“Come on,” he says after pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “I still need your help.”
Rowan leads the way to the kitchen where brand new commercial appliances and stainless steel counters gleam beneath the recessed lights in the freshly-painted ceiling. He heads first to a row of hooks where aprons are hanging and tosses one to me before he disappears into a walk-in fridge.
“What are we doing?” I ask as he returns with ingredients stacked on a tray that he sets on the counter next to me.
“Building a spaceship.” He grins when I give him a flat glare. “Cooking, clearly. I’m still fine-tuning the lunch menu for opening week. I need your help tweaking it.”
“I thought we’d already established that cooking is not my strong suit.”
“No, we established that you cook perfectly well, we just need to do it together.”
And we do.
We start with simpler things, like making a red wine vinaigrette for one of the salads and prepping vegetables for a soup. Then we move on to harder things—pork loin with shallot rings, a salmon filet with cream sauce. And watching Rowan share his art with such passion and confidence is like injecting an aphrodisiac directly into my veins. My desire for him grows more powerful with every moment that passes, and he’s so immersed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t seem to notice any of the signs.
It only makes me want him that much more.
We sample the dishes we create together and Rowan presses the gold star from his cheek to the top of a fresh page in a stained, dog-eared notebook where he jots down ideas and feedback on everything we make. And then he declares that it’s time for dessert, the course where he needs the most help. When I try to protest that I’m full, he laughs me off.
“I know you can take more,” he says with a smirk, then strides off in the direction of the fridge.
He returns with another tray of ingredients, but this time the pavlova and crème brûlée and chocolate cake have already been made. They just need to be assembled with their presentation and sauces, which Rowan does with speed and precision before he sets them in front of me on the counter. He then takes a step back and lets his gaze flow down the length of me. I feel it in the center of my body, like he pulls an invisible string that tightens my core until it aches.
“Face the counter and pull your dress up, Sloane.”
My panties instantly dampen, even before my brain has fully processed his words, like my body knows what’s about to happen before my mind does. I suck in an unsteady breath and my mouth pops open, but I don’t know what to say.
Rowan raises his brows and flicks his gaze toward the counter. “You think I didn’t notice the way you tugged your dress down before you leaned over to show me your tits when we were making that white wine sauce? I always notice you, Sloane. Now do as you’re told.”
I shudder out my held breath, grasp the hem of my dress and drag it up my thighs as I turn and face the stainless steel counter, its polished edge cold against my heated skin. Rowan’s warmth envelops my back as he steps behind me to run a calloused palm up my leg and across the globe of my ass.
He pulls my panties to the side and notches his cock to my entrance, then slides into me with a single stroke to the sound of my gasp.
And then he just stays there, unmoving, lodged to the hilt in my pussy.
A whimper catches in the back of my throat. My clit throbs, begging for friction, my cunt desperate for motion. I try to move forward and back again, but there’s nowhere to go between Rowan’s unyielding strength and the sharp edge of the counter against my hips.
“No,” he commands when I try again. “Relax, Sloane.”
A strangled moan passes my lips. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
Rowan chuckles, nonplussed by the fact that desire is burning me up, every cell torched with the need for more than he’s going to give. “Just try. See where it takes you.”
My pulse drums a galloping rhythm, my breaths are shaky and uneven. When I stop trying to move, Rowan lays his chin on my shoulder and takes up a dessert spoon.
“Such a good girl you are, Blackbird,” he coos into my ear as he slides the spoon through the crème brûlée and brings it to my parted lips. “And good girls get rewards.”
The creamy dessert and tart berry topping land on my tongue with a burst of flavor. Rowan remains still as I savor the taste.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
“Y-yes.”
“Missing anything?”
“I…” Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t think clearly with his cock thick and hard in my pussy, my arousal slick at my entrance, my clit demanding relief. When I shake my head, he seems to understand that I don’t mean ‘no’, but that I can’t be sure.
“Close your eyes. Try again.”
I do as Rowan asks and close my eyes. The scents of sugar and fresh berries flood my nostrils, aromas I didn’t truly notice the last time. Rowan traces the edge of the spoon across my lips to paint my pink skin in flavor before I open for him.
“What do you taste?” Rowan whispers against the shell of my ear.
“Cream. Vanilla. Caramelized sugar. Strawberries and raspberries,” I reply, my eyes still closed. It feels like I’m floating, not outside of my body but in places within it that I’ve never seen or felt before. There’s another realm inside that I didn’t even know existed. It’s as though I’m disconnected from the rest of the world, yet more present in it than I’ve ever been. Every sensation becomes clearer in the absence of extraneous noise.
“What’s missing?” Rowan tries again.
“Nothing. But…” I shake my head. Rowan’s hand glides down my arm in reassurance, that this place and my words are safe with him. “But it’s not unique.”
“You’re right,” he replies. An indulgent kiss lingers on my neck as his cock twitches within me. I notice every motion he makes, from the way his lips lift from my skin to the rise and fall of his chest against my back. “It’s not unique. It’s like every other crème brûlée in the city. It needs something different. Something new.”
“Thorsten Harris probably would suggest—”
“Blackbird,” Rowan says, punctuating his warning with a bite to my earlobe. “Do not even think about finishing that sentence or there’ll be hell to pay.”
My eyes remain closed as I grin. “I like your version of hell.”
“You say that now. But I could stay in this tight little cunt of yours for hours, and I think you’d feel differently if I spent all that time not letting you come.” Rowan shifts his hips, just a hint of movement that ignites my desperation for more. “Now be my good little bird and name me the most random fruit you can think of. The first thing that springs to mind.”
I don’t even really think about it. I just speak. “Persimmon.”
There’s a beat of silence. Rowan relaxes behind me, as though the pent-up tension in his chest has spirited away.
“Yes. Persimmon. That’s an excellent idea, love.”