Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1)

by Hadley Harlin

  He cast a glance at Hawthorne, who nodded, and then he slunk away.

  “You didn’t need to take it that far,” I said, half-entranced by the anger in his eyes.

  “Are you kidding? I should have branded it on his fucking forehead,” Hawthorne spat, finally turning to look at me. His eyes softened instantly. With the same hands that had just manhandled Jackson, he reached out and brushed my cheeks in the gentlest way, studying it for bruises. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s going to take more than one drunk guy to take me out,” I said.

  Hawthorne grinned. “Don’t I know it.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m starving.”

  “Tongue of dick wasn’t enough for you?” he asked.

  I spat again. “I’m going to need some strong alcohol to get that taste out of my mouth.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sophia

  The Swiss Alps

  The staff had gone home for the night, and I trailed my fingertips along the hotel’s kitchen counter. The alcohol buzzed through my veins. Nothing to impair me, just enough to heighten the edge of desire and make me bold. The adrenaline of the night was also streaming its way through me, leaving me feeling reckless.

  “Show me what you can still do,” I taunted him. “Give me a tour in the mind of Hawthorne West. Show me what happens when we all go to bed.”

  Hawthorne barely made a movement. If he was shocked at my behavior, he didn’t show it.

  Slowly, he opened the cabinets. He pulled out a cutting board and a knife and sat them in front of me, barely brushing his fingers across my wrist.

  Click, click , CLICK, and the burner whooshed to life.

  “Cut these,” he ordered.

  The heat of the burners was nothing compared to fire between us. We prepped in sync, letting our knives fill the empty space. Soon, we had a steak sizzling in butter and thyme and a red wine sauce reducing next to it. I sprinkled salt and pepper over blistered asparagus, hot from the cast iron skillet. Simple, but decadent when done well. After long hours in the kitchen, simple and decadent was all a chef required.

  Our bodies moved in rhythm around each other, doing the dance. That sacred moment when chefs have their moves down perfectly. Every time I moved past him, I smelled his deeply masculine scent. He caught me once, and I tried to cover my inhale by bending to waft the thyme-speckled butter. I had no idea if I fooled him or not. I almost didn’t care.

  Celibate, Sophia. You are celibate!

  We hungrily cut into the rested steak, not even speaking. Just staring. Devouring each other silently. Slowly, I ran my finger through the red wine sauce on my plate and sucked.

  His eyes dilated.

  “This steak is perfectly seared. Was that a fluke or are you the real deal?” I ran my finger through it again, letting it drip.

  “You tell me.”

  I licked the dark sauce off my fingers and waited. My stomach was knotting up, wondering how far Hawthorne would go. Right back to his room?

  “Pretty fucking good.”

  Hawthorne lunged, licking my finger where the sauce had dribbled down, keeping his gray eyes lasered onto mine. His huge presence loomed over me, making my hands shake and my pulse quicken. Leaning in closer, he whispered in my ear.

  “Tell me no.”

  I trembled, watching his face for any deception, but there was none. It was pure desire.

  Hawthorne licked my finger again, sucking to my knuckle. He came up for air, electricity sparking in his eyes. “Tell me to stop now, if that’s what you want.”

  Part of me wanted to run and hide from the intensity written everywhere in the hard lines of his body. The other part wanted that hardness to rip into me.

  To answer his question, I undid the top two buttons of my shirt.

  In one swift movement, he picked me up and swept me around, pinning me to the cool table. Slipping his hands inside my shirt, he ran them up my sides to my breasts. I moaned and arched my back to meet him. His fingers tweaked and tightened my nipples. God, I’d forgotten the nipples. My poor, neglected nipples. I could come just by the varying intensity he was lavishing on them.

  I groaned and flipped around, pulling his lips between my teeth. He growled at the work my tongue did, sliding in and out and nipping at his swollen lips. Finally, he snapped and grabbed my arms, holding my wrists together with one hand.

