I walked down the steps, opening the door and waiting until Julia slid in. Leaning forward, I tipped up her face, kissing her until I heard the door of the house slam so hard the windows rattled. With a chuckle, I drew back.
“You ready to go home, my love?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
I got behind the wheel and pulled out of the driveway, resisting the urge to swing wide and drive over her grass and crush the ugly gnomes gracing the edge of her property. They looked very much like her.
Julia slipped her hand in mine, and I smiled at her, then hit the gas, taking her away from the depressing house and home with me.
Where she belonged.
Chapter 8
Julia
A few months later
“My hand is tired.”
Byron’s voice was amused. “Switch hands, then.”
I looked down. “Are you sure it’s not stiff enough?”
He chuckled. “Trust me, it’s nowhere near stiff enough—it still needs work. Move your hand faster.”
I groaned and tried again. “I can’t, Byron. I have no idea how you do this every day.”
“I don’t do it every day. In fact, I’m probably out of practice since you moved in.”
I snorted. “I don’t ask for it that often.”
“Often enough. You’ve been cheating—I’m trying to teach you the right way of doing this. Faster, Julia. Do it faster. It won’t work otherwise, and you’ll have nothing.”
I worked my hand as quick as I could. Over and over, I repeated the pattern, but nothing.
He held me back against his chest, his arms coming around my front. His lips grazed my ear. “Do you want me to do it?”
“Yes.”
I felt his smirk. “You want to watch me?”
“Yes.”
With an exaggerated sigh, he lifted me to the counter. “Watch my hand.”
Two minutes later, he stopped. “Voilà! Stiff as can be. Perfect.”
I leaned forward and peeked in the bowl. He was right.
Perfect whipped cream.
With a grin, I dragged my finger through the white clouds and lifted it to my mouth. Before I could take a lick, Byron grabbed my finger and pulled it between his lips, his tongue sliding over my skin. I shuddered at the sensation, giggling when he gently bit down, tugging on the end of my finger.
“I wanted a taste.” I pouted at him. “I got it started for you.”
With a laugh, he dipped his finger in and held it up to me. I leaned forward, gasping when he grinned and covered the end of my nose with the cream, then kissed it off. “Hey!”
His smile was wide. So wide, his eyes crinkled and he laughed. Relenting, he slipped his finger into my mouth so I could have a taste.
“Mmm. Good.” I grinned at him. “But really, Byron. That’s what mixers are for.”
“Mixers are shortcuts. I was taught to beat the cream by hand.” He frowned at me. “What if there was an electrical failure? How would you beat the cream then, hmm?”
I giggled. “If there was an electrical failure, Byron, I probably caused it while burning dinner. I doubt I’d be worried about whipping cream for dessert.”
He laughed again and rewarded me with another of his kisses. “Point taken.”
My cooking hadn’t improved much in the months I’d been living with Byron. I could now make pancakes from scratch, but I still got distracted easily. Byron’s griddle had been replaced twice. So now, the past couple Sundays, he made the pancakes, and I sliced the strawberries and whipped the cream. The first time I pulled out the store-bought can of whipped cream from the refrigerator, he almost passed out with fright. I was forced to listen to his lecture on the dangers of what was in the can, not to mention the poor quality of the product. I didn’t dare tell him about the Cool Whip in the freezer. I simply disposed of it the next day on my way to school. The next week, I bought a carton of the right cream, and he watched, amused, as I pulled up instructions for how to whip it using the expensive mixer he had in his high-tech kitchen. This week, he informed me he was teaching me how to do it properly—he even put a copper bowl and whisk in the freezer to get them cold.
Sundays were officially my favorite day of the week. I made sure to have all my schoolwork done and the house tidy. I had given up my part-time jobs, except for being a TA, and since Byron refused to accept much money for me living here, I liked to keep it clean. He knew I had to feel as if I was contributing, and I liked doing things in an effort to look after him. He said we made a great team. He did the cooking; I did the cleaning.
