He had been right at lunch, aboutcritics. The reality of our business was that you couldn’t argue with someone’staste.
We were artists, creating beauty withsomething ingested. No matter how well-crafted our dishes were, if a personhated an ingredient inside the dish, they judged us on what they thought of thatone aspect of the dish. Or sometimes they just didn’t like it. It wasn’tanything that could be logically explained. It was an opinion, as unique andpersonal as the person holding it.
And if people didn’t like the tasteof something, it didn’t matter how visually appealing the dish was ortechnically perfect or difficult to make. In the end, our reputation dependedon enough people liking the taste of what we created.
We were as subjective as ballet oropera.
It was easy to tell ourselves that truthwhen the logical part of our brain was in charge. It was harder to believe itafter a hurtful review.
Especially an important one.
We stared at each other for severallong minutes. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t either. And the longer westayed silent, the thicker the silence became, the heavier.
Seeing him like this, realizing hehad taken this review about as hard as anyone could, I just wanted to soothethe pain away. I wanted to make this better for him. I wanted to take this fromhim and remind him how amazing he was—how incredibly talented and innovative hewas.
I had decided thirty minutes agothat I didn’t want to see him tonight. That I’d gotten too wrapped up in us,too wrapped up in him.
But looking at Killian like this, socompletely at the end of himself, I realized I didn’t care about any of that. BecauseI cared about this man. I cared for him deeply. Somehow over the summer, he’dwormed his way into my heart and made a permanent home there.
He wasn’t Derrek. He was nothinglike Derrek.
Yes, he was arrogant and bullish anddemanding. But he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t selfish.
And yes, he was a chef. But he wasalso a friend. And a confidant. And a mentor. And everything I believed a goodman was.
He wasn’t Derrek. And I wasn’t indanger of getting myself back into a bad relationship. Whatever this was withKillian was healthy in a way that I’d never experienced before. Healthy andhopeful and heady.
Sucking in a steadying breath, Iwalked over to him. His eyes tracked my every movement. The rain had soaked mycoat and left my white t-shirt damp, clinging to me everywhere. I’d worn blackleggings tonight instead of practical pants, and he noticed them with a searinggaze that moved over my hips and thighs with hungry interest. He took a slowsip of expensive whiskey straight from the bottle, and I watched his tannedthroat work as he swallowed without flinching.
I took the bottle from him when hefinished, setting it carefully on the table next to him. He relinquished itwithout a fight.
He sat up straighter and moved hislegs together when I stepped over them, straddling him. The emailed reviewfluttered to the ground forgotten.
I gently placed my hands on hisbroad shoulders, loving the feel of muscle and bone beneath the starchy fabricof his coat. I rubbed back and forth once, twice. His lips met mine halfwaywhen I leaned in for a kiss.
It was like we’d been doused ingasoline, and someone had thrown a lit match on us. We exploded in hunger andpassion and the familiar push and pull we’d always had.
He tugged me down, settling mefirmly against him, while his lips moved over mine. He nipped roughly at mybottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, biting, licking before he movedto my tongue, repeating every aggressively delicious action.
His hands gripped my waist, yankingme closer against him, fitting our bodies as tightly together as possible. Thefeel of him under me, my legs wrapped around his waist, my hands holding on tohis shoulders for balance sent shockwaves of sensation rocking through me.
I felt him beneath me, the button tohis pants through the thin material of my leggings. The hardness of the thighsI straddled. The hip bones that framed his tapered waist. And the part of himthat made him oh, so very male.
My fingers curled into his shouldersat the feel of him growing hard beneath me. I rocked forward, unable to stopmyself. He caught the whimper that fell out of my mouth and deepened the kiss,making the moment even more intense, more erotic.
I clung to him as he held me againsthim, letting me fidget and grind and work my body against his the way a man andwoman should move together. His beard left an intimate burn over my chin andlips, reminding me who was kissing me—never letting me forget it. He tastedlike whiskey and oranges and every hot fantasy I’d ever had.
Before I could talk myself out ofit, I started pushing at his coat, needing it off him, needing to have it outof my way. He tugged his arms free, revealing those toned, tattooed arms. Once unrestricted,one of those big hands I’d been obsessed with for months slipped beneath myshirt.
We both gasped at the contact. Hishand so hot against my ribcage, his palm so hard against the softness of myskin. Our mouths crashed back together, greedier than ever. He palmed my breastunder my shirt, kneading until I couldn’t catch a full breath. Until I wasnothing but want and need and trembling desire.
He shoved the cup of my bra to theside, and his fingers did wicked things to my nipple, pulling sounds from me Ihad never, ever made before. And the whole time my legs squeezed his waistwhile he moved against us, our clothes the worst kind of obstacle in thehistory of obstacles.
“Killian,” I moaned when he yankedmy shirt up, exposing my soft stomach, my breasts, my peaked nipples.
He groaned deep in his throat andthen captured my nipple in his mouth, licking, sucking, biting again in a waythat mimicked how he kissed me but better. So. Much. Better.
“More,” I pleaded. “Please more.”
