Tasty

by Bella Cruise

  “Juliette—”

  “And another thing, it’s extremely uncool to subtweet someone. If you have something to say, you can say it to my face like a grown-up.”

  “Juliette, I’m trying.”

  That’s when he lets out a laugh, long and low and exasperated. In that moment, he reminds me a little bit of my dad. He used to let me run my mouth until I was exhausted, and then he’d stroke the back of my hair and say, There, there, done yet?

  I guess I am done, finally. I let out a sigh.

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  “It’s a pop-up shop. Mecca Cakes isn’t permanent. You’ll have your business back in a few weeks.”

  I stare at him, blink hard. “What? The articles online didn’t say anything about that.”

  Cal shrugs. “The gossip rags aren’t always right. You’re smart enough to know that.”

  I blush faintly at the compliment. Cal steps closer, until I can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

  “How long?” I ask. “Because we’re barely keeping it together at Rock N Roll Cakes. I had to send my assistant home today. Shit’s bad, Cal.”

  “Just until the end of next month. It’s a trial run. If things are successful—and they have been, so far—we’ll be opening Mecca Cake franchises across the country.”

  “You’ll be the next Dunkin’ Donuts,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or not. From the look of him, Cal’s not sure either.

  “I don’t know about all that. But when Angelique came to me with this opportunity, I couldn’t resist.”

  “She’s pretty irresistible,” I agree, with a sour note in my voice. Cal shakes his head.

  “All that gossip is nonsense. It’s just business between me and her.”

  “Good,” I say firmly, and then instantly regret it. Because really, I’m not sure what I’m doing in this parking lot with Callum McKenzie. Is he my business rival? A potential new flame? He’s a chef. I’ve sworn off chefs. You can’t trust them. Even when they’re as attractive as Cal. Especially then. It’s one thing to flirt with an anonymous internet baker. It’s another when Cal is stepping closer and closer to me, until my weight is leaning against the cool metal and glass of my car, and the heat of his body is beside me. This is dangerous. I shouldn’t do it. I—

  And then, while my brain is still spinning, Cal sweeps his arms behind me and draws me close. He smells faintly of cinnamon. His work-hardened hand reaches up, caressing my cheek. Those green eyes are very still and very serious. And then they close, and he leans down and presses his lips to mine.

  His face is rough with stubble. When his mouth opens, I can tell how hungry his is. And god, I’m starving, too. My tongue seems to melt into his mouth. I want this. I want him.

  He wants me, too. His hand, cool from the night air, slips under my shirt and reaches up to cup my breasts. I moan against him. Pressing myself into his touch, I feel goosebumps cover me. “Juliette,” he murmurs, his hand squeezing the nipple through my lace bra.

  It feels good, too good. I press against him, feeling the strength of his muscles, the hardness of his chest, the heat emanating from him. It’s been too long.

  He grabs my waist with his other hand, pulling me closer, and slowly snakes down to my ass. His touch grows rougher, more delicious, and as I come up for air, he squeezes my ass, tilting my hips toward him. His cock is hard against me, his touch hungry. He’s kissing me with almost unbelievable desire. It feels so good.

  I slip my hand into his back pocket, trying to create more friction between us. I almost have a moment of clarity. What the fuck am I thinking? He’s a chef. He’s my rival. Even if his store is only temporary, he’s a heartless, cold celebrity.

  But then Cal tugs at the button of my jeans, his strong hand slipping right inside my panties. “Cal,” I manage, before breaking my sentence off with a gasp. And, oh god, he knows how to touch me. He presses a thumb against my clit and deepens our kiss as the mounting pleasure shoots through my limbs. I moan.

  He pulls my pants down a little further so he can get leverage. My breath catches as he begins to move his fingers in and out of me, his other hand still holding me steady. I can feel the shape of his cock against my hip, taste his breath, hot, panting, against my mouth. My back arches. He’s fucking me with his fingers. My pelvis lifts to meet his hand over and over. I’m so close already. When was the last time a real live man made me come?

  “I want you, you spicy little tease,” he murmurs, kissing my neck. His palm is up against my clit, the perfect rhythm of his fingers driving me to the edge, making me shake against his hard body. I’m losing myself. I’m nearly there. I ride his fingers desperately.

  If his fingers work this well, I can’t imagine what it would be like to have his cock inside me. “Juliette,” he growls and thrusts deeper, connecting with my g-spot and causing sparks in my vision.

  I come. Shaking, panting, barely holding back a scream, I feel heat and spice and perfect friction rocketing through me. I grip onto him, holding on for dear life, as the pleasure explodes from my core, shooting through my limbs.

  When I come back to earth, I’m melted butter against him, leaning into him, exhilarated, spent, and so damn satisfied.

  Then realization clicks into place.

  What the fuck did I just do?

  I push myself away from Cal. He’s wearing a smug look, his shirt disheveled, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. I get wet for him all over again. No. I take another step away. Netflix and dirty fantasies are one thing, but I can’t actually hook up with TV’s most delicious baker.

