Cupcake (Complete Me #1)

by Sloan Kincaid

  “Sure,” Shep said, smiling back. I didn’t entirely like that grin—it said that he knew something I didn’t.

  It said that I could run, but he’d catch me in the end.

  As I started out of the parking lot, I watched him in the rearview. He stood right where I’d left him, one thumb hooked on his belt and the other hand hanging free, with that ever-so-subtle grin still tugging at the edge of his mouth.

  6

  Saturday morning, I woke up feeling like I’d dodged a bullet. The date—er, no, not a date, more like a meeting—the meeting with Shep had gotten a little out of hand. It was a good thing I’d nipped it in the bud the way I had because otherwise, I could have done something I really would have regretted.

  The ache between my thighs told me that I was regretting plenty.

  I spent the rest of the weekend trying to push him out of my mind, but he lingered, smirking at me every time I closed my eyes. Part of the problem was that I couldn’t help but wonder what class would be like on Monday. What would we say to each other? Could we pretend like the kiss in the parking lot hadn’t happened? Could we continue going on being partners? Maybe I could ask for a new partner, but what would the professor say? I could see it now:

  Excuse me, can I have a new partner?

  Are you not getting along with Shep, Anna?

  No, it’s not that, it’s just that I have the hormonal control of a fifteen-year-old and I almost fucked him on the hood of my car. In fact, I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t. So, how ‘bout it professor? New partner?

  No, we’d just roll with the punches and see where it took us.

  Come Monday, I headed to class and took my seat. Shep barely paid me any notice as he strolled in and sunk into his chair. Come the start of class, the professor stood up and started writing on the board. I followed the first five minutes of the lecture or so, and the rest just sort of became fuzzy. I couldn’t help but look at Shep. I’d look at the board for about two seconds and then, as though being pulled by magnets, my eyes would drift over to him. I could still feel him touching me—his lips on mine, arms squeezing my waist…

  That rigid length between my thighs, begging for entrance. No, not begging—Shep didn’t beg. He demanded.

  I wanted to give in.

  Before I knew it, the class was over. Kids stuffed their books and notes into bags, threw said bags over shoulder, and made a beeline for the door. I took my time, glancing at Shep. Was he looking at me? Maybe if I stuck around, we could ‘bump into each other.' What did I want, though? It wasn’t like I wanted him to ask me on another date. Maybe I just wanted closure. Yeah, that’s what it was. Shep had come on to me, and I’d rejected him because that was the responsible thing to do. Now it was time to come to terms with our relationship: we were class partners, friends at most. There wasn’t going to be any romantic involvement between us. That was that.

  I almost convinced myself that I believed it.

  Shep seemed to be taking even longer than I, and he hadn’t even looked over at me. Eventually, I figured that was that – what had happened in the parking lot was no big deal, and we were just going to move on. I collected my things and started out the door.

  About halfway up the hall, Shep called after me. “Wait up, Cupcake.”

  I shot him a glare as I spun to face him. “Tell me that nickname isn’t going to stick,” I said.

  Shep shrugged. “Fine, we’ll go back to Annie.”

  “Puke,” I said. “God, sometimes you drive me crazy.”

  “I can relate,” Shep said.

  I whipped my head to look at him. “I drive you cr—oh, very funny.”

  Shep grinned but didn’t look at me. Side by side, we walked down the hall. Something about it felt right. I knew I shouldn’t, but something deep inside me compelled me. “So I was thinking,” I said, trying to ease into the topic. “Maybe tomorrow we could get together and work on the project.” And also, maybe you could stick me in your bed and work on me like I’m one of your cars. What do I need? A total overhaul. Change my oil. Ratchet my gears. Give me a good flushing. Yup, full-service package, please.

  “I have work tomorrow.” My mood sunk. Shep must have picked up on it because he continued. “But you can come over to my place and cook me dinner after. Working on cars always makes me hungry. You can cook, right?”

  Yeah, about as well as a seagull can speak Mandarin.

  “Yeah, I’m a great cook,” I said. And sure, I’ll hop on over and serve you. Why not?