We stayed up late on Saturday nights after Byron came home from the restaurant, slept in on Sundays, and spent the day together. We rarely left the house; in fact, some Sundays, we rarely left the bedroom, except to get something to eat. Even then, Byron would carry me downstairs on his back and sit me on the counter while he prepared some delicious dish. He let me do the basics and was always surprisingly patient with me. I had heard the way he carried on at times in the kitchen at the restaurant, but he never lost his temper with me, even when I burned something or destroyed one of his expensive pots. I had to admit, the day I snapped his knife in half trying to get a drawer open I had overstuffed, his face had frightened me. Then he calmly removed the handle from my hand and suggested perhaps next time I use a screwdriver instead of a seven-hundred-dollar kitchen implement to unstick something. I had gasped at the price, but he shrugged and grinned, then told me he’d had his eye on a newly designed one anyway, and now he had the perfect excuse to buy it. I hadn’t touched it to this day.
He had almost laughed himself sick when he found a small set of knives I’d bought at the dollar store in the drawer. I’d seen them advertised on TV years ago—they were supposed to be the sharpest knives around. I decided they were good enough for me, so if I broke them, it was only a dollar to buy another set. But once again, he surprised me, only smirking when I would pull one out of the drawer to slice strawberries or whatever other chore he would assign me.
“Are the pancakes ready?”
He shook his head, still leaning on the counter, watching me.
“Oh.”
I peeked over his shoulder. “Byron, you forgot to put the griddle on.”
“I didn’t forget.”
I frowned. “Do you want me to cook them?”
“No. I want you to sit right there.”
“Okay. I’m kinda hungry, though.”
“Are you?”
I grinned up at him. “You’ve kept me busy since we woke up.”
He pressed closer. “Is that right?” He ran his nose up my neck, his lips on the lobe of my ear, tugging gently. “Busy doing what?”
I whimpered as he ran his hands ran up and down my bare thighs, his fingers tracing my skin, while his lips and tongue were moving on my neck. “Well…um…we made love.” I gasped as his teeth bit down at the juncture of my neck.
“Twice,” he agreed, his voice low and husky. “What else?”
“The…the whipping cream,” I mumbled, having trouble concentrating on forming any words as he slipped his hands under the shirt I had on, pushing my legs apart and standing between them.
“This cream?” he asked huskily, gathering a large mound of the sweet substance on his fingers and smearing it across my collarbone.
“Yes!” I moaned as he drew his tongue over my skin, swirling and licking.
“Hmmm…so good,” he replied. “But I know how it would taste better.”
Cold air hit my skin as he grasped the two sides of the shirt I was wearing and pulled. Small white disks hit the floor, scattering and rolling in every direction as the buttons met the ceramic tile. Byron growled as he tugged the shirt off my shoulders, leaving it hanging from my arms. “You look so fucking hot in my clothes, Julia, but you look especially good when they’re off.”
He pushed me back so I was leaning on my elbows, and he grinned, arching an eyebrow at me. “No panties in the
kitchen?” He shook his head. “I don’t think I can let that infraction slip.”
My chest heaved at his words, my breath coming out in sharp exhales.
He arched one eyebrow. “I think maybe you need to be punished.”
He was sin incarnate when it came to sex. Cool, calm, in control Chef Lord became hot, sexy, foul-mouthed, dirty-talking, I’m-gonna-fuck-you-hard Byron.
And then he fed me later. It was the best of both worlds.
Never breaking eye contact, he smirked. A long, lazy, up-to-no-good smirk. He traced his fingers over my torso, barely grazing my hardened nipples. Once, twice, and again. I groaned—each time his fingers dipped lower, touched harder, lingered longer. But it still wasn’t enough. I whimpered and he grinned, his eyes darkening to the point they were almost black. I shut my own, tilting back my head as I arched into his touch.
“Please,” I breathed. “I’ve been bad, Byron.”
He chuckled, a low, deep sound in his throat. “Yes, you have. I think a tongue-lashing is in order.”
