All for You (Sweetbriar Cove Book 2) Page 12

  “I hope the kitchen is up to scratch,” Grayson said, as she followed him into the open space.

  “No, this is great.” Summer set down her things. There was a main central island with a concrete countertop, and plenty of room by the old-fashioned range. “People think they need all high-end stuff to really cook, but you can do just as much with a tiny space. My old place, I barely had two burners and a table to work with.”

  “In New York?” Grayson unpacked the bags, smoothly stepping behind her to put the strawberries in a colander in the sink. “Did you live alone, or with a boyfriend . . . ?”

  He said it casually, but it was clear he was fishing. Summer hid a smile. “No boyfriend,” she said, leaning against the counter to watch him. “Not for a little while. Us chefs tend to marry our jobs. You have to, with all the late hours. It’s part of why I quit that scene,” she added. “I wanted to actually enjoy my life for a change, instead of just planning on one day maybe getting a break.”

  “Well, you’re preaching to the choir there.” Grayson gave her a grin. “I’m all about the quiet life.”

  Summer hadn’t exactly been talking about staying in the slow lane, but she didn’t want to disagree now. Grayson finished rinsing off the strawberries and set them down on the counter. “So how are we going to do this?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.

  Summer noticed the strong line of his forearms, and felt that melting sensation in her stomach again. Never mind the produce, it was her co-chef who was irresistible today. “Well first, you kiss the chef,” she said playfully.

  He chuckled. “That’s the rule in your kitchen?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then we better follow it to the letter.”

  He leaned in and kissed her softly, a slow-burn kiss full of control—and possibilities. Summer sighed, savoring the taste of him, still sweet from the strawberry fields. Grayson slowly pulled away, and brushed a lock of hair from Summer’s eyes, his hand lingering against her cheek. “How’s that?” he asked, his dark gaze searching hers.

  “A good start,” Summer smiled back. “You’re a natural in the kitchen.”

  He chuckled. “Wait until we’ve tried the recipe.”

  “Relax, there’s nothing to it,” she reassured him. “Clafoutis is just like a baked custard dish. Traditionally, we’d make it with cherries, but any fruit is good.” She paused, feeling strangely exposed. Baking wasn’t just a fun pastime, it was her passion, the biggest thing in her life, and sharing it with a novice—with Grayson—made her stomach skip over with nerves.

  She was sharing a part of herself with him.

  “Do you have a heavy skillet we can use to bake it in the oven?” she asked, trying to focus on the recipe.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Summer laughed to hear the Southern phrase in his crisp English accent. Grayson fetched down the skillet and a mixing bowl, and they assembled all the tools and ingredients on the countertop.

  “Clafoutis, crostata . . . it’s a whole different language,” Grayson remarked, watching Summer measure out the butter and flour.

  “I love it,” she said. “Recipes are a little piece of home. People travel all over the world and bring them with them. Handed them down through the generations.”

  “Did your mother pass any down to you?”

  Summer gave a wry laugh at the thought. “Besides the best takeout menu, no.” She added the ingredients for the batter to the bowl. “OK, you whisk these together, until it’s smooth and creamy.” She passed the bowl to Grayson, and watched his expert hands at work. “Perfect.”

  She showed him how to pour it into the skillet, and then stud the top with a layer of halved strawberries and a dusting of sugar.

  “That’s it,” she announced. “All done.”

  “That was easy.” Grayson sounded surprised. “I was expecting drizzles of this and swirls of that.”

  She laughed. “With some chefs, maybe. My last boss was like that,” she confided, as she transferred the skillet to the hot oven. “He could never just leave a dish alone for the ingredients to shine, he always had to beat them into submission with fancy cooking techniques. But the way I see it, the flavors are the point, and most of the time, simple is best.”

  “I agree,” Grayson said, and slipped his arms around her waist. “So how long until it’s ready?”

  “Not long,” Summer melted against him. “Thirty, forty minutes, maybe.” She gave him a flirty smile. “However will we pass the time?”