  “And,” he said. “I’ll provide dessert.” He accentuated dessert with an ever-so-subtle intonation of his voice.

  I ignored the shiver that skated down my spine.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. That’s the stuff—play it cool, Anna, play it cool.

  “I know you will,” Shep said. “I mean, you were eye-fucking me all class period.”

  I scowled at him as my cheeks heated. “I was not eye-fucking you, Shep. I was paying attention to the lecture.”

  Shep snorted. “I know an eye-fucking when I see one, Anna. And this last class period was a certified, grade-A, no holds barred eye-fucking.”

  “I wasn’t eye fucking you,” I repeated. Even I didn’t find the lie believable by this point, so Shep probably didn’t either. “Look, tell yourself whatever you want,” I said as we reached the door. “I’m here in school to learn, not to ogle students.”

  “Whatever you say,” Shep said, holding the door for me. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “I said I’d think about it,” I said.

  “Show up around seven.”

  Try as I might, I couldn’t deny that Shep was right. Yeah, I was going over to his house to make dinner. Otherwise, I’d spend the night sitting in front of the television, watching Netflix and wondering how many episodes of Game of Thrones I’d watch before finally breaking down and going to Shep’s. So I just decided to skip all of that.

  It occurred to me, as I shopped for the ingredients to a meal that was classy but that I’d have a tough time screwing up, that I had no idea where Shep lived. I considered calling him, but then again, I knew he was working, and I knew where he worked, so I guessed I was showing up at his work.

  I pulled up to Shep’s garage at six. The parking lot was pretty much empty, but I recognized Shep’s pickup. It was the only vehicle in the lot. By this point, I was sure that Shep owned the garage. Either that, or he was the most dedicated employee I’d ever seen. Whatever the case, according to the sign on the door, the place had closed two hours previously, and he was still inside toiling away. Even though the sign on the door was turned around so it said CLOSED, the door was unlocked. I let myself inside, and the door thudded shut behind me.

  “Sorry,” Shep called from the garage. “We’re closed for the night.”

  Without responding, I followed his voice behind the desk and into the garage. The garage was a wide open expanse of oil-soaked cement illuminated by a dozen or so fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Two cars were sitting in bays; the third was elevated on one of those platforms. Shep was underneath it, ratcheting at the undercarriage.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” He called again. “I said we’re—” At that point, he looked over and saw me. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “I realized I didn’t know where you live,” I said sheepishly. “I thought I’d call, but I then figured I’d stop by. You know, maybe get an idea about what gets you so fired up about cars.”

  Shep grabbed a rag from the bench nearby and wiped his hands. As he stepped out from the shadow of the car and into the fluorescent light, I almost swallowed my tongue. He’d been working like a bear from the looks of it, with sweat dripping down his forehead and clinging to his chiseled chest, and there were streaks of oil and grease all over him.

  “Yeah, they’re beautiful machines,” Shep said, gesturing to the one he’d been working on.

  My eyes were locked on his shimmering torso. “Yeah,” I said, trancelike. “They
sure are beautiful…”

  “What’d you get for dinner?”

  I shook my head, snapping out of the hypnosis. “What did I what? Oh, spaghetti. I picked up pasta, spaghetti sauce, parmesan cheese, hamburger and some Texas Toast. Maybe I’ll throw some parsley on for garnish if you have any.”

  “Yeah,” Shep said. “I think I have some parsley left over from the stir fry.” I felt like a puppet, as though strings were attached to my wrists, compelling me to touch the ripples of Shep’s abdomen.

  “You can cook?” I asked.

  Shep nodded. “Yeah. I got tired of eating meals that came out of a box when I was a teenager. So I learned a few recipes here and there, and now I guess you could say I’m pretty handy in the kitchen.”

  “No kidding…?” My eyes had wandered down to his six-pack.

  “You like what you see?” Shep asked, throwing the rag over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I ventured, testing the waters.

  Without a word, Shep stepped forward and slipped his arm around my waist, tugging me close. “Feel free to get a closer look, if you want.”

