Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen)

chapter Twelve


He should have been out the door, on his way to a bottle of scotch and a good night’s sleep. Should have walked the minute he realized this whole night was one gelato scoop short of a catastrophe.

Getting angry with her, watching her grovel had felt so…shitty. He hated seeing her upset, pouting those bee-stung lips above that stubborn chin, her big eyes, wide and glazed with hurt. More than that, he hated being at the root of it.

As for the killer bod, vibrating with sex and need? Didn’t hate that so much.

And the soft breast cradled in his hand? No hatin’ here.

You know how it goes. One minute you’re whining about how rough it is because you’re so bloody famous; the next you’re feeling up a beautiful woman in her kitchen. After the initial shock of finding his hand exactly where it needed to be, millions of years of evolution kicked in. He had a gorgeous woman’s breast beneath his fingertips—even better, she had put his hand there—so he’d damn well better know what to do with it.

He let her weight fill his palm and when that wasn’t enough, he massaged through the thin layers of blouse and bra, insanely happy when his touch turned her nipple into a pebble of hard candy. She arched and thrust against his hand.

“Please, Jack.” Her eyelids fell to half-mast, her breathing turned shallow.

His fingers felt thick as they fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, desperate to get it off so he could get her off. Damn things fought him like an obstacle course but he overcame. Veni, vidi, vici. He didn’t even have to help her out of her top. A slight shrug of those sexy shoulders sent it drifting to the floor, and now she presented herself for inspection, her breasts barely cupped and spilling out of sky-blue lace.

F*cking beautiful.

He slid her bra strap off her shoulder and slipped his palm under the scalloped edge of one of the cups, releasing one breast, then the other. A quick flick of his fingers and her bra met the same fate as her blouse. She was as spectacular as he’d expected, times infinity.

His fingertips returned to one dusky, puckered nipple. His other hand encircled her waist and pushed her back against the kitchen table. “Better?”

She parted her lips, but nothing came out, and somehow that was sexier than if she’d spoken. His pulse beat an insistent tattoo. Touch, feel, taste. Repeat. On the table sat the remains of the gelato, now softened to a semi-frozen soup. He placed the flat side of the spoon against her breast and watched as rivulets of dairy dripped, catching in beads of sweetness on her lovely peak.

“Oh,” she said as he traced circles around her beaded nipple, captivated by how her breasts heaved with every sinuous slide of the stainless steel. Her breaths came in short tugs.

“Too cold?” he asked gently. Her fingers splayed at the nape of his neck and she jutted her breasts toward his waiting mouth. Her eyes widened by slow degrees and pleaded with him to give her what she needed. What they both needed.

He licked her breast, a long, lazy ice-cream-cone lick, and vaguely registered her soft gasp followed by a heartfelt moan. The gelato tasted great. She tasted better.

The clatter of the spoon hitting the floor set off a vibration in his marrow, and deep-seated hunger skyrocketed inside him. He plumped her breast with his hand and took it in his mouth. He licked, sucked, and owned one hard peak, then switched to the other. Gotta play fair. Her taste, along with every one of her moans, traveled a direct route to his thrumming erection.

Panting, he traced his tongue along the soft hollow of her throat. “Where else does it hurt?”

She grasped his hand and pressed it between her legs, over her skirt. He pushed the heel flat and her legs parted, the warmth of her sex pulsing through the fabric. Not enough. He needed skin. He bunched her skirt up and, slow as cold honey, glided his hand along her thigh.

“Please,” she moaned.

“I know, love. I’m going to take care of you.” As he stroked over her undies, they dampened under his touch. He slipped a finger past the edge and a strange sound that had caught in his throat croaked out.

Christ, she was so wet.

The urge to be inside her, to feel her muscles grasping and milking him, almost undid him but he tamped that down. This wasn’t about his needs. He had little to offer her beyond his smile and his clever hands, but he could give her this even when he wanted so much more.

“Lili, you are the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured against her lips, wishing desperately that it was a lie. He wished there’d been past lovers who got his engine running like this, other potential bedmates he could anticipate with pleasure.

He wished it wasn’t her because it felt like he’d already lost.

* * *

Lili loved Jack’s hands. How their coarseness rasped her nipples. How their calluses imprinted against the soft skin of her thighs. And how those rough-cast fingers were causing a well of liquid trouble in her panties. With just a couple of delicious strokes, the pulse between her legs had boosted from dull to knife-sharp. She wondered if there was anything those talented hands couldn’t do.

