She gripped the sides of her plate to try to steady her hands. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is.”
His eyes were growing darker. They dipped to her lips. “Make any dirty cupcakes this week?”
“Yes. Two orders.”
“What flavors?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want to tell you.” She totally wanted to tell him. She wanted to watch his eyes go darker when she said the dirty words. And she wanted him to keep touching her cheek. And then touch her in other places. “You should stop.”
“Probably.” He dropped his hand, then settled back in his own seat.
But Kimmie’s secret parts were pulsing and zinging and doing cartwheels as though he were still touching her. She gulped her chocolate milk, then stared out the window at the pink sky that was rapidly turning a deep purple. “Pretty view,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed quietly.
She forced herself to keep staring at the sky and the lake, even though she wanted to look at him.
Because without evidence to the contrary, she could pretend he was talking about her.
19
Tweeted @WindyCitySociety: Secret Ingredient for Kimmie Elias’s Cupcakes Exposed—Josh Kincaid Being Brainwashed Through His Stomach! #Joshmie #Doomed
Kimmie was squirmy well before she finished eating. When Josh finally put his plate down, she shooed him out of the way and did the dishes—speed washing was one of her minor superpowers—and then went digging through his cabinets.
In the third cabinet under the counter, she hit the good stuff. “Oh! You have a KitchenAid.”
“If you’re planning on caressing my mixer, you should know that might make my testicles explode,” he said from behind her.
Her cheeks went hot enough to glow. “That would be awkward. And believe me, I know awkward.”
When he didn’t answer, she stood with the mixer and stole a glance at him. He had propped himself against the opposite marble counter, ankles and arms crossed while he watched her. A faint smile lingered on his lips, but unless she was mistaken, he wasn’t watching her. He was watching her butt.
She could suck in her stomach.
She couldn’t suck in her butt. No matter how much yoga and Pilates she did.
“Um, where’s your flour? And do you have any lavender and honey? Oh, of course not. Never mind. What about baking chocolate and peanut butter? Or plain cocoa will work.” She stopped and swung all the way around. “Wait. Do you have cupcake pans?”
His gaze took its time getting up to her eyes, and there was something unusual in the blue depths. “My kitchen’s full of surprises.” He crossed the narrow space and backed her against the counter, legs to legs, hips to hips, belly to belly.
Her stomach flipped. Her deep, secret parts clenched. And an unrestrained, wanton part of her whooped out a hallelujah.
Her breath wobbled.
Something firm lined up against her pelvis.
Josh reached a chiseled arm above her head. Glass and metal clanked, and a nonstick cupcake pan appeared, cutting off her view of his hooded eyes.
“Just one?” she stammered.
He reached up again, leaning closer into her, solid male hardness pressing into her soft flesh. Solid chest. Solid abs. Solid thighs. Solid—
Holy sweet mother of buttercream.
“No need to bake for an army,” he said.
“I might need an army.”
He set the cupcake tins on the counter, then turned sideways, freeing her, and leaned his hip against the counter, firmly in her personal space. “Do you memorize your recipes?” he asked.
“I hate recipes. Cake is art.”
“You make good art.”
She flushed and stepped around him to dig in his fridge—she could’ve fallen in love with him for his subzero built-in alone, if she were the kind of girl to be seduced by a refrigerator—and pulled out a pound of butter and a carton of eggs while she surreptitiously took stock of his food. For a guy who stood to inherit a snack cake company, he had a surprising amount of fresh fruits and vegetables. She opened the freezer and glanced in.
Frozen beef and chicken, a pint of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, three bags of corn. Not a frozen meal in sight. And she hadn’t seen a single Sweet Dreams snack cake box in his cabinets either.
Interesting.
“You want to go through my sock drawer too?” Josh said.
She jumped and slammed the door. “Don’t pretend you didn’t go through my kitchen.”
“Every drawer,” he said. “I liked the one next to your sink. Kinky stuff in there.”
“Those are my fondant tools, you goober.”
He barked out a laugh.
Barking wasn’t supposed to be sexy or seductive, but on Josh, it was.
Kimmie should’ve stayed in Bliss tonight.
But she was here now. And she’d be “breaking up” with Josh soon.
She didn’t want to be sad tonight. Or nervous. Or weird.
Especially when he leaned closer with his focus concentrated on her. “Tell me about the art of cake.”
She connected the paddle to the stand mixer, then went through his drawers and cabinets again until she found his flour, baking soda, sugar, peanut butter, and measuring cups and spoons. “It’s like colors, except they’re ingredients,” she told him while she worked. “Blue and red make purple. Flour, sugar, eggs, and a few other things make cake. The trick is in the balance of how much of each of them.”
“You don’t measure?”
“Measuring’s important. Once I put three tablespoons of baking soda in a small cake recipe, and it was like eating fluffy metal.” General Mom’s voice echoed in her head. Proportions, proportions, proportions, Kimberly. “Measuring affects how the flour and sugar and eggs and everything else act together. Actually, I use a scale at Heaven’s Bakery most of the time. It’s more precise. But understanding how everything works together lets me experiment with different flavors and textures. I could live a thousand years and still not try every kind of cake that could ever exist.”
