding my reaction to his raspy words and his mouth on my skin. My breath stutters and my body shudders. Each kiss to my neck is like a zap of electricity lighting up my insides.
Seduction swirls through the air, tangling with the richness of heating food and dessert. After a moment, Zach steps away to check on dinner. It’s a good thing, giving me the time I need to clear my head and get my shit together.
I shiver, because it’s impossible to clear my head when all I can think of is the way he pressed his body into mine just now, and how I could most definitely feel every single inch of Zachary Ryan.
This is bad. Very, very bad.
She devours dinner almost as ravenously as when she went after that strawberry earlier. I’ll never get over that sight. Plump lips suckling the juicy fruit. Eyes closed, long lashes fluttering against the top of her cheeks. The moan that called to me like a bottle rocket in the night.
Monica is a unique beauty. Creamy skin and light, golden brown eyes, but otherwise dark, exotic features. It’s intriguing. She’s intriguing, and not just because of her physical beauty and obsession with food.
How could I have walked into BelleCurve the past two years without seeing how completely radiant she was? It’s no wonder why I haven’t had a serious relationship in years. Not that I haven’t noticed her. I have. But with so much focus on my football career and the kitchen, my perspective of everything else was off.
Monica has it all. She’s funny without even trying, which makes her personality addicting—maybe even more addicting than the taste of her skin. I wasn’t planning for that to happen—the tasting her skin portion of the night, that is. While Monica might have thought I was trying to lure her into my bed, I meant exactly what I told her.
It’s getting harder every day for me to walk around this vibrant city without getting noticed. I love the fans; the adrenaline they give me is stuff addicts would trade worse habits for. But that doesn’t mean I need everyone in my business always. Like tonight, when I finally have an opportunity to talk to a girl I’ve been crushing intensely on for some time now, are not ideal to be stopped in public to take a selfie. Time is precious, and I don’t want to wast
e a second of it. Especially not tonight.
Conversation and wine flow effortlessly. I give her a glimpse of what my next week looks like with preseason starting: the travel, intense workouts, comradery, tape reviews, press conferences, coach lectures—the works. It’s nonstop, and in a way, I want to warn her. I like her, but let’s be honest; the girls I’ve dated in the past don’t deal with the distance well—not to mention taking second place to my career.
“I may not be a traveling pro athlete,” she smiles into her wine, “but working full-time at BelleCurve keeps me pretty busy too.”
God, I love watching that mouth. “What about school? Have you graduated already?”
She adjusts herself, looking uneasy. “Got my associate, and then I started working at BelleCurve. I took some time off from school to figure out what I wanted to do next.” When she peers up to meet my eyes, something catches in my chest.
“Isn’t there anything you enjoy that you’ve considered making a career? What about when you were young?”
“I wanted to be a model.” Pink fills her cheeks, like the words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Is she embarrassed by her own dreams? “I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since I admitted that, but it’s all I wanted to do growing up. It was practically forced on me, though. My mom was a model. My sister, Maggie, has been modeling for as long as I can remember. I traveled with them to every gig, played dress up in the green rooms, had my own portfolio created—”
“I could see you as a model.” The lines of her face and her high cheek bones. The softness of her curves. Her light eyes. Full lips. The way she carries herself. She’s definitely got the confidence. “What happened? You said wanted.”
Her head turns down, which is by far the most un-Monica-like thing she’s done all night. Where’s my little firecracker now? As if she hears my question, she looks up again and blushes.
“I wasn’t tall enough. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m the shortest one in my family. Not even these things help me fake it.” She kicks up her leg good-naturedly to show off her heel, but all I see is her skirt rise, exposing her glossy thigh. I have to swallow my lustful thoughts to hear the rest of her words.
“They also said I was too curvy.” She peers down at her body and shrugs. “That isn’t going to change anytime soon.” She laughs again. This time it’s nerves I detect, and anger heats my chest.
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen. Worst year of my life,” she says, scrunching her nose.
“Who told you that shit?” What kind of asshole would put Monica down? At fourteen, no less. She’s undeniably gorgeous. And I’m not just talking about her face and curves. You don’t mess with a smile that genuine, a heart that kind. She’s real. Inside and out. It’s why I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her.
With a wave of her hand, she tells me it doesn’t matter. “It’s fine. I wasn’t meant to model. It was just a little girl’s silly dream because it was the world that surrounded me. And I’m not just saying that because someone denied me. It was the best thing to get that out of my head at an early age. I started focusing more on school and getting the hell out of Texas.”
I chuckle. “Amen to that. Seattle is more my style too. Does your family still live there?”
“No. When I moved here my mom and sister moved to LA. My mom thought it was the best place for my sister to get more exposure.”
“Has it been?”
She shrugs. I grab another bottle of wine while she speaks. “Maggie doesn’t want to model anymore, so it’s kind of a hostile situation between them. Acting is where she belongs. At least being in LA gives her more opportunities, but I don’t know. The competition is ugly. She’s been turned down for more acting roles than I can keep track of, but she’s still booking nice-sized modeling events. She’s doing a lot of promotional gigs too. But I’m afraid if she doesn’t nail an acting job soon she’s going to lose it.”