  I can’t open up to him. Not physically. Not emotionally. I’d only get hurt. Again. After what happened the last time I opened up to a man—a chef, no less—I’ll do anything to avoid that.

  “I gotta go,” I say, my voice tight.

  I’m being an asshole, I know it. Who in hell turns down sex from the most gorgeous man they’ve ever met? Am I really that jerk who says, “Thanks for the mind-blowing orgasm. Now catch you later?”

  Apparently yes. Cal takes a step toward me but I shake my head.

  God, my pussy still aches for him. His breathing is ragged. Mine is too. It’s a civil war between my lust and my rational brain. I can see the line of his cock through his jeans, tempting me. But I know better than to open up more. I should have never kissed him in the first place. I should have left the second I saw him in the bar.

  “Juliette,” he protests, reaching out for me, but I’m opening the door of my car.

  “Sorry, Cal,” I mumble as I slide inside and buckle my seatbelt around me, as if it could protect my aching heart. “See you around.”

  He stands there for a moment in the darkness. But my gaze is hard and determined, and at last, he relents. He steps back and closes the door behind me. I fire up the engine and drive off into the night.

  Chapter Seven

  I gun it all the way home.

  The night is black and inky as I speed home along the Overseas Highway. The stars seem to jangle in the sky, but maybe it’s only the remnants of the most glorious orgasm I’ve ever had that makes them seem to tremble. When I get back to the shop, I park my car in back and then stalk up to my apartment.

  I was so thrilled when I found this space after my grandmother died. A shop to rent below and an apartment above. It even has a roof deck. Maybe someday, I’ll be rich like Cal and able to buy my own luxury home, but for the time being, my cozy two-bedroom is more than enough for me.

  No, stop thinking about Cal, damnit. I stop in the doorway and take a deep breath, trying to push him out of my mind.

  It doesn’t work.

  I keep the place spotless, of course. And even though the landlord doesn’t let me paint the walls, I’ve decorated it exactly to my tastes. Mid-century furniture, half from estate sales, half smart reproductions, is artfully arranged all around the apartment. A few choice art pieces hang from the walls, bought at times when business below was going a littl
e better. But my apartment is my oasis away from all of that, my safe place. Tonight, especially, it’s a relief to come home to it.

  Because I need to chill out, but I can’t get the taste of Cal’s lips out of my mind. His body was so damned perfect as he leaned into me. His cock was so damned hard. His hands were firm, but gentle. They seemed to anticipate my every desire, first clutching my hips, then working their way down. I felt my body open to him.

  God, I hate that I like him so much. The fact that Mecca Cakes is only a pop-up shop doesn’t change anything, not really. I have bills to pay, employees to feed. I have to worry about rent, about supplies, flour and sugar and butter and electricity. A month in the weeds could still kill my business. Besides that he’s a chef, the worst kind of dangerous. Every chef that I’ve ever met, from culinary school to the kitchens where I worked to the guys I’ve argued with online, has been a smarmy cheating asshole.

  I need to get Cal out of my head. And there’s only one way to do it.

  I grab my laptop from my bag and head into my bedroom. Sitting up against my tufted headboard, I boot it up. And looky here: cupcakecasanova seems to have been waiting for me. He IMs me before I can even tab over to his window.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  Thought you had plans tonight.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  They didn’t pan out. They sucked, actually.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  Sorry to hear that, muffin.

  I’m already grinning at the nickname. God, he’s so cute. I wonder what he looks like in person. I imagine that he’s thin, with dependable hands and a serious gaze. Not my type at all. But it doesn’t matter. He’s a stranger. I can imagine that he looks however I want him to look.

  I can imagine that he looks like Cal.

  Disheveled, dark hair. Stubble. Strong chin, with a dimple at the center. Muscles for miles. Veins down his forearms. Those white undershirts and slouchy jeans. The curve of his ass through denim, and the trail of dark hair that leads down from his navel and into the waistband of his jeans. In my head, cupcakecasanova is tall, Scottish, and perfect.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  Thanks. Anyway. What are you up to?

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  Cooking, naturally.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  Trying out some new recipes?

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  An old one, in fact. My mother’s scones. Comfort food. I wouldn’t be a baker if it weren’t for those scones.

  I wrinkle my nose a little. He’s so cute. Well, I guess it could be worse. Already my tension is diffusing. But not the tension between my legs, not entirely. I can still taste Cal on my lips, still feel the faint burn of his stubble against his cheeks.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  A mama’s boy, huh? Well. You should come here and give mama some sugar. I want you inside me, Cupcake.

  There’s a long pause. God, I hope he’s still there. I need him tonight. Need this. Tonight, I need to get Cal McKenzie out of my head.

  Luckily, cupcakecasanova doesn’t seem to mind.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  I crawl over to you. I’m putting my hand on your bare ankle, and run it up the length of your leg.

  It’s almost like he is here with me. I can feel goosebumps working their way toward my thighs.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  That feels good.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  You’re into it, aren’t you? I can see how you cast your head back. I kiss your neck. You taste so sweet.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  I’m wearing a red lace thong. God, I’m so fucking wet already.

