by Kira Blakely
He lifts his bottle to take another sip. “How do we start?”
How? I’d like to start by clutching the front of his black shirt and pulling him close so I can inhale the smell of him. After that, I’ll rip that shirt off so I can run my fingers over…
I shake my head. We’re making crepes, not anything else. And I may be a virgin, but I’m also a grown woman. I’m not supposed to be having these delusions.
Focus, Lauren.
“We’ll start by making the crepe mixture,” I answer, and fetch a mixing bowl from a cupboard. “We have to whisk together the flour and the eggs then add some milk, some water, and some of the butter. Gotta melt the butter first, though.”
I grab a pan above me and put it on the stove, then snap-whoosh, light it up. “Can you pass the butter?”
“Sure.” He places the bar in my palm.
I peel it open and cut some off, then toss it into the hot pan. The butter sizzles and melts.
“Melts fast,” Chase says, looking over my shoulder.
“That’s because the pan’s hot,” I tell him, and swirl the shrinking piece of butter around the pan.
And it’s not the pan. It may be a cool night but the kitchen feels warm, especially with Chase standing next to me. He’s so close his breath feathers the back of my neck. My core sizzles and melts too.
I inhale and steady myself.
“There,” I say. The butter’s melted completely. I turn off the heat. “Now we can add this to the mixture.”
I pour the frothy, golden liquid into the bowl and grab the whisk.
Chase’s fingers close around my wrist. “Let me do the mixing.”
I nod and step aside. His touch singes me.
He puts his bottle down and starts whisking, but he’s way too strong and some of the mixture slops from the bowl. I take the whisk back.
“Slowly. Gently.”
I carefully move the whisk around the bowl and swirl its contents.
“You have to make sure the ingredients mingle together, that they become one,” I tell him as I whisk, my other hand holding the bowl steady. “If you’re too rough, the mixture will split.”
Chase nods. “I can do slow and gentle.”
Yes, please.
He places his hands over mine, stands behind me, and strokes my fingers. He slips his between mine, and we both hold the bowl and whisk, mix together.
I draw another deep breath then pull away. “You take over.”
“Gladly,” he says.
I watch him from a few feet away, wiping the beads of sweat that have formed on my brow. I loosen my apron, which is now as tight as a corset.
Whew. It sure is getting hot in here.
“What do we do next?” Chase asks, still mixing.
I rattle my muddled brain for the recipe. “Do you want sweet or savory?” I ask him.
Chase stops mixing. “I like sweet, but I’m more of a savory person.”
And I’d love nothing more than to savor him right now. I swallow, tuck some hair behind my ear. “Okay. We’ll do a bit of both.”
“Perfect.”
I transfer some of the mixture to another bowl. “You do the sweet mixture and I’ll do the savory.”
“What do I do?”
“Just add some sugar, a bit of vanilla, and some brandy into that mixture and keep mixing,” I answer, and fetch the ingredients from the cupboard. “I’ll add some salt and herbs to mine.”
“What herbs?” Chase asks, adding sugar to his mixture.
“Chives. Parsley. Thyme.” I grab the bunches of fresh leaves.
“Sure those are edible?”
I cast a frown at him. “What? Do you think I’d poison you? Of course, I could poison you if I wanted. Some herbs are poisonous, after all, but don’t worry, I’d never do that. Not to you.”
“Good to know.”
“I’m adding these for flavor.” I chop the leaves. “And then I’ll add some spices, too.”
“I like spicy,” Chase says, and the heat those words pierces me.
I grab the bottle of paprika and try to focus on the task at hand.
Crepes, Lauren. That’s what you’re making.
“But too much is never good. You want the flavor to be there but not so intense that it’s overpowering.”
Speaking of intense and overpowering, he’s staring at me right now, my skin tingles, more beads of sweat form. I wipe them off.
“You’re not mixing,” I tell him.
“I was waiting for you,” he says. “I want to match your pace.”