“Fascinating.”
She fumbled with the flour scoop. There was a huskiness in his voice that pulled at something deep, deep inside her.
He angled closer. “Show me.”
She’d made cupcakes last weekend when he was at her apartment, but he hadn’t been this close.
Or this intense.
She shoved the measuring cup at him. “Put one cup of flour in here, then a teaspoon of baking powder and half a teaspoon of salt.”
The butter was a problem. It was too—“Did I get out two pounds of butter?”
Josh took the measuring cup and flour, and passed her a box of butter. “You’re predictable. Noticed you like it warm.”
It was butter. Just butter. But Kimmie wanted to kiss him for it.
She wanted to kiss him more than she wanted to make cupcakes. A steamy kiss. A real kiss. An I-could-love-you kiss.
“Thank you,” she mumbled instead.
Her hands shook while she opened the box and dropped a stick into the mixer.
“Two cups of baking powder?” Josh said.
“No! One teaspoon. One. Teaspoon.”
He grinned. “You’re cute when your eyes get big and wide like that.”
She huffed, because otherwise she might’ve flung herself at him.
Then she opened his peanut butter and dropped spoonfuls into the bowl on top of the butter.
“Whoa, whoa—measuring?”
“Art.” She eyeballed measuring the brown sugar into the bowl too, then turned the mixer on and sent the paddle to whipping everything together. She should’ve measured the brown sugar, but she’d only found one measuring cup and Josh was using it.
“Four tablespoons of salt?” he said over the noise of the mixer.
“Yes. Four tablespoons.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him measure a half-te
aspoon of salt into the flour mixture.
He leaned in and peered into the bowl, his hand settling low and hot on her waist. She held her breath so she wouldn’t move.
Because if she moved, he might take his hand away, and that would’ve been sadder than waking up from a dream that she’d been asked to bake a wedding cake for Prince Harry’s wedding. To her.
“Is that the magic?” he asked.
She blinked into the bowl. “Some of it.” The peanut butter and butter were almost indistinguishable from one another, and the brown sugar streaks were disappearing with every turn of the paddle.
Josh leaned closer, his front lining up with her back, his hand snaking around to her belly.
She wondered if he could feel it doing cartwheels. Slowly, cautiously, she let herself relax onto his hard chest.
His other hand wrapped around her waist too.
“I hated peanut butter when I was a kid,” he said into her hair. “It was the only thing my mom could afford, so I ate it every day. Sometimes three times a day.”
“Oh. I didn’t—”
His grip tightened around her. “After she died, things got… difficult. And then all I wanted was a peanut butter sandwich.”
Kimmie turned in his arms and slid hers around him, then squeezed. Hard. His heart thumped beneath her ear, strong, steady, and fast. His fingers curled into her hair.
Her scalp tingled, and a flush warmed her whole body. In the best way.
She lifted her face.
Josh’s eyes were dark and hooded. His body pressed hers against the counter with the mixer vibrations pulsing through the marble and into her body.
She licked her lips, then looked away. “The eggs,” she said.
Josh let her turn, but he stayed close, still touching.
Her secret places ached, and she couldn’t draw a steady breath. She cracked an egg into the mixer, then a second, and then added a splash of vanilla with an unsteady hand.
“More magic?” Josh said.
She leaned into him again. His fingers trailed up her sides, to her shoulders, and then he brushed her hair off her neck. Her eyes slid closed, her secret places pulsed in anticipation, and his lips settled onto the skin beneath her ear.
That was magic.
She held perfectly still.
He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another, lower. A third, even lower.
She squirmed.
He dropped his hands. “Sorry. I—”
“Don’t stop,” Kimmie whispered.
She felt him hovering behind her. The mixer was still whirring, swallowing any other sound. Kimmie turned. She hooked her arms around his neck and licked her lips. “I said don’t stop.”
He hesitated only a moment, and then his lips were on hers—caressing, sucking, tasting—while his hands thrust into her hair and his hips pinned hers to the counter.
Josh Kincaid was kissing her.
No one was watching. He didn’t have to. He knew who he was kissing—he’d been staring straight at her, talking to her all night—yet, he was still kissing her.
Touching her. Holding her.
Holding on to her.
Pressing into her.
Kimmie sighed into his kiss. She quit thinking and gave in to her urges. She combed her fingers through the soft, thick mess of his hair, and he kissed her harder, his tongue rough velvet, his lips hot and confident. She tilted her hips against the rigid bulge in his jeans, and he bucked against her. She pressed her chest against him, and he broke away from the kiss, breathing hard, eyes glittering like blue midnight. “Kimmie—”
“Don’t say sorry.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Do it again.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate to kiss her.
And this time, his hands slid under her T-shirt, and his hot fingers traced lazy figures on her hypersensitive skin.
She parted her legs and rubbed one against his. She ached. Oh, but she ached.
Josh shifted, and suddenly his hand was low on her butt, guiding her leg higher, and then he shifted his hips between her legs, and—oh.
She whimpered into his mouth and gripped his hair tighter. That was much better.
Josh trailed kisses from the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, to that yowzers spot beneath her ear. “You taste better than a cupcake.”