  “Hmmm . . .” Grayson leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe. “I have a few ideas.”

  He kissed her again, and this time, there was nothing self-controlled about it: the spark caught, and then his mouth was hot and hungry against hers. Summer arched into him, breathlessly reaching up to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. It was magnetic, the pull between them, and now there was nothing—no morning crowds, or rogue inspectors, or her own flush of inhibition—holding them back.

  Grayson gripped her hips and then easily lifted her, setting her on the counter right there amongst the mess of baking tools and ingredients. Summer wrapped her legs around his waist, greedy to feel his body against her, every last inch. His hands were roving over her waist and back, tugging the straps of her sundress aside as he bent his head and landed a row of delicate kisses along her bare shoulders and neck.

  Summer gasped, his beard tickling across her sensitive skin, but then the whisper became a tantalizing lick, and she moaned aloud as his mouth reached the tender curve of her breast. Grayson tugged her dress lower, closing his mouth over her nipple and teasing it into a stiff peak as she clung to him, lost in the pleasure he was lavishing with every touch. God, he knew exactly what to do to set her body alight: his hands sliding up her thighs, easing them wider as he turned his attention to her other breast and sucked.

  But Summer needed more. This time, she needed to feel him for herself. She pulled his shirt up, reveling in the smooth, hot planes of his torso, the ripple of muscles in his shoulder blades, and oh, the way his body tensed beneath her curious touch.

  Grayson lifted her suddenly, taking her from the countertop and carrying her down the hall like she weighed nothing. Summer buried her face against his neck, tasting the echo of salt on his skin until he tipped her back and she fell with a yelp of surprise onto something soft. His bed, covered in navy linens and cool against her bare back. Grayson kneeled above her, stripping off his T-shirt and pausing to watch her. His eyes were dark, and it felt like they looked right through her, through all the flirting and impulsive jokes to the very heart of her.

  Summer flushed. From the moment they’d met, he’d seemed to have this way about him—a way of silently cutting past the surface to the truth of the matter. It’s why she felt off balance around him, spinning out of control, with him as the center of the storm. Sure, she tried to fake her confidence, and sometimes it even worked, when she could nudge him off kilter too and see the flash of wild abandon in his eyes. But here, now, there was no hiding how exposed he made her feel.

  It was just her.

  No games, no witty comebacks. No hiding what she needed from him. Just the feel of his hands, deliberate on her bare skin, and the look in his eyes as he leaned in to claim her mouth for good: slowly taking possession as his tongue slid deeper, making her melt and sending her pulse skittering with wild desire.

  He pinned her into the mattress, the delicious weight of him pressing her down, and Summer arched up eagerly against him. She could feel him, hard against her thigh, and she reveled in the way his body felt under her hands: the broad planes of his chest, the curve of his biceps, and the flinch of his abs as she trailed her fingertips lower, tracing teasing circles on his stomach and hips. Grayson made a noise against her, and then his hand was sliding between her thighs, touching her lightly through her panties and making her moan into his lips.

  “God, yes. There.”

  He stroked again, a slow, intoxicating rhythm, and she reac
hed to find him too, sliding her hand under the waistband of his jeans and closing her fist around him. Their breath came faster, together, as she teased the length of him, and Grayson slipped her panties aside and curled a finger into her dampness. His palm kept gentle pressure against her as he dipped and pulsed, and soon it was all Summer could do to close her eyes and let the pleasure take her over, the climax rippling lightly through her body like waves on the shore.

  She wanted more.

  It scared her how much she needed him right now. How exposed she felt. She’d been swept along by all their flirting, and the tension building, until the passion between them seemed like the only thing on earth.

  But it wasn’t. There was more. Like the tender way he touched her, smoothing her hair out of her face, and the look in his eyes, searching hers like he was trying to figure her out and discover all her secrets.

  Suddenly, Summer felt a pang.

  He saw her.