I ignore the remark, folding the additional ingredients into my mixture with a spatula. He continues whisking his, doing so slowly, gradually.
“You can go a little faster,” I tell him.
“Sure. Whatever you say.”
He whisks faster.
I mix the ingredients in my bowl in silence, constantly aware of his presence. Then I go to the stove to reheat the pan where I melted the butter. I cut off another dollop and plop it into the pan.
“What next?” Chase asks.
“Watch me first,” I answer, fetching his mixing bowl.
“Gladly.”
When the pan is hot enough, I scoop a small amount of the mixture and pour it into the middle then I hold the handle and swirl the mixture around, spreading it evenly.
“You have to make sure the batter coats the surface of the pan.”
“Right.”
He’s watching me all right. Closely. Too closely.
I focus on my pan, and the batter turns golden brown. I slip the spatula underneath and flip the crepe.
“Wow,” Chase says. “It’s like pizza.”
“It is a bit,” I agree. “Now, we have to make sure this other side cooks for about half a minute and then it’s done.”
After a few more seconds, I take the crepe out of the pan and place it on a plate.
“Your turn.”
Chase takes over and this time, I watch him like a hawk as he swirls the mixture around the pan.
So far, so good.
“Remind me why you don’t know how to cook again,” I say. “Didn’t your mother teach you?”
“She left the cooking to the chefs.”
I blink. “Chefs?”
“I mean to the chef.” He sets the pan down. “My dad was a chef.”
I raise an eyebrow. “He was?”
“But he never bothered to teach me to cook,” Chase adds.
“Oh.”
His first crepe is a failure. He flips it too early so it collapses. I help him scoop it out and scrape it off the pan.
“Don’t worry.” I pat him on the shoulder. “The first time is usually a disaster.”
“In my experience, it’s usually perfect,” he says.
I step back. “Just – uh – just try again.”
The second one ends up a bit burned. The third, however, is perfect.
“Third time’s the charm,” I say as he transfers the crepe to a plate. “Now, we have to keep going until there isn’t any mixture left.”
That’s what we do. We take turns, and after a half an hour, we have a pile of crepes on a plate.
Now, that’s more than what I originally wanted to make. Thankfully, there’s two of us to eat it.
“What about the filling?” Chase asks, getting a berry from the bowl and rolling it between his fingers. He pops it into his mouth.
“For the sweet, we can put berries with some cottage cheese, fold it and coat it with some cream and syrup.”
I do exactly that, spreading the filling over a crepe on a separate plate.
“Aren’t you going to put more?” Chase asks, his eyes narrowed in disapproval.
“If I put too much, it will spill out,” I say.
“Right.” He nods, taking a piece of crepe and spreading the filling on it. “If there’s too much, it could burst and go all over the place. You can’t put it all in your mouth, after all.”
I shiver. I may be a virg
in, but I know what he’s talking about. Mom had a romance book hidden under her pillow – a new one every week – and I snuck a peek or five.
I swallow.
“What about the savory?” he asks.
“We can put some tomatoes, chives, and cottage cheese,” I say, my voice still shaking slightly.
I prepare the savory mixture, spreading it while he finishes with the sweet crepes.
Chase sets down the bottle of syrup after dressing the last one.
“Now what?”
“Now, the best part,” I say, folding the last savory crepe on my side of the table. “We eat.”
I grab a fork and dig into a sweet crepe. I’m way hungrier than when we started. Don’t gobble, Lauren. Control your urges.
Chase goes for a sweet crepe, even though he said he liked savory better. He puts half inside his mouth, nodding in approval then goes on to finish the other. A speck of the whipped cream gets caught on the corner of his lips.
Without thinking, I lift my hand and wipe it off with the pad of my thumb. My eyes clash with his glistening pools of cobalt and I freeze, drowning in the desire in them.
My breath catches.
He parts his lips as if to say something, but no sound comes out.
