“I just told them I didn’t want shit that would break down in five years.”
She leans against the counter and traces my chocolate-brown farmhouse sink. “Whiskey’s your favorite to drink. What’s your favorite to make?”
“Whiskey wins again. Durban likes to play with the flavor profiles and mess around with the infusions, aging times, and barrel types. I like to straight up make a damn good whiskey.”
She tips her head to the side. “And when you find a recipe you like, you don’t mind making it over and over and over again?”
“Not one bit.” We share a smile, and I close the distance between us. Propping my hands on either side of her, I stay nice and close to her. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
“Muffins.”
“Muffins? Not some fancy cake?”
“I like the challenge of some of the wedding and birthday cakes I make, but muffins are easy. I don’t mind decorating, but it can be stressful. After I’ve been burning through the kitchen at a hundred miles an hour, holding still enough to pipe the perfect rose can make me cry.” She gets a faraway look. “Muffins are reliable. I don’t often put icing on them or anything. I just get to throw things into the mixer, pour it into cupcake tins, and then I have a breakfast that’s basically a dessert.”
“Favorite flavor?”
“Sour cream almond poppy seed.”
I kick a foot out behind me to lower me enough that our faces are level. “How often do you make it?”
“Once a quarter.”
I straighten. “Why not once a month?”
“They aren’t a big seller.”
“Can’t you just make them for your enjoyment?” She pours herself into work out of necessity, but is she actively depriving herself of pleasure?
“I could, but it’s a whole batch, and it’s easier for me to eat what I make to sell.”
“Damn, sugar.” I feather my finger down a free lock of hair. She kept the messy bun from when she was working, but a few tendrils have escaped. “You need more pleasure in your life.”
“I happen to have had more of it lately.” Her voice becomes a sultry purr, going straight to my dick.
My pulse hammers behind my zipper, and I haven’t even started cooking yet. “We should do tonight backward.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to fuck you right here.” I drag her shorts down, dropping to a squat to help her get them off. Her bare pussy is inches from my mouth, and I start salivating. I take her sandals off too, and run my fingertip over the polished blue toenails on one foot. Goose bumps explode over her skin. “Then I’ll cook foryou, feed you, and after, we’re going to your place, and you’re going to make those muffins.”
She tenses and tries to shrink away. “I can’t. Every dollar counts right now. I don’t know if the street fair will be a boom or a bust and I have... bills.”
I run my hands up and down her thighs. If I could help obliterate each penny she owes, I would. I look up her body. Her chest rises and falls, softly rustling the fabric of her shirt. I wrap my hand around her calf. “Make a whiskey icing for it, something that’ll help move them, but leave some uncovered and all for you.”
Her eyes lighten. “A whiskey icing would go really well with the muffins. I sell more whenever I use a Foster House product as an ingredient.” Heat blends the brown and green of her irises and she pushes her hands through my hair. “I like a guy with a big brain.”
“No one’s ever been with me for my brains.”
She cups my chin and prompts me to rise. I hate leaving my vantage point, but determination lines the set of her mouth. When I stand, she rubs her thumb across my lower lip. “Your brains, your body, and your booze. I’m not a picky hussy when it comes to you.”
“You’re my hussy.”
“Just for you.”
Just for me. I lift her to the counter and unzip my jeans. This guarded woman gives herself to me over and over. Yet as I roll on the condom and plunge into her, and when she wraps her legs around my waist and hooks her ankles, as she lets me do what I want to bring us both to our peak, she’s still holding a part of herself back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