  How long had she wanted that: just simply, to be seen?

  Accepted. Wanted.

  Enough.

  It felt like she’d spent her whole life trying to prove herself. Striving for her mother’s praise, then for every snooty boss, and rival chef. Needing to prove she was good enough to hold her own, wanting them to see her talent and passion. Even with Danny, she’d always been jostling for his attention, competing with the restaurant for every moment of his time.

  But now, she didn’t need to try. Grayson’s focus was on her and only her, his fingertips roving over every inch of her, his gaze so full of desire, she knew without a doubt there was no place else he’d rather be.

  And god, she wanted him even more for it.

  Grayson kissed her hotly, then reached for the bedside table. He pulled a condom from the drawer and carefully opened it before returning both hands, and mouth, and body to Summer again: worshiping every inch of her until she was wound tight and panting all over again. “I need you,” she whispered, reaching for him, but Grayson wouldn’t be rushed; he pressed her back into the sheets again, kissing her so thoroughly her head was spinning by the time he finally eased her legs apart and settled between her thighs. Summer slid her arms around him, resting her hands on the delicious curve of his ass as his kiss turned demanding, and he sank into her, inch by thick, luxurious inch.

  Dear god, he felt incredible.

  Grayson groaned, and Summer flexed around him, loving the way he filled her and the way his body reacted to her touch. He wrapped her in his arms, rolling them together, and then they were moving as one, surging and gasping, fighting for breath as the pleasure spiraled higher and Summer felt herself hurtling to the edge again. But this time, there was no holding back, no gentle, sweet release. This was an inferno, consuming them both, and she was lost to him completely. The weight of him, the flash of raw desire on his face, the thick friction driving her wild inside until she couldn’t hold it back, couldn’t even think or breathe. She was a pure, wild sensation, bursting loose and soaring into the skies, her body breaking apart as she cried his name and felt him pulse and surge inside until they were both collapsed in a dizzy symphony in each other’s arms.

  And Summer knew this was something different.

  14

  They spent the afternoon in bed, getting up only to retrieve the fresh-baked clafoutis which they ate right there on the sheets, naked in the afternoon sun. Grayson had never tasted anything like it—or her. Sweet and rich and utterly tempting.

  What was it about this woman? He was barely done kissing her before he needed another fix, still lying panting in her arms when his body hardened, craving more.

  She was dangerously addictive, and he couldn’t get enough.

  It was dusk before he finally relinquished his hold on her soft curves and rolled away from her. He got out of bed, stretching. Damn, but he felt good.

  “What time is it?” he asked, hunting for his watch. He found it discarded on the floor and checked the time. Almost six. He was running late, but he guessed time flew when you were having the best sex of your life. “I guess you should be getting back to your place then,” he said, and Summer sat up and looked at him, blinking in surprise.

  “Wait, are you kicking me out of bed right now?”

  Grayson averted his eyes. Her hair was tumbling in dark curls over her naked shoulders, and her lips were still rosy from his kisses. Desire tightened in him again, and it took all his self-control not to roll her back into the sheets and show her just how much he wanted her, how he was already consumed with lust again, still sweaty from the last round, but needing her just as much as the first day they met.

  He got up and pulled on his jeans, hunting for a fresh shirt in his closet. When he finally turned around again, Summer was still sprawled there, looking far too tempting.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s poker night,” he explained. “The guys do it every month at the bookstore. They’re probably already waiting for me.”

  “So let them wait.” Summer beckoned him playfully. “I have plans for you.”

  Grayson stifled a groan. Was this woman sent to test him?

  “Can’t,” he said. He found Summer’s dress on the floor, her lacy panties nearby. He placed them carefully on the bed. “It’s a standing date. You understand.”

  She looked at him like he’d spoken in a foreign language, but Grayson didn’t buckle. He couldn’t. He’d already blown off work, played hooky, and spent the afternoon in bed, all because he couldn’t keep his hands off her—or resist that heart-stopping smile. He had to draw the line somewhere, and god help him, he was drawing right there.