  “Not yet,” he ordered, forcing my face back to the warming countertops. His arm weighed heavy on my back, bending me down while the other roamed back up my obviously too-tight pencil skirt. God, why was the rough way he manhandled me so fucking hot? I never took myself for the naughty type in bed. I had always been too quick on the draw with Quick Mitch. It suited us.

  But with a man like Hawthorne, there was no getting around that he was in charge. His hands roamed hungrily, sending currents of electric desire charging through me.

  Soft fabric and lace hiked up my stomach as he caressed my thigh and pulled down my silk panties. He groaned into my ear at the wetness soaking his fingers.

  “Mm, I’m going to enjoy my dessert tonight,” he assured me.

  “How would you know?” I asked, panting. “Since you despise everything else about me.”

  Hawthorne laughed, leaving a trail of tiny bites up my still bound arms. “Will you ever stop hating me?”

  I could barely form words, let alone make life decisions, like not hating Hawthorne Fucking West as he put another finger inside me and pressed his thumb against my clit. With deepening circles, he rubbed and wiggled, massaged and flicked. I could feel his cock pressed against the back of my leg. In response to his question, I lifted my ass in the air. “Hawthorne Fucking West, kiss my ass.”

  He laughed and bit it in return.

  “Ouch!”

  Hawthorne flipped me back around in one smooth motion, leaving a single finger to lazily twist its way through my warmness. Jesus, he was making me wait. The circles were slowing, too.

  I bucked against his finger and fought to free my hand. This wasn’t the time to reconsider or to even fucking think. Like how this was absolutely against the morality clause in my contract. It was time for a release from all the tensions of the past week. I reached down to touch myself, barely containing a smirk as his eyes couldn’t help but follow the trail of my fingers, widening and dilating at the sight.

  I inserted my middle finger, closed my eyes and let out a heavy breath at the sensation before offering it to him. “Doesn’t a good chef always taste his creations?”

  His gray eyes met me with the darkest look. He lunged, putting his weight against me as he took my finger and sucked. The noises he made almost made me blush. Surely no one enjoyed the taste that much. He looked at me and smiled with a feral grin.

  “A beautiful vintage. A ripe peach nose. Notes of marzipan and—hm, interesting. Oak.”

  “You fucker.”

  I tried to smack Hawthorne for bringing up the blind taste test he did at dinner our first night in Paris, but it was difficult when he was already fingering me, again.

  My body contorted as he put a second finger inside me. “I don’t taste oaky,” I panted. “You dick.”

  “Stop being so literal, Sophia, and relax. Enjoy.”

  Everything was aching to release. My back arched against the silver as the first wave began. “Don’t… stop,” I moaned.

  He moved faster, pushing and pressing, sucking my nipples into oblivion.

  “Hawthorne!” I came, vibrating against the countertop. He brought me slowly back to earth, releasing the pressure of his finger little by little and hugging me close in the wake of the aftershocks.

  His eyes were satisfied at the sight of me coming on his hands, but I wasn’t done. I quickly unzipped his pants. “You couldn’t possibly take me,” he said, his throaty voice betraying his true wishes.

  “Shut up,” I ordered, loosening his rock-hard dick from his pants. I stood back to admire for a moment. “Well, look what we have here,” I mu
rmured, stroking it and making it jump under my soft caresses.

  I wrapped my mouth around him, only taking the tip and swirling a few drops of salty pre-cum along him with my tongue up and down his length.

  “Fuck,” Hawthorne swore, fisting my black hair and yanking just hard enough to let me know he was still in control.

  I massaged his thighs as I took him in, kneading my fingers into his muscles, then I pulled him deeper into my mouth. I let him touch the back of my throat, listening as he begged, begged for me. Hawthorne Fucking West. Except I didn’t exactly feel the same way I usually did when I said his name. I wanted him to feel pleasure. It was probably the wine talking, or maybe the orgasm, but I was enjoying sucking him off as much as he was.

  I let him thrust into my mouth as I fondled every inch of him.