My hand trembles and falls to my side.
He leans forward until I can smell the alcohol and berries on his breath. It mixes with mine. I’m weak, my eyelids fall shut and I lean into him.
His erection brushes against my inner-thigh. He comes closer, closer.
Oh god.
His lips graze mine, and my whole world flowers open.
Hot, unsteady, I gasp for my breath, and just like that, it’s happening. His tongue is in my mouth, sweet and creamy, dancing with mine. Two strong hands slide over my ass and squeeze me hard.
No bra… no pants... I’m naked but for the shirt. My heart’s trying to break through my ribcage.
The loud creak of a door upstairs shatters the spell.
My eyes fly open, but my vision is still a blur. Chase grabs his beer, in front of me one moment and gone the next.
I stand there, gripping the edge of the table as I breathe and try to keep my balance in spite of my shaking knees, my pussy still pounding.
What on earth happened?
“Lauren? What are you doing still up?” My dad stands in the doorway, his ashy hair a mess, eyes red with sleep.
“Having a midnight snack,” I manage. Here’s hoping I don’t look as disoriented as I feel.
“Alone?” He asks.
“Yeah.”
I place a plate on the spot where Chase’s bottle was to conceal the watermark.
Dad approaches the table. “Crepes?”
“Yup.”
He looks at the crepes on the table, and sniffs, wrinkles his nose. “But there are too many of them.”
“I know. I went overboard. Guess my eyes are bigger than my stomach. Turns out I’m not that hungry after all.”
Dad frowns. “Well, what are you going to do with all these?”
“You can have some or give some to Smoke. If I remember correctly, he likes crepes. The horses might like it, too.” The horses? Shit, now he has to know something’s up. Horses eating crepes. I barely restrain a panicked snort.
I take off my apron, put it back on its peg, and pat my Dad’s shoulder. “I’ll go back upstairs. Just leave the dishes in the sink and I’ll wash them in the morning.”
I dart up the stairs – I don’t want it to look like I’m running away but I’m afraid if I stay around my father, he’ll notice how flushed and out of breath I am.
My body burns and my panties are soaked.
I lock my bedroom the door. I’ve never done that before, but I’ve got to do it this time. I strip off my panties, push them down past my knees, to my ankles, then step out of them. I kick ‘em onto a pile of laundry in the corner.
I stand there with my nightshirt on, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm myself down.
But I can’t. I’m too riled up, Chase’s touches are embedded in my skin.
I’m supposed to get new panties from my drawer.
Instead, I step back until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I fall onto of it, my hand creeping beneath the hem of my nightshirt.
I need this so bad. Him so bad. Worse than when I walked in on him bathing in the river.
I close my eyes and picture Chase’s hands on mine.
A light touch on the inside of my thighs – I skate my finger further up. Shiver, gasp, bite my bottom lip hard.
My fingers brush against my clit. I imagine him teasing that nub, playing with it as he played with one of the berries earlier.
I move my fingers even lower, shuddering. They reach the place where I’m pounding, melting, and I bite back a moan.
I spread my legs wider, pull my knees up so my nightshirt wrinkles up to my waist. I stroke myself, imagining Chase’s fingers caressing me there, picturing him watching me. Wanting me.
In seconds, I come undone. I tremble and writhe on the bed, kick one leg out, the other, shut my eyes, and open as wide as I can go.
I burst, hot, stickiness seeps from my swollen lips. I blank out, and images of him, of his face above mine, his tongue probing my mouth, seeking, flash in front of me.
I grasp the sheets and lift my hips, jam back and forth, back and forth. “Oh-o-h,” I hiss.
Finally, the waves of pleasure recede, and I lower my ass to the bed.
I open my eyes, close my legs, then look out of the window at that moonlit sky.
What just happened?
My mind is a mush, crepe batter of the brain, my body numb now that the desire fades, and my skin cools
God, I’ll never look at crepes the same way again.
