Tasty (18 page)

But
there’s sound coming from the kitchen. I slide out of the bed
and find one of Cal’s T-shirts from the night before. I put my
hair up in a sloppy ponytail, and head off to find him.

Cal’s
standing at the stove, dressed in nothing but a pair of crisp cotton
pajama pants that are rolled at the waistband to show his perfect,
carved hips. A cast iron skillet is steaming, ready for pancakes.

“Hungry,
love?” he asks, as he lifts the bowl of batter and lets it
slowly drizzle down onto the hot surface. I come to stand behind him,
pressing my breasts against his back, wrapping my arms around him so
that I can casually drape my palms over his abs.

“You’re
going to have to throw that first pancake out.”

“Am
I?” he asks, turning to me with an arched eyebrow.

“The
griddle’s not hot enough. That one can be a test pancake.”

Cal
doesn’t believe me. I can see how he tucks his tongue into his
cheek, biting it. But sure enough, when he flips it, it looks goopy
and undercooked. Anyone can make that mistake, but I imagine it’s
embarrassing for Callum McKenzie, Scotland’s grumpiest chef.

“You
win this round of Cake Master, Juliette Rockwell. But the proof’s
in the pancakes.”

He
pours out a second one. I have to admit, it looks delicious. There
are nuts and bananas mixed right in, and the batter smells fragrant
with cinnamon. Soon, Cal’s amassed quite a towering stack,
fluffy and steaming and perfect.

“They
look
pretty
good . . .” I admit. Now Cal’s other eyebrow arches.

“Why
do I sense a but?”

I’m
grinning now. “But I make the best pancakes this side of the
Florida border.”

“Is
that so?”

“Sure,
if I weren’t such a sucker for cupcakes, I totally would have
gone divey breakfast joint after culinary school. Canadian bacon and
my famous sourdough pancakes.”

Cal
leans back. I savor the warmth of his body against mine—especially
the way his perfect ass presses into me.

“I
can imagine you in a retro waitress uniform,” he says.

I
give his ass a little pinch. He startles, splashing batter on the
griddle. But he deserves it.

“Don’t
change the subject. I mean it. I think this calls for a bake-off.
Your cakes against mine.”

He
turns around, his eyes glinting with lust. Christ, this man is
competitive. No wonder he was so hot under the collar online, as I
waged bakeshop war against him. Apparently our competition was a
turn-on for him. It seems like it is now, too.

“I
thought we had a truce,” he says, his voice throaty. I dip my
finger in what’s left of his batter, then give it a slow,
luxurious lick.

“The
truce still stands. This’ll be a friendly competition.”

He
reaches up to take my hand, my finger still wet from my mouth, and
moves it down until it’s gripping his cock.

“Are
we friends?” he asks. I give him a squeeze, just a little
harder than I need to.

“Well,”
I say, “we’re definitely not enemies.”

#

The
sourdough cakes were one of my grandmother’s recipes. I could
throw it together in my sleep. Unfortunately, I don’t have my
starter with me, so I have to improvise. I fumble through Cal’s
pantry until I find what I’m looking for: an unopened jar of
Nutella.

“Taking
out the big guns,” he says. He’s watching me, perched on
the countertop, eating a short stack of his own pancakes. Well, I
can’t blame him. They look pretty delicious, and he’s
probably worked up an appetite spending all night screwing me.

“I
don’t mess around,” I agree. I rinse a packet of organic
strawberries in the sink, then get cooking. Unlike Cal, I wait until
the griddle’s at the
perfect
temperature, even drizzling a blob of test batter down to make sure.
My gram always insisted that practice pancakes were for amateurs. I
have the Rockwell family name to uphold. I’ll take nothing less
than perfection, a stack of cakes that even Cal can’t resist.

But
it’s not long before Cal’s standing behind me at the
stove, his cock pressed between my ass cheeks.

“I
love to watch a woman cook,” he says. I reach a finger into the
jar of Nutella. Then I drizzle it over his forearm and lick it clean.
His cock pulses with desire. I’m wet, too, wanting him. But I
have pancakes to make, damn it! I pour the batter down for the first
one. The griddle hisses.