  “Sophia…” Hawthorne pulled harder, running one hand down my shoulders to my still-exposed breasts. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He yanked my head back, fiercely watching the want in my eyes as I sucked him.

  His dick pulsed harder. I went faster as his moans increased and pumped his shaft. Already, I was feeling another gush of heat and wet arousal between my thighs.

  At his gasp, I watched his eyes roll to the back of his head as I swallowed his heat down. I lifted my eyes and waited, my tongue gently swirling over his tip while barely moving my head. Thank you, Lauren Bacall, for teaching me everything I needed to know about sultry.

  He didn’t fail to notice. Carefully, he raised me to my feet, his eyes never leaving my own. I figured he’d be spent, but from the dark look on his face and the hardness growing again against my belly, I knew he wanted to bend me over this table and fuck me properly.

  But I wasn’t ready to let that happen. We had gone far enough and broken enough rules for one night. It was a nice release of tension. Something we both needed. Our days were long, and the job was harder than it looked. Every little movement I made was captured in HD glory, and Jackson’s attack had left me vulnerable.

  I knew I had to put my mask back on for tomorrow’s travel day to Italy and the rest of the show. I had a job to do. Even with Hawthorne breathing hotly next to me, casually running a finger across my nipple as he buttoned my shirt for me, roaming my body with those intense gray eyes, my career came first.

  It always did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hawthorne

  San Gimigano, Italy

  I had to wait to report Jackson’s behavior to Charlotte until we got to the villa in Italy two days later, but when I did, she informed me that under no circumstances would production be taking him out of the competition. Cameras didn’t catch any of the incident on film, and there were no other witnesses. Apparently, Sophia didn’t count.

  “Bullshit!” I exploded. “Is this because he’s a fan favorite? I know how editing works. Don’t sell me shit and tell me it’s caviar. Liam is the villain, Clara is the dark horse, and Jackson’s set to win the whole thing.”

  Charlotte gave me a sly smile, and I found myself loathing show business, once again. “That would be unethical,” she said, primly steepling her fingers behind her desk. “But let me take you out to dinner. We can discuss it in more depth if you’d like.”

  I stood up, making sure I towered over the woman. “No. Thanks.”

  Charlotte quickly stood up and met me at the door. “I’m only trying to be helpful. I understand the situation, but I know the realities, and this is where we are.”

  “I’ve got to prepare for filming.” I didn’t trust myself not to detonate on my boss. I’d be fine, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk away from Sophia.

  In my haste to get away, I bowled Emma over. Everyone was stuck in the same villa for Italy, and we were already on top of each other.

  Only figuratively, of course. Sophia had made sure no literal getting on top was ever going to happen.

  “Hawthorne!” Emma squeaked. “Hi, um, hi.”

  I helped her up, barely noticing things about her that used to drive me wild. I was completely fixated on someone else—a red flag if I would’ve stopped to pay attention.

  Emma sounded breathless. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “We probably shouldn’t,” I said, uncomfortably shifting my weight. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her further. Did I have a choice, though?

  There was no fraternizing with contestants. Period. It wouldn’t do either of us any good, and Dad was right. She was too sweet, too attentive for me. I needed someone with more backbone, more steel.

  “Right, well. How are you?”

  “Just getting ready for today. I hope you have been studying up on cuisines for our remaining destinations.”

  Emma ignored that. “Can we meet up later? After filming?”

  “Emma,” I warned, shaking my head. “You know we can’t do that. I care for you as a friend. That’s it. I hope you continue to thrive on this show. Rest assured, nothing from our past will influence my judging. I promise. Good luck today.”

  Emma’s face twisted in pain. Fuck, no matter what I did or said, it hurt her.

  “I’m sorry, Emma. But I don’t want to jeopardize your chances. You could go far.”

  I left before I did any more damage. Besides, it was almost time to begin, and I needed to find Sophia.

  We finally met in the round gravel driveway with production. It had the obligatory fat baby cupid fountain splashing water in the center with flowering vines taking over the exterior. The villa sat nestled in the Tuscan hills. Everywhere I looked, there were cypress trees jutting into the still-gray morning sky.