Her eyelids felt heavy and she fought to keep them open. Holding on to his penetrating gaze was as sexy as what he was doing down below. She had never experienced that kind of intensity in a man. He burned her alive with every look.

“Jack,” she whispered, shifting her weight to allow him access. She needed the full Jack experience, which meant her underwear had to go. Please say I didn’t wear one of my granny pairs. Through eyes blurred with desire, she caught a glimpse of her lace-trimmed hipster as Jack pulled it down past her knees, and she kicked them off. Not her sexiest pair, but phew.

He pushed her skirt up around her hips, giving them both a front-row view. Yes. Battling to focus, she watched as he coiled a finger in her curls, soaked with anticipation. He ran a solitary finger through her slick heat. Just one, a tease to let her know he was in control, that he had her pleasure in the palm of his hand. A shudder of pure bliss coursed through her, then more fingers, rubbing and caressing. She moaned, deep and primal, because she had lost all self-restraint and it was pointless to pretend otherwise.

“Yes, yes. So good.” It was about to get more so. He slipped a finger inside her and hooked it, honing in on her spot. A wave of lust slammed her. After a minute of searing heat, he pressed another finger and slid it in, stretching her exquisitely tight. And yes, two fingers were most definitely better than one. His thumb feathered her *. It felt so right, his fingers sliding in and out of her, his thumb creating delicious friction, his dark eyes wide and watching her like he was afraid of missing something. And watching him watch her was the biggest turn-on of all.

Until he started in on the French.

She didn’t need to understand it to know he was telling her things he might never say in English. Maybe they were romantic. She hoped they were filthy.

With every motion, with every secret word he whispered, her skin tightened. Blood rushed from her head to below her waist. Spirals wound down her belly. She screamed his name, begging him to finish her, but he drew it out, slowing and teasing, stopping short of that peak she was so desperate to reach.

She dug her nails into his tattooed bicep, desperate to make her mark as indelible as the ink on his skin. He wouldn’t forget her. Still, he taunted her with those slow fingers. Slow, slow, so damn slow. Fisting his hair, she yanked it hard and was rewarded with a grunt, but no upping his pace. The bastard’s mouth found hers again, hot and demanding, stealing her breath. A blast of sugar and summer heat that sparked her ecstasy and ignited her frustration into fury.

So she bit him.

He didn’t make a sound, but his mouth, the bottom lip pink and slightly swollen, curved into a carnal grin. He liked it. Oh God, he did, and she liked that he liked it.

Her hips thrust forward in blatant appeal and everything slowed and then sped up again. So close. He withdrew his fingers and applied them where she needed it most, sliding through her wetness, stroking her harder and faster. Her blood pounded and surged, sending her lurching out of control. Jack’s devil smile widened. A smile made for her. A smile that made her come so hard, she kicked his shin. He yelped.

Good.

Despite the violent conclusion, his hand cupped her gently, absorbing her shivery shudders, shocking her with his tenderness. Hot tears sprang unbidden, and she buried her face in the warmth of his shoulder, trying to hide her churning emotions. He kissed her hair. He held her tight. He gave her the time she needed to descend.

The tide of their breathing rocked in a rhythmic whisper, just the two of them distilled to this single moment. She couldn’t remember the last time an orgasm had been that explosive. Probably never, but she preferred the illusion that it had been so good it had messed with her recall. The alternative—that the memory of every man before him had crumbled to dust—was just too much to comprehend.

Eventually he raised her chin with his finger and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I know it’s been a rough day, love.”

In his voice, she heard compassion she didn’t deserve and kindness she had never received from any other man. Jack Kilroy might have just performed a miracle for her physical well-being, but he was big, bad, and dangerous for her mental state.

“I’m not used to being the center of attention,” she said. “It doesn’t sit so well with me.”

A flicker of something hard gave way to a smile that would make the angels sing. “Well, since about three a.m. yesterday, you’ve been the center of my attention. And I intend to keep you right where I can see you.”

Her heart lifted clear through the roof, and she couldn’t let such a lovely declaration go unrewarded. Her lips brushed against the hard planes of his face, taking momentary rest stops on those rock-hewn cheekbones. Twelve freckles—no, thirteen—lay scattered like a starry constellation across his nose. She wanted to memorize every beautiful smudge and contour because, after tonight, she would only have souvenir snapshots. Minutes passed while they slanted to find the best angles, exploring earlobes and eyelids, necks and jaws, and each time their mouths crossed paths, they whimpered in surprise that a kiss could improve with practice.