Chapter 4
Chase
I step on the rake, lean on its handle, and examine my day’s work – dozens of windrows laid out to dry in the field.
I wipe my brow with a dirtied sleeve, grateful for the breeze that passes by to cool it.
It’s already sunset, the skies turning from blue to amber, the same color as Lauren’s eyes.
I can still remember gazing into them, wide with curiosity, gleaming with desire, begging me to kiss her.
Many times during that “cooking lesson,” I had to summon all of my self-control and every ounce of morality to keep me from tucking my thumbs into her panties and tugging them down over her round ass cheeks. Had to stop myself from scraping a thumb over those pebbled nipples in her old cotton nightshirt.
Just the thought of Lauren trembling beneath me under this sunset sky on a field of hay is enough to make me hard.
Maybe it’s her hair that’s in constant disarray. Maybe it’s her smoldering eyes. Or maybe it’s that air of innocence about her that reminds me of a wildflower in the middle of the woods, unseen and untouched. It draws me to her like a moth to a flame.
She is unlike any woman I’ve ever known.
Thoughts of her only makes my problem worse so I stop. My arms, back, and legs are already aching. There’s no need to put myself through more pain.
My time here is transient – it could end tomorrow.
I lift the rake and carry it over my shoulder, trudge to the tool shed. I deposit it there, then drag myself toward my “barn,” and place a hand against my aching ribs.
It’s better than it was weeks ago but it still hurts sometimes, especially after a long day’s work.
A bath usually helps, though. I’ll take one before I eat the dinner Lauren’s prepared, then go to bed straight after.
The sky bruises overhead, hues of lavender to gray, and I reach the barn. I say barn, but it’s more of a large shed, really, made of wood that already has most of its paint peeled off and some rusty metal sheets for a roof.
Isaac says it’s where all his farmhands have stayed. And I’ve seen traces of them inside, some names carved into the walls and a pair of old, tattered boots under the cot.
I’m not complaining. A
roof over my head, however old or rickety, is better than none at all.
I open the door – there’s no lock – and go in. I turn on the lone lightbulb, then shudder to a halt.
Isaac sits on the chair near the window.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You want to give me a heart attack, boss?”
“Sorry,” Isaac says, as he strokes his beard. “It was still bright when I came so I didn’t turn the lights on. I was waiting for you and as I sat here, I started thinking about the days when there were plenty of farmhands cramped into this barn. Good friends, too. I must have been so lost in thought I didn’t notice it getting dark.”
I sigh and sit on the edge of the cot. “You can always hire more farmhands, you know. There’s plenty of work for more than one.”
Isaac narrows his eyes at me. “You complaining?”
“No,” I answer. “Just saying. The ranch could do better with proper equipment and–”
“Don’t tell me how to run my ranch, boy.” Isaac taps his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“Sorry.” I take off my boots, drop me them with two weighty thunks. “So, what are you doing here?”
“I came to talk.”
“Am I not working hard enough?” I ask. This may not be the easiest job but I need it. I need this place – for now.
“That’s not it,” Isaac tells me. “You’re one of the hardest workers I’ve ever had.”
“Then what is it?” Under normal circumstances, I would tell Isaac to spit it out. But I’m not Chase Donahue, here. I’m Chase Donner. I’ve got to be careful. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Did you?” He throws the question back at me.
I rub the back of my neck, hide a shiver from the cold rush which shuttles down my spine. Has Isaac discovered my true identity and circumstances?
I get off the cot. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do. I think you’ve seen the way my daughter looks at you, and I’ve seen the way you looked back at her in the storm cellar.”
Oh. It’s about Lauren. Figures. Old man’s weirdly protective of her.
That’s his first rule. Don’t touch my daughter. The words are burned into my memory.
I raise my hands. “I swear I’ve done nothing to your daughter. I haven’t laid a finger on her.”
“And you won’t.” He stands in front of me. “That was part of our arrangement, I believe.”