  Sophia was wearing a cellulite-baring pair of leather pants that she absolutely needed cornstarch to get into and multiple people or a hernia to get out of. My dick jerked imagining peeling them off. Our kitchen time had been fun, but I was burning to be inside of her. Too bad she’d gone back to icing me out, even going so far as to pretend not to see me on the bus to Italy or when we crossed in the villa.

  She was acting like she’d gotten what she needed from me and was done. I hadn’t gotten anywhere close to what I needed. She was perfect, stunningly beautiful, and cold. Shit, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the writers at Disney dated Sophia and modeled Elsa after her.

  She shot me an ambiguous smile and headed to the car, her hot pink Louboutin shoes making another appearance. I let her jump in first. Besides appearing like a gentleman, I got to watch her tight ass squeeze in the little Italian Peugeot. A van would come around later to pick up the chefs.

  As we sped up narrow Italian roadways to a medieval town in the Tuscan hills, she kept her gaze firmly on the window. Crazy stalker women, I could deal with. Clinging, needy, can’t get enough—definitely. This was a whole new level of intrigue.

  Even Emma had approached me more times than just this morning. In every country, she came up, wanting to say hi, smile, or give me a cup of coffee. I’d had enough of a time figuring out how to nicely shake her off without hurting her feelings or messing up her game. This time had been more blunt.

  So I kept my mouth shut. I barely made eye contact with Sophia. She could come crawling back to me when she needed more. Except the little Italian roadster was so small, and our legs kept touching. I imagined running my fingers through her silky black hair and pulling her into me, leaning her head back and devouring her lips with mine.

  Instead, I pulled out my black aviators and imagined a white fucking room filled with nothing, because letting my mind wander meant watching her eyes burn as my fingers explored every one of her dark crevasses.

  We arrived at a dew-covered hilltop as the sun was struggling to free itself from the gray clouds. The chefs arrived in a tiny, white Euro van behind us. After a brisk espresso shot, courtesy of food and drink services, we got started.

  “Good morning, Chefs,” Sophia welcomed them. “Buckle up, because fast cars aren’t the only thing Italy is known for.

  “San Gimignano has been known for its saffron production since the thirteenth
century,” I continued. “People have gathered it for over four thousand years across the Mediterranean to be used in food, dyeing cloth, and even ancient medicinal remedies. Today, you will be taking part in history. Picking saffron is an extremely labor-intensive and time-consuming process.”

  A few of the chefs yawned and tried to cover it with their knife bags. It was balls early. It was 7:00 a.m., chilly and gray in the hills, and nobody was excited. At least we weren’t the crew. They’d been here since 5:30 a.m.

  Sophia picked up where I left off. “Saffron is the most expensive spice per pound in the world. It can only be harvested by hand at dawn and only for three weeks of the year. You’ll have to pick these flowers before they bloom and then pluck the bright red stigmas from each bud. Each team will carefully cultivate enough of the spice to fill this.”

  Sophia held up a hammered copper bowl. “Each flower only contains three stigmas. This is much more challenging than it looks.”

  I nodded and raised my hand into the air. “On your marks, get set, go!”

  At the drop of my hand, the two teams of three tore off into the crocus fields where delicate purple flowers waited to be plucked. We’d divided them into men vs. women for a little battle of the sexes action. Clara, Emma, and Bethany took on Pierce, Jackson, and Liam. So far, Bethany had ridden the middle. No sparks of genius, but nothing too egregious either. I was interested to see what would happen with Clara now that she was back in her motherland.

  Sophia stood at the edge of the field watching. To me and the cameras, she yelled, “It looks like the girls have worked out an assembly line. One snips the flower buds while the other two are plucking out the bright red stigmas. Smart.”

  I nodded, barely trusting myself to speak. Well, wasn’t she just the fucking professional. I could barely get my words out, picturing the sauce dribbling down her fingers and the way she felt coming on mine. And here she was, actually improvising on our script?