She combed through his silken hair until she found the ridge of his welt. “How’s your head?”

“Muddled.”

She traced a finger along his swollen lip. “And this?”

He smiled. “That was hot but in the future, we’ll have to negotiate the rough stuff. I can’t risk anything happening to my face. It’s my ticket to fame and fortune.”

“Bighead,” she said gently, and kissed him to stop any more talk about the future.

Moving his hand back under her skirt, he shaped her butt, his calluses brushing fiery tingles across her skin. “I adore this sweet arse of yours.”

Arse. Why did that word sound hotter and dirtier than ass? It must be down to the lips that formed it, the sonorous bass that spoke it. He squeezed one sweet arse cheek, making her mewl. She loved when a man gave her booty the attention it deserved, though with the kind of women Jack dated, she wouldn’t have had him pegged for an ass, or arse, man. For some reason, that made her giggle.

“What’s so funny?” It came out garbled because his hot mouth was sucking on the pulse at her throat, but she got the gist.

“I’m not exactly your type,” she murmured in his ear.

“This should be good. Tell me what’s my type, then.”

“Hipless, top-heavy blondes with sticks for legs. That’s your usual diet.”

“Well, mine eyes have seen the glory of one curvy brunette with a body that won’t quit and a mouth made for sin.”

She chewed her sinful lower lip and drew back to face him. “So you’ll have doubled your options. Just think of all that ethnic skirt you’ve been missing. Italians, Latinas, Jersey housewives…”

“Not interested. I’ve got all the ethnic skirt I want right here.” His words sent stiffness to her spine. He must have felt it, too, because his brow crimped into lines like a corduroy swatch. “Do you really want me to see someone else? Why are you raining on this?”

Because a little rain now was better than a torrential downpour later. Saddling his hot-as-Hades ass with her was not going to help his brand, just like it wouldn’t do a solid for her self-esteem. One kiss had turned her into Celebrity Enemy Number One. A relationship with this guy would put her on every gossip shit list until the end of the decade. Improving the forward momentum of her life precluded detours to her chunky teens; she had come too far to risk a revival of that insecure blob inside her.

She let out a long, shuddering breath and broke out her most reasonable tone. “Jack, you know I can’t date you.”

Pressing her hands to his hard chest, she pushed him away and slipped to a stand. With trembling fingers, she wrenched on her blouse and grappled with the buttons. They ended up in the wrong holes. Typical.

“Can’t or won’t?”

She whirled on him in all her disheveled magnificence. “That concussion must have caused brain damage. There’s the little matter of your rabid fan base.”

“I’d protect you.”

“How? Are you going to punch everyone who says something mean about me?”

“No one messes with what’s mine.”

That, and the accompanying unyielding gaze, turned her legs to swaying reeds. Mine. Had one word ever sounded so wrong and so right?

“I’m not yours.”

“Not yet.”

Sweet bursts of pleasure exploded in her chest at the thought of Jack claiming her like a piece of Victorian-era chattel, but as much as her inner girly-girl loved it, she couldn’t allow his outer caveman distract her from the real problem. The fallout from dating him would set back her recovery, a risk she was unwilling to take. She dug her nails into her palms to kick-start a return to the twenty-first century. And her very twenty-first century needs.

“I can’t date you but I’d still like you to stay.” She hoped she didn’t sound overly eager to get them back to the business at hand, specifically her need to be tuned up by a guy who knew his way around a woman’s body without having to program a GPS. Waking up with those beefy arms wrapped around her was secondary. It was on the list, too, but farther down, after orgasms and foot rubs.

He struck a challenging pose, real cock-of-the-walk stuff. They stood facing each other, the tension delicious and strung between them on a wire. Determined to hold her ground, she stared, unblinking, until his bright eyes dimmed, and she knew she’d won.

“No,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“No,” he repeated.

By the time she’d mustered her wits, he was already at the door. “That’s it? You’re…you’re leaving?”

“No, I’m fake leaving.” He turned, his face a mix of disbelief and frustration. Right there with ya, bud. “I told you I don’t do one-night stands.”