  Actually, I’m wearing a pair of pink cotton briefs under my jeans. But the wet part is true. I kneel on the bed and wriggle out of my pants.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  I slide my hand between your legs. I can feel how wet you are through your panties. I kiss your breasts, biting into those sweet little cherries you call nipples.

  My hand is under my T-shirt now. I’m pinching myself, my breath hot and heavy. The best part of a guy who is half fantasy is that he knows exactly how I like to be touched. My back arches in pleasure and anticipation.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  You still there, muffin?

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  Sorry. Typing with one hand. :)

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  That’s okay. I’ll type enough for both of us. I press my cock against you. It’s nine inches long, rock hard. It rubs you straight through those little red panties. You’re grabbing at my ass, riding me, and I haven’t even taken your underwear off yet.

  My hands pause in their motions over my skin. Moving quickly, almost frantically, I lean over and reach into my nightstand. My rabbit’s there, perfect, purple, my old friend. I bought it just after I fled Miami and swore off chefs forever. It’s served me well so far. I turn it on. It hums against my thigh.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  You’re riding me, your pussy tight against me. God, I almost can’t take it anymore. I turn you over. Your ass is perfect and tight. I run my cock over your rear. I’m aching to get inside of you, dripping wet. I can see how wet your thighs are, too, muffin.

  I barely manage to march a hand over to the keyboard.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  Oh god, please fuck me.

  I tug my underwear down and fix my vibe against my clit. Pleasure spreads through me. I cast my head back.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  I tug those panties down. You’re tight, wet. But I don’t put it in you, not yet. I rub the head against that gorgeous pussy of yours. I feel your clit pulsing against me. You want me so bad. You want me inside you.

  I rub the length of the vibe along my lips. I can’t remember the last time I was this wet. College, maybe. My body is open and aching. I do want him, deep inside. My eyes are closed. I’m imagining Cal, his big hands still on my hips as he rubs his cock against my pussy again and again.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  You’re moaning, and so open, and so wet. I can’t take it anymore. I put my throbbing cock against you, and then I push it in. You’re so tight that I’m almost afraid it won’t fit inside, but you take every inch of it, your body shuddering.

  I push the vibe inside of me. I am shuddering, as I bury the rabbit in my body straight up to my clit. My thighs tremble. God, I’m close.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  I pull out slowly, watching you whimper as I do. You want me inside of you, fast and hard. So I start plowing into you over and over again.

  My body moves the way he’s commanded. I plunge the vibrator into me, once, twice, three times. Then I can’t take it anymore. Everything’s exploding, blood rushing from my clit into my belly. I’m warm with pleasure. My back is arched, my breasts aching in the empty air. I come and come and come, my body pulsing so hard that I can hardly breathe.

  It seems to last forever. At last, I feel the cool night air on me again, hear the mechanical hum of my vibe. I turn it off, then slowly slide it out of my body. I still feel like I’m faintly shaking when I sit up and grab my keyboard again, my hands moving swiftly over the keys.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  God, thank you. That was fantastic.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  You are fantastic, muffin. Your beautiful ass made me cum so hard that I almost let my scones burn.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  Oh no! :( They’re okay, aren’t they?

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  I saved them. Had to run halfway across my apartment with my shorts down.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  I would have liked to see that!

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  I would love to see what you
look like right now, too. Hair a mess. Panties tossed aside.

  I glance around my dark room. He’s not wrong about the way things look, but I’m sure it’s not half as glamorous or sexy as he imagines. After all, in my head, he’s Callum McKenzie, getting sleepy in a king bed with silk sheets tangled around him, his boxer briefs around his ankles.

  But I don’t have to tell him that. I don’t think cupcakecasanova and I are under any illusions. We know this is just about sex, just about letting off a little steam. It’s fantasy, as far from the real Cal McKenzie as you can get.

  thenagainmaybefondant@gmail.com:

  Actually, I put on some lingerie. A corsette . . .

  I type, and I reach for my vibe again. I hit send and then his answer comes right back.

  cupcakecasanova@gmail.com:

  Oh, Muffin, tell me more!

  Chapter Eight

  A week later. The store is as dead as slab of month-old pound cake. I’ve already sent Summer home three times this week. Today, I told her not to bother coming in. This isn’t good, not at all. I haven’t even seen Mrs. O’Gilligan. I got worried enough yesterday that I gave her a ring at the nursing home—she’s not dead, at least. When she answered, she told me this convoluted story about how she’s been busy cruising with her homies. But I know the truth. This is all Cal McKenzie’s fault. His damned pop-up shop is killing Rock N Roll Cakes, and I’m powerless to do a thing about it.

  It’s almost noon and I haven’t had a single customer when I flip open my laptop and meander over to my Gmail, hoping that cupcakecasanova is online. I figure if I can’t make money, I can at least get hot and bothered under the counter. But no dice, he’s nowhere to be found. There’s a message from Ginny, though, sent about fifteen minutes earlier.