“Good
thing you never went to culinary school,” I say lightly. In one
easy motion, Cal takes my hair down. When he speaks, his voice is
ragged in my ear. I’m turned on just by the heat of his breath.

“I
would have liked to see you back then. Juliette Rockwell, young and
perky student chef.” He lifts up his hands, squeezing my tits
through my T-shirt. His touch is just a little rough—just how I
like it. Almost unconsciously, I begin to moan. But then I shake that
thought away.

“I’m
still perky,” I remind him, pouring out the second pancake. He
pinches my nipples. My body fills with warmth at the sweet, sensuous
sting. His cock is rock hard now against my ass. He’s grinding
into me, his steady rhythm as regular as the ocean. I move with him
without even thinking.

Crap,
those pancakes are going to burn,
I think, hearing the sizzle grow louder. But then I feel his hand
travel lower, slipping beneath the hem of his T-shirt that I’m
still wearing. I bite my lip, grinning.
Let
them.

“You’re
perfect, Juliette,” he moans, his stubbly face tucked against
my neck. He peels my shirt off, then one of his hands moves down to
let his cock free from his tight briefs. I put both hands on the
stove, steadying myself as he moves his hard member against me. I’m
not watching the stove at all anymore. I’m swollen with wanting
him.

But
he doesn’t fuck me. Not yet. Instead, he reaches a hand into
the batter and lets it drip down over the surface of my back. Without
even thinking, I turn the burner off. With my eyes closed, I can feel
Cal’s tongue, wet and hungry, lick up the batter. Delight warms
my body. He plunges his hand into the bowl again, then trails a
finger across my ass. My pussy aches with desire as Cal draws his
tongue and teeth and lips over my cheeks.

Funny,
to hear his accent come out at a time like this. Because between
savage, starving sounds, he says, “I love yer arse.” My
asshole tightens in response. His mouth moves all along my crack and
I tighten my grip on the counter, panting. Cal McKenzie has an expert
tongue, and now he’s expertly tasting me. He darts his tongue
inside me. I cast my head back, overcome with wave after wave of
bliss. Just as I do, he moves his hand against my clit. I’m
standing on my tiptoes in front of the stove, moaning with every
single circle that Cal makes. It feels so god damned
good
.
I’m about to come, and he’s not even inside me yet.

“Fuck
me,” I pant. “Goddamnit, please fuck me.”

I
don’t have to ask him twice. Before I know it, I feel his cock
against my hole. I’m wet from his mouth, shivering, open and
dripping with desire for him. But still, he takes his time pushing it
inside of me. Slowly, moaning with his own need, Cal fills me up. His
cock pulses delectably inside of me. His fingers seem to be all over
too: on my clit, in my pussy, pressing against my g-spot. He’s
everywhere, and every cell feels alive with pleasure. He’s so
big
,
and I’m so tight. He slowly withdraws, then fills me again. I’m
close, shuddering with every motion of his hips. With a final stroke,
he comes inside me, and my own body clenches and writhes. He lets out
a strangled yell of pleasure. I cry out, too.

“Oh
god, Cal. Ohhhh my fucking god!”

It’s
not until my heart slows and I catch my breath that we slowly peel
our bodies apart. He pinches my hip, laughing against the back of my
neck.

“I
won,” he says. I glance down. The pancakes are a burnt, gloppy
mess.

Somehow,
I don’t think my gram would hold it against me. She was a total
sucker for a hot guy, too.

#

Two
days later, I’m at brunch with the girls: Ginny and Evie, my
friend who owns the best seafood restaurant in the Keys. She’s
found love recently, too, with a hot marine biologist from
Gainesville who hides a killer body in a smart, studious package. For
months now, I’ve sat through mimosas while she and Gin go on
and on about their perfect men. It’s thrilling to be able to
join in for once, too.

“So
he’s famous,” Ginny says, “and successful.”

“And
he loves oral and giving it to you from behind,” Evie adds,
lifting her glass. “Shit, sign me up.”

“You
guys forgot that he’s Scottish,” I add, the corner of my
mouth lifting. Evie glances at Ginny.

“Shit,
Jules. You’ve hit the mother lode. There’s gotta be a
catch.”