“I’ve seen you with women in magazines and on TV since Ashley.” He had told her about his sex drought, but it was hard to reconcile that with the parade of beautiful women he escorted to premiere parties and glittering galas. Of course, she was nothing like those women. Her gaze fell to her underwear, mocking her on the tile floor. Turned down twice by the same guy in less than twenty-four hours…A horrible thought poked at her.

“Was this some pity-the-big-girl thing?”

Uh-oh. Colossal mistake.

He marched over, his expression so stormy that the room skewed and she backed up against the edge of the table. Roughly, he grasped her hand and mashed it flat against his hard chest, vibrating with a thunderous beat.

“Don’t ever say anything like that again. How can you even doubt my attraction after what just happened here? When all I can think about is burying my body inside you?” Still covering her hand, he dragged it against his rock-hard abs and finally, his erection. She gasped. He was firm and hot beneath her palm. He was huge. “Feel that? I’m so f*cking hard for you that it hurts, but I’ll suffer because I don’t want to be with a woman who doesn’t want to be with me. And I mean really be with me. Not just in my bed.”

Her mind flailed as his words thunked against her skull, their mix of certainty and entreaty shaking her to the core. Really be with me. He wanted someone to see him for who he was, not Jack Kilroy the icon, just Jack, the regular guy in her kitchen. Tonight he’d offered a glimpse of his soul, and though she was drawn to him like no other man, there was no escaping the fact he was indeed like no other man.

He released her and stepped back out of her greedy reach. She hugged herself and tried to hold on to his heat in her still-tingling hand.

“Yes, there have been women since Ashley but I haven’t slept with anyone. I’m tired of using and being used. The disrespect. This last year has been…” He paused and scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it adorably mussed.

“It’s been what?” What she saw in his face devastated her.

“Forget it.”

“You mean with Ashley and all the interviews?”

“That, my sister, my father—” He shook his head as if he had remembered who he was talking to. The woman who was only interested in getting a dirty thrill. The woman who didn’t merit his confidences.

“Lili, I don’t know you very well but you’re clearly not ready for this. Maybe this Twitter crap is too hot to handle or since your mother’s illness, you can’t even recognize what you want anymore.” He gave another head shake, sadder now. “I thought there was something here, but I was mistaken.”

Her heart splintered at his words. He was tired of her excuses and she couldn’t blame him. She deserved his contempt.

Dazed, she followed him to the door, her limbs as leaden as sacks of flour, numbness stealing across her body. What was wrong with her? She got her earth-shattering orgasm and she didn’t even have to touch his penis. Not officially. For a lot of girls, that was a win-win.

Damn, but she wanted to touch his penis.

She wanted to give him what he’d given her. A little joy, some shared comfort, because he needed it as much as she did. And yes, she was selfish and wanted more. She didn’t know what exactly, she just knew she wanted.

He already had one foot on the stair to the street. In two more seconds, he would be gone from her life. Steeling her spine, she swallowed and spoke to his departing back.

“I was the fat chick.”

He halted, a wall of stock-still strength, and her breath trapped in her chest. That checked breath gushed out when he turned to reveal an inflexible expression.

She heard the anger in his breathing before he spoke. “I won’t stand for you putting yourself down like that.”

Rubbing her collarbone as if it could grant her three wishes, she reached back to the most painful period of her life. “No…no, I don’t mean now. I mean then. Past tense. In high school, I was that girl, the fat girl, the one people laughed at. Body by Tortellini. I was bullied every day because of how I looked and was made to feel worthless. It took a couple of years but I eventually shucked the fat suit and put it behind me.”

Had she put it behind her? Clearly, not far enough. So what if she had a little junk in the trunk? Her curves were a helluva lot more reliable than any man in keeping her warm at night.

“I’ve got a big butt and big boobs and I know I don’t square up to society’s ideals of perfection, but I like it. I like how I look.”

In place of the pity and platitudes she expected, she got his raw, consuming stare filled with some unnamed emotion. Annoyance or disgust, perhaps. His eyes, ice-frozen during her speech, watched her with uncompromising focus.

“You’re not the only one who likes it.” Voice low, heated, he stalked her. Slow and predatory. Pure, unadulterated sex.

She beat a hesitant two-step retreat, but her back met the door frame. “What I’m trying to say is that it was a tough road, but now I’m fine.”

“So fine,” he murmured as he closed the space between them. Oh Lord.

Passing over his compliment, she also tried to pass over just how small she felt in his potent presence. He was so big. So vital.

