The way he says my name, low and deliberate, sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
When he’s gone, I stand in the smoky kitchen, my hands throbbing in pain, but my entire body’s humming. Below me, Kieran’s door shuts. There are only floorboards between us.
“Brown butter, huh?” I murmur to Stanley.
Stanley bubbles in agreement.
Two more days until the competition. Enough time to perfect my recipe. And now I know my neighbor’s name, plus the sound he makes when he eats my rolls.
How am I meant to focus on my baking?
Chapter Two
KIERAN
I shut my apartment door and lean against it, adjusting my jeans. My cock is rock hard from a three-minute conversation about cinnamon rolls.
Fuck.
Three long months of living below Juniper; hearing metal blasting at all hours, her footsteps creaking across the floorboards, her sweet singing in the shower. Months of catching glimpses of my sexy little neighbor leaving her apartment with her red hair pinned vintage-style and those tight dresses hugging every curve.
Juniper’s sugar-vanilla scent is still fresh in my memory. I want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in until I’m drunk. Make her beg for my cock and growl every dirty thought I’ve had into her mouth. I strip off my clothes and head for a cold shower. Five days on a run upstate, and all I thought about on the way home was whether her little red car was still parked outside.
The freezing shower doesn’t help. I still see her in that thin Ramones tee, no bra, nipples peaked. Cherry-print shorts riding high and those gorgeous pouty pink lips. A flour handprint on her soft thigh, right where I want to grab her. And her eyes whenI leaned in; pupils blown, breath hitching, a pulse fluttering at her throat. She felt it too.
I fist my cock, leaning against the tiled wall, dreaming of her soft, curvy body under mine, then on top of me as I thrust upwards, and my head buried between those plump thighs. I come with a groan, thick spurts coating the tiles. I wash, towel off, and pull on clean jeans.
There’s no chance of sleep with her right above me, probably stress-baking. Her cinnamon rolls are already perfect. I’ve bought dozens from the Coffee Heart, always asking for hers. Luna, the manager, has started smirking at me, like she guesses why. I don’t give a fuck. They’re the best damn things I’ve ever tasted.
Brown butter.Why the hell did I say that? Now she thinks I can bake.
Above me, water runs. Music hums through the floorboards, at a lower volume than usual. I grab my laptop, try to work on the club inventory, but the numbers blur. All I see is her gaze locked on my mouth when I licked the glaze, the sound she made when I stepped close, the way she whispered my name.
One taste of her so close to me wasn’t nearly enough.
The sun crests the mountains, an orange glow spilling through my window. Upstairs, her shower turns on. I close my eyes, imagining water sliding down those gorgeous tits, bubbles clinging to her soft skin. My cock jerks in my jeans, lengthening and hardening against my zipper.
I’m so fucked.
My phone buzzes again. Clay’s name flashes on screen and I pick up. “Yeah?”
“Need you at the clubhouse. Now.” His voice is clipped, all business.
"On my way."
Forty minutes later, I'm in the back room of the Ridge Renegades clubhouse. Clay, the president, sits across from me, his twin brother Colt leaning against the wall. They're identical down to the scar on their left eyebrow, except Clay keeps his hair a little shorter.
“I need you to enter the Snowflake Falls Fall Festival baking competition,” Clay says without preamble.
I stare at him. “The fuck?”
“You heard me, Kieran. Tomorrow morning, you register. You enter the competition.”
“Why?”
Clay's jaw tightens. “Because I need to be somewhere public. Very public. With lots of witnesses.”
I glance at Colt, who's studying his boots. The twins have pulled this alibi game before, but never involving me.