  Summer blinked again. “Okaay,” she said, and slowly began to dress. “You clearly have your priorities mixed up, but that’s alright,” she added with a mischievous smile. “You’ll learn.”

  She tugged her dress on and bounced to her feet, leaning up to kiss Grayson. “You could have kept me naked and moaning for the rest of the night,” she murmured in his ear, “but instead, you get to drink warm beer and lose at cards. Think about that.”

  She nipped his earlobe lightly, sending a bolt of lust through his body, and then she was gone, dancing out of his reach and heading for the door, hips swaying. “Have fun!” she called behind her, before disappearing down the hallway.

  Grayson heard the front door slam.

  What had just happened?

  He made the wrong call, that’s what.

  No, he corrected himself, straightening up the room again. He’d done the right thing. Plans were made for keeping, no matter what tempting distractions were beckoning him to bed. But it was fine. Under control. He could enjoy the woman’s company without it sending his whole life into disarray. That’s what dating was, after all: a dinner here, a late-night drink there. Sure, he felt like he lost his mind every time she looked at him with that dazzling smile, and when she touched him—

  Grayson gripped the pillow harder.

  God, when she touched him . . .

  The memories rushed, hot in his mind. The feel of her bare skin under his mouth. The clench of her body around him. And the way she looked when he took her over the edge, like constellations were igniting in her eyes . . .

  His pulse was already racing at the memories, and Grayson didn’t like that one bit. All things in moderation, he’d told himself for years. And here he was, wanting all of her, everything, right this minute. He hadn’t felt this way since—

  Rhiannon.

  He stopped. It had been years, but the thought of her still sent a prickle of shame creeping down his spine. He’d told Summer the bare bones version of things, but the truth was, it had taken him years to dig himself out of the mess he’d made. The debt, the loans, the wasted opportunities—if he could take it all back, he would in a heartbeat. Grab his younger self by the collar and shake some sense into him. No woman was worth the trouble, no matter how pretty she was, or how sweet she could be . . .

  As long as she was getting her way, at least.

  They’d met his second year in
university. She was a waitress at the bar nearby, the one all his mates drooled over on a Friday night. He’d felt like the big man on campus the night he’d finally charmed her into giving him her number, but it turned out, she was the one who was wrapping him around his little finger, one kiss at a time. She had a taste for expensive things, and Grayson wanted to be the man to give it all to her: fancy dinners and luxury gifts, even trips away, too. His student loan didn’t get them far, but what was he doing wasting his time in college when he could be out earning a real wage instead? It seemed so easy to drop out, rent a flat for the two of them to live together, and if his wages didn’t cover things, well, that was what credit cards were for.

  Looking back, he couldn’t believe how reckless he’d been—throwing his future away just to sweep her off her feet. But he’d been so crazy for her he didn’t know up from down. Blinded with lust, he hadn’t seen the mess he’d been making . . . until the house of cards came tumbling down and Rhiannon hit the road, leaving him to realize just what a fool he’d been.

  And now here he was, panting for a woman all over again.

  Grayson forced himself to take another breath. This was different. Summer couldn’t be more different to Rhiannon, he knew that. She was honest and independent and determined to make her own mark on the world. But still, he couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of his mind, reminding him just how dangerous it was to get swept away with desire.

  He had to be careful. When Summer touched him, the world could burn to ash around them, and he wouldn’t even notice the blaze. Which is why he needed to get a grip on this fever, and soon.

  Starting with a very cold shower.

  He hated to be late, but the guys would understand. He was in no state to drive.

  Summer walked home with her bags of produce swinging from her shoulders and a feeling of rejection that she just couldn’t shake. Maybe it was her ego being dented, just a little, but she figured that once a man had her naked in his bed with the promise of a night to come, he might want to figure a way to keep her there—not send her packing out the door like a visitor who’d outstayed her welcome.