“Dating someone like you would leave me exposed to all sorts of hate I don’t deserve.” Her voice spiked on “exposed” like she had spoken a word she’d only ever seen in print and was unsure of its pronunciation. Under his hard scrutiny, she felt exposed, more so than when he had brought her to scorching release. More so than when she had read the hateful comments of strangers. “I can’t go back to feeling like that girl. She’s in the past.”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. “So because of who I am, we don’t have a shot? Who cares what people say? Isn’t it enough that I think you’re beautiful and sexy?”

This is what she hated about hot guys. That warm and fuzzy feeling she got when one of them anointed her as worthy. Well, she was supposed to get the warm-fuzzies, but right now, she was pissed at herself, at him, and the whole effed-up situation.

“I don’t need you to tell me I’m beautiful and sexy,” she lied, her throat burning with unshed tears. “I know I’m beautiful and sexy, and I was doing just fine before you crashed my life party.” At his stricken expression, she realized how accusatory her outburst sounded. “I didn’t mean that the way if came out.”

To the rigid jaw, he added a healthy muscle tick. “You were doing just fine until I showed up and put you in the middle of a media tornado you don’t want or need.”

Maybe she had meant it the way it sounded. Had she been doing fine? Darn tootin’! She’d been chugging along at an even keel, no muss, no fuss, and then Jack Kilroy did a hatchet job on her cozy existence.

He crossed his arms, drawing her gaze to his thick, muscled forearms. Very underrated eye candy, forearms.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “If I hadn’t been in that walk-in minding my own business or you hadn’t been strolling by that alley at three a.m. wearing a Wonder Woman costume or you hadn’t pitched that skillet at my head—”

She opened her mouth and he gave her the hand. The hand!

“—or you hadn’t provoked me into kissing you in a public bar with half of Chicago watching or I hadn’t spent every moment since I met you imagining you naked”—he paused to take a breath and she matched him—“your life would have been just fine.”

She snapped her jaw shut, shocked at how he had reduced the last forty-eight hours to its essence like one of his sauces. But the take-home was clear. She was just as much to blame. In his immediate orbit, she had no control, so the sooner she escaped this magnetic pull he had over her, the sooner she could get back to her just-fine life.

“Yes, it would have been, and once you leave—” She turned up a shaky palm in query.

“Day after tomorrow.”

So soon? A burning, tight band of steel wrapped around her chest. Somewhere along the pause, he had moved in, putting oxygen at a premium. Butterflies took flight in her belly. “Day after tomorrow, I’ll be fine again.”

“Fine,” he said, his face now so close she could lick her lips and simultaneously swipe his hard, angular jaw.

“So fi—”

Before she could finish, his mouth fitted over hers. It was that easy. Her eyes shuttered on his kiss and in no time at all, his sweet assault became more sure. He followed her Twitter rep’s advice and played glorious grab-ass with her notorious booty. Oh, she loved how he made her feel. So beautiful, so sexy, but also special. His intimate taste enveloped her until it was only him and her heart, now beating wildly.

Stay, she urged with her tongue as she mapped his mouth. I’ll be anything you want, everything I can. Her fingers licked the nape of his neck and they both shivered. Hold me, she spoke with her hands. I want to wake up to your warm laugh tickling my ear. The kiss deepened and curled inside her, finding private and untouched places. Love me, she thought as her breath mingled with his. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

Knowing her pleas would go unheard, she took from it everything she needed to tide her over for the long night ahead. At last, he released her with a soft “damn,” and they retreated to scant inches apart, a little dazed, a lot dissatisfied.

Neither of them moved for several seconds.

Then the edge of his mouth lifted in…was that cockiness? “Now, don’t you think the finer things in life are worth fighting for, sweetheart?”

He wasn’t giving up! This tenacious, infuriating, beautiful man wasn’t giving up, but there was no missing the underlying dare in his tone. If she wanted this, she had to woman up.

Like a sleepwalker, she shuffled back and shut the door. Through the spy hole, she watched him linger, his expression half swallowed by the shadow in the dimly lit hallway. She knew he was smiling because she was smiling, and if any kiss deserved a joyful reaction, it was that one.

It didn’t last. Well, it couldn’t, could it? Smile vanishing, she sank to the floor, her body a spineless mess, her stomach knotted so tight it hurt. The challenge had been thrown down; the choice was a minefield. She could get what she wanted and lose him, or give him what he wanted and lose her heart. Either way, it was going to be wonderful.

And then it was going to suck.