I felt the flow of smooth cream trail across my breasts, gasping at the cold followed by the heat of Byron’s mouth lapping at the whipped cream swirling over my nipples and down my stomach. I cried out as he dropped a huge mound of cream over the top of my pussy, letting his tongue gather it up. “Now that—” he groaned “—that is the best creation I’ve ever made. Julia a la mode.” He nudged my legs farther apart, opening me up more to his sexy ministrations. The cream was ice-cold when it landed on my aching center, and I moaned at the mind-blowing sensations of the cold and the heat of Byron’s tongue.
Byron was like a man possessed—swirling his tongue, licking and nibbling as he cursed, moaned, and hissed. He nipped and lapped. Teased and stroked. He used his fingers like his cock, filling me, thrusting hard as his tongue slid sensuously, pressing and touching until I came. Hard. Screaming his name, bucking under his fingers as I exploded and my body shook, my muscles gripping his fingers tightly. He didn’t even give me time to take in a deep breath before he slammed into me, pinning me down, his hands locked on my hips as he took me. Deep, powerful thrusts that made my eyes roll back in my head as I clung to his arms and tried to keep up. He growled and hissed as he threw my legs over his shoulders, burying himself deeper and taking me even harder. One shudder after another racked my body as I began to feel the coil tighten again, deep in my stomach. I gasped his name as he cursed, clutching at my shoulders, our bodies slippery and wet. Sweat dripped down his cheeks, his chest glistening in the light as his head fell back and he roared my name, just as another orgasm tore through me.
“Fuck…fuck…fuck…Ju…lia…fuck… Yes!”
He collapsed onto my chest, breathing loudly. It took every bit of energy I had left to lift my hand and run it through his hair in a lazy motion.
I felt his grin against my skin, followed by the gentle nuzzle of his lips.
“Kitchen sex. So much better than pancakes,” he murmured.
I giggled. “Messier.”
“A hot bath will fix that up.”
“I think it’s like Chinese food, though,” I mused.
He was already laughing as he lifted his head from my chest, his eyes dancing, once again blue and happy-looking. “This, I have to hear. Why is kitchen sex like Chinese food?”
I smirked. “An hour from now, I’ll be ready for more.”
His mouth curved into his crooked grin, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. “Not a problem, Julia. I promise I’ll fill you up again before an hour passes.”
Oh.
Oh.
He stood, taking me with him, our chests meshed together. I wrapped my legs around his hips, burying my face into his neck, flicking my tongue out to taste the saltiness of his skin. He grabbed the bowl of whipped cream, holding me against him with one hand. He was chuckling as he climbed the stairs. “In case you need to, ah, eat something before the hour is up.”
I tugged on his ear with my teeth. “Oh, I know exactly where I want that whipped cream, Byron. And I guarantee it’ll be stiff by the time I’m done with it.”
“I think you have that wrong,” He smirked as he deposited me on the bathroom counter. “I’m pretty sure by the time you’re done with it—it’ll be anything but stiff.” He winked. “But I’m happy to let you try.”
I grinned.
Yep. I loved Sundays.
I shifted nervously in my seat, waiting for my new professor to arrive. A sudden windfall had enabled my professor to retire, and his replacement arrived today. I was meeting with her to discuss my staying on as her TA. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my back. Both were still a little sore from the kitchen sex yesterday, even though Byron had treated me to a lovely warm bath and massage afterward.
Not to mention the pancakes. Light, fluffy pancakes we ate with syrup, since all the whipped cream had been consumed in more resourceful ways. Byron had thoroughly enjoyed my ingenious use of the whipped cream, burying his hands in my hair as I teased him with my tongue, swirling the cool cream around and licking it off his length until the bowl was empty and he had come with a low, sexy moan that echoed off the walls around us.
A hot, soapy shower was needed for both of us.
The shutting of the door behind me startled me out of my thoughts. I sat up straighter as the whirlwind that was Lila Peters blew into the room. Her arms were full, an iPad tucked under her arm, a McDonald’s bag clutched in her teeth, and a cup of coffee clasped in her hand. Dark hair was swept off her neck in a braid, and she had large brown eyes that glittered in the light.
With a grunt, she opened her arms, dumping the files and briefcase onto her desk. She opened her mouth and let the bag fall on top of the pile and set her coffee down on the corner, then grimaced and moved it closer to the center.