  “Very funny,” I said, punctuating the response with a nervous chuckle. “So…” I glanced around the garage, looking for something—anything—that I could use to change the subject. “What do you like about cars so much?”

  Shep grinned, and it wasn’t the kind of grin he usually gave me. No, this was a wicked grin, the kind of grin a lion might have when faced with the exposed underbelly of a gazelle.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What do you mean you don’t—”

  “What I mean,” Shep said, cutting me off before the words were done coming out of my mouth, “is that right now, my mind’s somewhere else. Like maybe I’m sitting on the hood of one of those bad boys, and you’re in a pair of heels and some sexy-ass lingerie—”

  “Not going to happen,” I said, this time cutting him off and giving him a gentle push.

  “We’ll see,” Shep said, turning back toward the car he’d been working on. “Tell you what. Let me finish up with this gasket, and we’ll head back to my place.”

  “Don’t go getting any funny ideas about what’s going to happen when we get there,” I called to his backside. He didn’t respond. Either he hadn’t heard me, or he wasn’t entirely convinced that his funny ideas weren’t going to happen when we got there.

  Frankly, I wasn’t convinced that his funny ideas weren’t going to happen, either.

  7

  Sexy-ass lingerie.

  The description was like a taunt, floating around in front of me as I plodded along behind Shep’s truck in my Civic as we headed for his apartment. How had I put up with that? Here I was, trying to make him a classy dinner, and Shep responded by trying to cast me in some fantasy that seemed less romantic and more like the kind of thing you’d find on Starz After Dark at two in the morning. Sexy ass lingerie…ha. I liked to think I had more class than some cheap plastic floozy named Ivana Blowyou.

  So why does the idea excite you so much?

  Shep’s place was an apartment downtown, situated in a looming brick building. We parked in the rear, and Shep carried the groceries inside with me in tow. Shep let himself inside, held the door for me, and together we rode the elevator to the sixth floor.

  The apartment itself was understated. He had a lot of pictures on the wall, but they seemed obligatory—pictures of fruit bowls and generic sunsets, the kind of things you might find in bulk at five bucks a pop down at Wal-Mart. Otherwise, the apartment seemed practical and well cared-for—a sofa in front of a TV, a glass coffee table with the remote perched on top, stained with the rings of beers long since consumed. The sole window in the living room overlooked the street below.

  “You don’t have many pictures,” I said, heading into the kitchen where Shep was unloading the grocery bags. “Don’t you have a family?”

  “Sure,” Shep said. “I call my mom and dad once a week,” he said, setting the pasta on the counter beside the stovetop. “We’re not a big picture-family, though. The only reason I have any pictures is that I didn’t like the whole military-barracks look going on.”

  “Were you in the military?” I asked. I hadn’t seen any evidence that he might have been in the services, other than his neat apartment—which was decidedly uncharacteristic for a twenty-four-year-old, in my opinion—and, of course, his rock-hard physique.

  Shep shook his head. “Nah, I thought about it. Decided against it.” He plucked the tomato sauce from the grocery bag and set it on the counter with a hard thud. “I’m not real big on people telling me what to do.” He balled up the grocery bag and tossed it in the trashcan. “Listen, I need to get a shower. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Without waiting for a response, Shep left me alone in the kitchen. The bathroom door thudded shut behind him. I looked around for a minute, unsure of what to do, and then elected to get rolling on the spaghetti. After rifling through his kitchen for a few minutes, I found a pot that would be suitable for cooking, a colander, and a measuring cup. Thus accomplished I set about boiling the water. Through the bathroom door, I heard the shower kick into gear.

  If the water was on, that meant Shep was showering.

  If Shep was showering, that meant he was naked.

  Naked probably meant he was standing in the shower, surrounded by clouds of steam, soap trickling down his muscles, maybe thinking about me in sexy ass lingerie.

  Was he hard? Did he have a fist wrapped around his cock? Was he making himself come, thinking of me?