“Well,”
I say, putting down my glass. I’ve avoided thinking about this
part, really. The reason why it might not pan out for me and Cal, no
matter how much he says he loves my “sweet little arse”
and no matter how much I love the feeling of his cock in my mouth.
“His shop is only a pop-up. Not a permanent installation.”

Evie
draws in a sharp breath. “Ouch, so you’re looking at a
long-distance deal?”

I
shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, look at Ginny and Luke. They
manage making it work even though she’s in New York like eight
months out of a year.”

Ginny
looks concerned. Crap, I hate how concerned she looks. “But we
have a history, Jules. And plans for the future. I’ll be moving
down here year-round once I get the New York satellite office off the
ground. Have you asked him what you’ll do when Mecca Cakes
closes up shop?”

I
shake my head. Of course I haven’t. Ever since we got naked,
Cal and I have found
talking
hard to manage. We just get so damned distracted. And discussion was
never my strong suit, anyway. But Ginny is still looking at me with
that frustrating, fretful expression, so I reach out and give her
hand a squeeze.

“It’s
fine, Gin. I promise. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can take care of
myself.”

That’s
when my phone, on the table, buzzes. It’s a text from Cal.

Been
dreaming of your beautiful cunt all day, Fondant. I can’t wait
to bury my cock in you again . . .

I
blush as I read the dirty parts. But the rest, I read aloud.

“ ‘Heading
off to New York on business for a few days,’ ” I
say. “ ‘Will call you when I get back. Can’t
wait to have your little body next to me again.’ See? We’re
fine.”

“You
got that boy wrapped around your finger,” Evie agrees.

But
Ginny is still looking at me with worry in her eyes.

That
look
that Ginny gave me over brunch weighs heavy on me over the next few
days. I know she’s right. I need to talk to Cal, clear the air
and figure out a plan for moving forward. But it all sounds so
daunting. Part of me wants our romance to remain like some kind of
fairy tale, full of food and fucking, laughter and licking. Plus, I
have bigger problems on my hands.

For
one thing, business at Rock N Roll Cakes is doing better now that
Cal’s quit trying to steal my recipes. The good folk of Key
West have to go
somewhere
for their Pink Surprises, after all. But it’s not better
enough. We stay open all week long, Summer scrolling through
celebrity Instagram accounts and leaving snarky comments on all the
worst pictures. But I’m just scraping by with a few customers a
day. It’s better than the graveyard it was when Mecca Cakes
first opened, but I’m just barely in the black enough to pay
Summer’s wages, and rent, and supplies. And the end of the
month is looming. My bank loan is due, and I just don’t have
the cash.

Used
to be when I was stressed about making ends meet, I’d drive to
my mom’s house and let her cook crappy frozen food for me, veg
out on the couch next to my dad, and pretend to be a kid again. But
it’s just not the same with them at the far end of the phone
line. They’re always bickering over speakerphone, complaining
that they can’t make their internet work or droning on and on
about retirement community drama featuring some ancient ex-pro golfer
and his harem of grey-haired girls. It’s too different, too
stressful. I
could
call Cal and unload on him, but he’s busy with his own
business. Besides, I’m not sure that I want to let him know I’m
still struggling. It’s a little too real, a little too
vulnerable. Better to keep things at the batter and boobs level with
him.

Evie
is away visiting her boyfriend. That leaves only one confidant left.
No, not Summer. The only time I tried to share with
her
she asked me if I was going to give her a raise and a title change to
business manager. Instead, I take out my phone and start texting
Ginny. After all, she’s my best friend, and I could always
count on her to pat my shoulder and make me feel better when I’d
vent about my Yearbook Club woes in high school.

Me:

Hey babe, you got a few minutes?

Her:

Anything for you daaahhlink.

So
Ginny still hasn’t dropped the Cruella de Vil act. When I let
out a little giggle, Summer looks up from her phone and glowers at
me. I stick my tongue out and go back to texting.

Me:

Things are dead at the store. Again.

It takes her a moment to answer.

Her:

Oh . . . I thought things had
gotten better?

There’s
something weird about her response. It seems distracted, thin. But I
tell myself that it’s just because tone doesn’t always
translate well over text. I’m sure it’s nothing.