“You taste better than grilled cheese,” Kimmie gasped.
His chuckle rumbled over her skin. “Grilled cheese?”
Grilled cheese? “And eggplant.”
Flufflebuggers. She thrust her hands up under his shirt and explored the ridges and hard angles of his chest. Her fingers brushed his nipples, and he hissed in a short breath.
“Grilled cheese. Right,” he said. He sucked on her skin, and her eyes drifted closed.
“You feel better than caramel frosting,” he whispered.
“You feel better than a banana,” she blurted.
“I’m much, much better than a banana. And a pickle. And an eggplant.”
Kimmie squeaked, and her core pulsed.
Eggplants were… wide.
He squeezed her rear end. “I missed you, Kimmie.”
The simple sentiment sent a flood of hot chocolate through her veins.
He missed her. He had to like her if he missed her, right?
He pulled back, and suddenly his shirt disappeared, and he was kissing her again, on the mouth, with all that delicious Joshness.
With a bonus of free rein to explore his chest. Hot skin over hard muscle, with a peppering of hair. She wanted to sculpt his chest on a cake.
And lick it.
But she had the real thing here now.
She eased out of his kiss and lowered her mouth to his collarbone.
Salty and earthy and way, way better than grilled cheese.
His fingers tightened in her hair and on her hip.
She smoothed a path with her hands and slid lower, her tongue darting out, exploring, getting braver, until she flicked his nipple.
Josh’s hips bucked against her again, sending flutters of pleasure between her legs, along with a deeper ache.
She wanted him.
Wanted wanted him.
She straightened and yanked her shirt off. Her elbow connected with the upper cabinets behind her, and Josh had to duck out of the way, but his eyes—oh, those eyes—they drank her in.
As though she were special. Beautiful. Desirable.
Heat pooled under her skin everywhere.
He cupped her breasts in their pink bra. “I love your cupcakes,” he said reverently.
She giggled, and he caught her mouth with another kiss while his thumbs did things to her nipples that she’d only ever read about. That thick pulsing between her legs ached harder. She gripped his rear—dear sweet Bundt cakes—and squeezed.
He jerked. “You’re driving me mad, Kimmie.”
“If you stop now, so help me, I will fry your eggplant.” She wanted it all. Everything. Now.
He gripped her chin and searched her eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Please,” she whispered.
She was positive he didn’t know everything she was asking, but she asked it anyway. And if he had any doubt she meant it, she guided his hand to the button of her jeans and undid it.
He sucked in a breath and brushed his cheek against hers. “I don’t know what you put in your frosting,” he murmured, his words hot against her ear, “but it’s working.”
She helped him pull down her zipper. “You haven’t had my frosting tonight.”
“That’s what you think.”
His hands slid into her pants, his fingers going magical places, making her gasp and shiver in the best, most glorious way. His lips found hers again, and she sank into the kiss, into his touch, into everything.
She didn’t stop to think when she fumbled through unbuttoning his jeans, or when he kissed a trail from her chest to her knees while helping her out of her pants, though she did have a moment of apprehension when his full
erection popped out of his black boxer shorts. But then his hands were on her skin, his mouth on hers, and wrapping her legs around his hips when he boosted her up onto the counter was the most natural thing in the world.
“Kimmie—”
“Flambéed coconuts,” she gasped.
He smiled at her again—that real smile, the Josh smile he didn’t show the rest of the world—and brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Can’t have flambéed coconuts,” he said.
He put his hands to her thighs, and she opened wider for him. His shaft was at her entrance, touching her sensitive, swollen womanhood, but his eyes were intent on hers, that warm smile lingering.
Watching. Waiting. Giving her one last chance to change her mind.
She hooked her ankles around the backs of his knees and pulled, and added another squeeze to his bare rear end. His erection probed her opening, but he still didn’t fully penetrate her, didn’t touch the ache deep inside. Her cheeks were on fire—they had been half the night—but she didn’t care. Having him this close without having him all the way was torture. “I want you.”
He blinked twice, quickly, and then closed his eyes, slanted his mouth against hers, and thrust all the way into her.
She felt the pinch of pain, but more, she felt him. Solid, thick, deep, thrusting against that spiraling ache inside that was building higher, sweeter, stronger. She whimpered and moaned into his kiss, her hips bucking instinctively, not smooth, not sophisticated, not experienced, but sweet buttercream, this was right. He cradled her head, his tongue against hers, rumblings coming from his chest with every thrust.
She couldn’t control herself, and she didn’t want to. She just wanted to be. To ride the wave that was building, feel the crash of nerves and feelings and emotions, and let her Josh—her Josh—carry her over the crest.
And he did.
Her climax caught her off guard, pulsing thick and hard and new around his shaft, and a cry caught in her throat. “Josh!”
“I’m here.” He shuddered against her and groaned low while he went still. “God, Kimmie. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He did.
He absolutely did. Completely. Mind, body, soul, and every dimension between them.
She hunched into him, gasping for air, wrapping her arms around his solid body and hanging on tight while she floated back to the world.
Sugared (Misfit Brides #4) Page 23