  I snapped myself out of it. No, I couldn’t be thinking stuff like that. Shep was too young. Besides, suppose I gave him my heart? Would he know what to do with it? Probably not. I knew the downside to giving my love too freely. I’d learned it the hard way with Max, surrendering my love to him when I was nineteen. Had he known what to do with it? No. Giving my heart to Max had been like giving a Faberge egg to a monkey.

  The water reached a rolling boil, and I slid the entire box of spaghetti into the pot. Maybe it was too much, sure, but Shep was a mechanic—he probably had an appetite like a tapeworm. Even if we didn’t finish all of it tonight, he’d probably appreciate the leftovers. While the pasta cooked, I found another pot and set it on the adjacent stove at low heat. I poured the sauce in, tore open the hamburger, and started making meatballs, plunking them into the sauce as I went.

  I barely noticed when Shep killed the shower and came out. It wasn’t until I felt his hands on my hips that I realized he was behind me.

  “Jesus Christ!” I cried, jumping. The meatball I’d been working on tumbled from my hands and tumbled to the floor. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “You’re just good at handling balls.”

  I turned around to look at him. He’d changed into fresh jeans, but his shirt hadn’t found its way to his torso yet and was instead draped over his shoulder. His bare chest, clean now, smelled like soap. He hadn’t bothered with cologne.

  Oh, fuck. I was doomed.

  “Yuck,” I said, picking up the stray meatball and throwing it in the trash. As I resumed my position in front of the pots, Shep’s hands found their way to my hips again. “Do you mind?”

  “I can’t help it,” he said. “I told you, I’m handy in the kitchen.”

  “Ha,” I said.

  “You want any wine?” He asked, withdrawing to the refrigerator.

  “You trying to get me drunk?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, with that trademark Shep-grin. He pulled a beer from the fridge and a bottle of wine from the cabinet, pouring it for me. I sipped at the glass of red and stirred the sauce. The meatballs were heating up, and the pasta was done. I drained it quickly, setting the pot down, then yelping when I turned and found all six plus feet of Shep right behind me.

  “Leave it,” Shep said. His fingers found the belt loops of my snug jeans and gave a quick pull, tugging me flush with his body.

  His inc
redibly hard, very young body. Closing my eyes, I let my hands stroke over his chest, tracing the contours and ridges and enjoying the low grunt he gave when my hand skimmed his abdomen.

  So he was young. Right now, as far as I was concerned, that was a perk. Except… oh, man. How would my definitely not as tight body hold up in comparison? He was probably used to girls with perky breasts and taut stomachs and—

  “You’re thinking again.” Dipping his head, he sank his teeth into the cord of my neck, just hard enough to send a jolt of heat through me. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop that.”

  “I can’t just—”

  “Take off your top.”

  “What?” Yeah, that stopped my self-destructive thought train pretty damn fast. I whirled as he backed away.

  “You heard me.” Stepping back, he leaned back against the island in the middle of his kitchen. He crossed his arms over that massive, naked chest and pinned me with a hard stare. “You made me work real hard to get you here. Made me wait. Now we do things my way.”

  Holy shit.

  The rational part of my brain screamed at me to leave—what I was doing here with a man who wanted to boss me around in bed when I’d just gained my freedom?

  The rest of my mind? It detonated, sending molten need cascading through my body. I might even have whimpered as my fingers moved to the hem of my T-shirt.

  “Hurry up,” he ordered, face mean. “I don’t have all day.”

  Shivers skated over my skin. He’d changed, the shift subtle but clear. This man wasn’t the one who would find me a drink I liked or tease me with silly nicknames. No, this man would take what he wanted from my body, and make sure that I felt him between my legs the next day.

  Inexplicably, this was the Shep that I wanted. I didn’t want to have to be smart and responsible—I wanted him to tell me what to do and expect me to fucking doing it.

  “Nice,” he said as I stripped away the soft cotton and let it fall to the floor. Beneath it was the prettiest bra I owned—pale pink, it was simple, but the low-cut lace teased, just a bit. “Now the bra. I want to see your tits.”