“That’s a tough business, but I agree; Cali is the right place to be.” I still can’t shake this shit about Monica not being good enough to model. I straddle the bench beside her, placing the bottle of wine down and reaching up to cup her chin lightly in my hands. “You realize you’re perfect, right? No asshole who tells you anything else is worth listening to. I’d have pinned you on my wall.” She laughs and tries to avert her gaze, but I gently turn her back to me. “I still might.”
There’s a hitch in her breath and her laughter fades. My gaze drifts from her eyes to her lips, and then to her neck. I’ve never wanted to kiss a neck so badly. After the first taste, it’s safe to say I’m hooked.
She averts her gaze and shakes her head. “Zach, thank you, but it’s okay. Really.” I can tell she means it. “Losing that opportunity didn’t change what I thought about myself. I’m happy with my body, always have been. It was just a reality check. It made me question a lot of things. Most importantly, it made me question if I ever really wanted to model, or if it was something I thought I was supposed to want. And there’s no way I’m ever sacrificing a meal to appease a few dickhole gatekeepers. I’d rather run a few miles a day than starve.”
Thank God for that.
“You have curves that men love and most girls would kill for. And your height”—my lips turn up slightly at the thought of how beneficial her height really is for … spooning and less innocent activities— “is preferable.” I don’t care if I’m laying all my cards out here. There’s something about this girl that’s worth any gamble.
There’s that blush again. I love when I can see her react to my words. Before tonight, Monica has only ever exuded maximum control over her responses. Taking her away from the crowd was the right thing to do. Inhibitions down. Just us.
“And your curves.” I lean in to brush my lips across her cheek. “You have the sexiest curves. You’re perfect, Cakes.”
She shakes in my hold, so I make my move. Gliding past her cheek to her ear, I smile against her skin, catching a whiff of her luscious scent and groaning. I imagine we’re in a field with wild strawberries and mint leaves, a hint of chocolate still lingering in the air. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here, but I’d like to kiss you.”
When she releases a smile, that’s all I need to let my lips travel, placing kisses from her ear to her jaw, and then along her collarbone, until her lips are parting for me. “You’re going to kill me with that mouth, Cakes.” I breathe her in, then take her bottom lip with my teeth and tug gently.
A high-pitched moan enters my mouth. I swallow it and continue to press my lips to hers, gripping her waist with one hand while the other moves from her chin to the back of her head so I can deepen the kiss.
Sweet Jesus, this woman will end me.
Her lips are just as I imagined and ten times better. Soft but firm, experienced but moving as if made just for me. She’s perfect. And the taste of her—mouthwatering.
Sensing my body and mind are reacting too fast, too soon, I pull away, leaving her with a soft kiss on the nose. Pretending I don’t notice her heavy breaths and dazed expression, I pour us both another glass of wine, launching directly back into conversation without pause.
“Have you ever considered a profession suited for BelleCurve? You love it there, it makes sense to explore the creative side a bit more, don’t you think?” She seems to still be recovering, so I continue. “Entertainment business, graphic design, video production…”
“Styling and retail merchandising,” she offers. “I love to shop.” She smiles and takes another chug of wine. “And I always loved the backstage hustle and bustle during the shows my sister booked during New York Fashion Week… I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “Maybe you’re onto something.”
“I know nothing about fashion.”
She eyes me up and down. “Sure, and that Gucci suit you’re wearing tonight magically appeared on your doorstep.”
I’m mid-gulp when her eyes roll, causing me to choke on
my wine. “Wow,” I say through my cough. “Calling me out. Okay. So, I buy expensive suits. Only because my publicist would shoot me if I showed up to an event wearing the same thing as every other guy.”
Her laugh is loud, probably from the buzz, but she’s laughing at me. “I hate to break it to you, Zach, but I doubt the guests of honor at tonight’s event could tell the difference between your Gucci suit and what every other guy was wearing. It may be classy and expensive, but to them—it’s all the same.”
I bite back a smile. “Told you. Not into fashion.”
She nods, agreeing my point is made. “You want to be original? Hire your own stylist so they can give you your own look, not the other way around.”
Now I’m the one that laughs. “Sorry, Cakes. There’s no way I’m going to let someone follow me around telling me what to wear when I can walk straight into Target just like everyone else and buy a white button-down shirt for a nice dinner.” I consider my answer for a second and then grin. “Unless it’s you.”
There’s that eye roll again. I’m starting to get used to it. “This, coming from the man wearing Gucci.”
“For your information,” I say, “I happen to love Gucci. And it is original. Besides that, I look hot. I feel crisp. Isn’t fashion about the way you feel?”
She relaxes back into her seat, a smile settling on her face. “Yes it is, Gucci.”
I chuckle before running a hand through my hair and locking eyes with her again. “Really? Is that my nickname now?”
She shrugs, eyeing me in a way that makes me want to pull her to me again. “You wear it well.”
Ah, there’s my girl. “Thanks, Cakes. You wear Superwoman well.” I wink. “Ready for dessert?”
She narrows her eyes and then quirks her lip. “I can’t believe you had to ask me that. Clearly you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Ah, but I have. I was just being courteous.” I stand and move to the kitchen to dish out one large slice of triple chocolate cake.