“That—” she grinned “—is a disaster waiting to happen.” Then she stuck out her hand. “Dr. Lila Peters. You, I hope, are Julia, and if you’re not, then I’m in the wrong office.”
Without giving me a chance to reply, she sat down with a huff, reaching for the bag. “Please tell me I’m in the right office. I’m starving, and this chair is pretty comfy.”
I gaped at her as she unwrapped a McMuffin and took a bite, closing her eyes with a satisfied smirk. “Damn, that’s good.” She reached into the bag and held out a second sandwich. “Hungry?”
I bit my lip. No matter what Byron had done, no matter how many mouth-watering, delicious breakfast sandwiches he made me, this one still tempted me as my guilty pleasure. Every so often, I gave in and had one, and every time he laughed and shook his head. He’d kiss my temple and shudder, mumbling that if I had to succumb on occasion, at least I did it with the least offensive thing on the menu.
With a nod and a mumbled, “Thank you,” I reached out, took the proffered sandwich and bit into it with a satisfied hum. It might not contain an egg gently coddled with tarragon and aged cheese, or topped with hardwood-smoked bacon Byron drizzled maple syrup on while cooking, but it was damned good.
In between bites and sips, Lila and I talked. She was fascinating. Well-traveled and read, she had a whole new approach to teaching, and by the time the meeting was done, I was beyond excited about being her TA. She explained how she had agreed to the position, even though she had to finish out the year using the current structure and curriculum, but said she could infuse more interesting aspects into it. I was also thrilled to discover she taught another higher-level course I would be taking in the new school year. I knew I was going to learn a great deal from her. We talked about some of the reading material she wanted me to be familiar with. I had a few of the books, but there was one I didn’t.
“I’ll pick it up later.”
She waved her hand. “I have several copies. I’ll drop one off to you this evening. You live on campus?”
I shook my head. “No. I, ah, live with my boyfriend.”
She nodded. “Good idea. Off campus is so much quieter. What year is he in?”
“Oh, he isn�
�t a student.”
“Already working, then?”
“Yes, he’s a chef.”
“Excellent. You’ll have to tell me where he works. I love to cook—maybe we can share recipes.” She laughed.
Before I could explain anything else, she stood. “I have another meeting. Leave me your address, and I’ll drop off the book. I have to run around and find some things later, if that works for you.”
I stood as well, nodding. “I’ll be home tonight.”
Tonight was Monday—my second favorite night of the week. Gerard and I shared a love of old movies. Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, An Affair to Remember—we loved them all. Every couple of weeks, he came over, and we watched a movie after he made dinner. Byron joined us on occasion, but he didn’t like to be out of the restaurant if Gerard wasn’t covering. If things were quiet, Byron would come home early and join us for the second feature; although often he’d fall asleep with his head in my lap. He worked too hard, even though he’d cut back a little since I’d come into his life. Gerard told me that before I was around, Byron worked seven days a week—even when the restaurant was closed. Now we had Sundays, the occasional Monday when he’d let Gerard handle everything, and when he could, he left early and came home. It wasn’t often, but I loved it when he did.
Tonight, we were watching Roman Holiday. Byron promised to try to come home early. They were both pleased with one of the chefs and the way he was actively taking on additional responsibilities. He was ecstatic when Byron showed enough faith in him to leave early, entrusting the kitchen and restaurant to him. It was only for a couple hours, but for Byron, it was huge—especially since Gerard wasn’t there either.
I was curled up in the corner of the sofa, the movie ready to play. Gerard was stretched out in the chair beside me. Tonight, he had created a spread of finger food to snack on while we watched the film. He was a brilliant chef, but severe early onset arthritis in his joints prevented him from being in the kitchen for long periods. Instead, he became Byron’s right-hand man, his essential maître d, and business partner. There was no one Byron relied on, trusted, or respected more. Gerard and Byron developed the menus, shared recipes, and both admitted to never wanting to have a restaurant without the other. Their teamwork was what made them such a success.
Happily Ever After Collection Page 7