“He’s going to let me use his oven. I have to be there at seven tonight. And he’s entering the baking competition, as unlikely as it sounds.”
“If you don’t show up at seven, I will personally drag you down those stairs. You need to wear your green dress.” She beams at me and claps her hands together in delight.
A little after seven, I’m outside his door with a box of ingredients. I’ve showered and am wearing my favorite vintage dress, a deep green number with cherry blossoms, cap sleeves, and a full circle skirt. I tell myself the dress is practical under an apron, but my body calls me a liar.
The door swings open before I knock.
Kieran has changed into a black T-shirt, and his feet are bare, which should make him look less intimidating. It doesn’t. Suddenly, everything is intimate in a way that makes my knees shaky.
“You came.” His gaze drags over me, hot and possessive, “Good girl.”
The words spark all the way down my spine while wetness pools between my legs. “I need to practice.”
“Sure.” Kieran clears his throat, his eyes wicked as he steps back. “Come in.”
His place mirrors mine in layout but feels entirely different: dark furniture, neat lines, zero clutter. Not the chaos I expected. It smells like leather, cedar, and the spice that clings to his skin. A tall bookcase surprises me with rows of paperbacks packed tight.
“The kitchen’s this way.”
It’s larger than mine, anchored by a professional-grade gas range that makes me moan before I can catch it.
“Juniper,” he mutters, heat in his voice. “Make all the sounds you want.Especiallythat one.”
I busy my hands with bowls and flour to hide the blush heating up my cheeks. “Okay, so are you watching or baking with me?”
“Oh, I’m with you. All the way.” His voice is a low rumble.
“Let’s start simple. Dough?”
He crowds the counter, close enough that his forearm brushes mine. “Tell me what to do and I’ll follow orders.”
I measure, he pours. He’s focused, serious, and careful with the delicate stuff. His hands are huge, rough, and when I guide them over the soft dough, a low sound grates from his chest. My body answers embarrassingly fast.
“Like that?” he asks, voice raspy.
“Softer.” I move behind him, palms over his, molding pressure and motion, my front to his back. He stills, sucking in a breath.
“Firm but yielding,” I whisper. “You feel it?”
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I feel it.”
We work in a bubble of heat and flour dust as the dough succumbs to his big palms.
“Now we let it rise,” I manage.
“For how long?” He turns, caging me against the counter without touching. It still feels like contact everywhere.
“An hour.”
“What do we do for an hour?” His thumb traces my bottom lip. My brain jitters, and I’m unable to reply for a moment. We shouldn’t be doing this.
“Kieran—”
“Tell me to stop.”
I can’t. I won’t.
He leans down and our mouths crash together. He kisses like he rides his motorcycle, all controlled power that’s just barely leashed; filthy and perfect. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setsme on the counter, and steps between my knees. Heat detonates low in my belly as my nipples poke at the thin fabric of my dress.
