by Peyton Banks
Kareem dusts his hands on the apron tied around his waist. I’ve been so nervous that I didn't notice he was wearing one at first. But for some reason, seeing him in it warms my insides. I don't know too many men who cook, let alone wear aprons while they do it. We make eye contact, gazing at one another for several long seconds.
After a brief moment, he blinks and refocuses on dinner. I finally take a look around and see he's been hard at work. Two burners are going on his stovetop, one with a cream-based sauce and another that's boiling.
"It smells great." I take a seat on one of the bar stools on the opposite side of his island.
He peers at me gingerly. "Thank you." Kareem chops some herbs before picking up a pasta ladle to stir the boiling pot.
"And you call me serious," I say teasingly at the strained expression he wears.
Kareem cranes his neck in my direction, smiling when he realizes what I'm referring to. "Sorry. I like to cook."
"Obviously," I joke. "What is it?" I lift and strain my neck to get a peek.
He taps the ladle on the edge of the pot and sets it down on a spoon rest. Picking up the pot, he carries it to the sink to drain. He mixes the noodles into the sauce he's prepared.
As he opens the oven and flips whatever is inside, he speaks. "We have roasted chicken with a lemon ricotta dressing over bucatini pasta."
My eyes grow wide, displaying how impressed I am with him. "Dressing? Bucatini? Who are you?"
He grins. "Hey, I really like cooking," he repeats sarcastically.
We laugh out loud.
"Well it smells delicious."
He doesn't use his word to say thank you, he only nods and returns to the food.
"So do you cook, Rylan?" he asks after a beat.
"No," I say with more emphasis than intended to.
We dart our gazes to each other, only to laugh again.
"Okay, I can do the cooking."
I dip my chin into my chest and set my focus on the scotch in my hand. It's not that he did anything wrong, but his words seem hopeful, and honestly, I don't know what to do with that.
"Is there anything else you're good at?" My voice is high pitched, but I clear my throat to get it together.
"I'm good at a lot of things. I have many interests, but cooking is one of the constants."
A timer goes off. Kareem picks up an oven mitt to remove the roasting pan from the oven. Using a butcher knife, he slices both breast cuts into strips. Next, he gathers plates and eating utensils. I watch him remove a second pan from the oven, and recognize he's also made French bread.
Kareem
I signal for Rylan to lead us onto my eighth-floor patio. The weather tonight is perfect to dine under the moon. There's a slight chill in the air, so I started my fire pit to help provide some warmth. Besides, I want to make this dinner perfect. She left while I slept, and has done everything to avoid me in the office. It has to be for a reason, and it's not that I want to pry. Her past is her past. But I want her to see me in a positive way, one that'll hopefully break down the walls she thinks no one notices are there.
When we reach the exit, I use a foot to prop the door open to step on the bricked patio. Once we're both outside, she turns to help me and takes the rolls from the crook of my arm, allowing me to place the other two serving dishes on the table. I've already set out a bucket of ice, a bottle of white wine, and long-stemmed glasses.
I help Rylan to her seat then take the time to load our plates with food. Popping open the bottle, I grab our glasses and pour each of us a serving of wine. Rylan reaches for her drink, raises it to her nose to capture its aroma. I smile when she takes a sip and nods impressively.
"What is this?" she asks.
I remove my apron, letting it hang over the balcony wall, then seat myself. "It's a 2017 Bruno Giacosa Roero Arneis from Piedmont, Italy. It's a great pairing for the meal we're having."
Rylan stretches her neck while shuffling her shoulders. "Okay, let's see." She picks up her fork and spoon to gather a taste.
I watch as she chews, swallows, then takes another pull from her glass. Rylan's eyes grow wide, and she tilts her head in surprise.
"Wow. That is really good together."
"Yeah, cream-based pasta goes better with a dry white," I add while taking a bite of food.
Rylan swallows another morsel. "Where did you learn to cook and pair wines like this?" She eats more.
"During my sabbatical—"
"Sabbatical?" she interrupts.
I nod. "I had some time off after college and spent a year in Italy. Took up cooking, and kind of just fell into the wine obsession naturally."
She stares at me, tipping her head as if she could relate. "That sounds amazing."
"It was, and it's a beautiful country too. They have their fair share of shady shit going on, but the people are nice for the most part."
"How long was your break?" She takes another serving into her mouth.
My eyes focus on how her tongue slips out and the way her lips wrap around the fork. I clear my throat and adjust myself in my seat. "Five years." I lean forward with my forearms on the table.
"Oh. That's a long time. Were you on like a spiritual journey?"
I follow her lips again, this time as she sips more Arneis. "I guess you can say that." I pull my focus back to her face. "My pops is grooming me to run the business one day. It's a demanding job, and he wanted me to get the hoodlum out of my system before I took on the responsibility of my family's legacy. And those were his words, not mine. So we made a deal, and my father—"
"Loves a deal," we say in unison.
My heart skips a beat in appreciation of how well she knows my dad. She respects him, something I noticed even as she talked shit about him at the bar before she knew who I was. And for whatever reason, it makes me want her more.
"And this deal?" Rylan breaks the sudden wave of silence that surrounds us.
"Oh, sorry. He gave me five years, fully funded, to explore, figure out who I am, and do whatever I wanted. Now that the time has ended, I'm supposed to learn the business and take my seat at the table. My parents are ready to retire, and my younger brother has no desire for the business."
"Khalil, right?" she quizzes.
"Yeah, my mother's name is Kameela. She has an obsession with the letter K."
We chuckle.
"Is there any specific meaning behind it? Religion?" She asks and continues to eat.
"No, she's just sentimental like that. So, what about you? Any siblings or weird family sentiments?"
Rylan pinches her lips together to fight a smile. "Your mom's sentiment is not weird. But, my great grandmother used to collect dolls, a tradition that passed down to me."
My eyes grow wide. "Really?"
"Yup, I inherited her collection, including the large china cabinet she kept them in." She smirks.
"I don't think I've ever met anyone who had a Barbie collection."
"It's not just Barbies. There are all kinds, and I don't add to the collection. I just kept them because it meant something to her."
"That makes sense."
"Why Italy and where else have you visited?" she asks, changing the subject.
I swallow a bite. "Italian cuisine is my favorite. I actually got excited when you recommended it earlier. But, since I love the cuisine, I figured why not. I enrolled in a two-month program and spent the rest of that time, just practicing. I even picked up a job working as a cook for the added experience. After my year was up, I hopped around Europe, the Caribbean, Africa, hung around South America for a bit."
"Um," Rylan mutters.
"What's on your mind?" I question the low sound coming from her.
She holds a finger, asking for a minute to swallow a piece of a dinner roll. "You're a Chef, but you're working in marketing," she says nonchalantly.
"I'm not a Chef—" I go to defend, but she stops me.
"First off, no one who doesn't love to cook can make a meal this bomb. Secondly
, I peeped how your chest puffed out, all strong and proud when you talked about Italy." She breaks off another piece of bread. "Trust me. You're a Chef."
"It's bomb, huh?" I change the subject and lick my lips as a failed attempt to hide the grin on my face.
"Oh, don't get cocky," she interjects with the same sass she possessed the night we first met.
I tilt my head and shrug. "Nah, I just know when a connection is brewing."
Rylan smirks and shies away when I repeat the words I said to her that night. The same words that gave us both the courage to end up here, with her naked in my living room. My dick remembers, too, and is already waking up. That's not even why I asked her here. Yes, I'd love to fuck her again, but I want more than that too.
I'm not typically the kind of man who believes in love at first sight or falling head over heels in no time at all. If I'm honest, feeling anything remotely close to that was the furthest from my mind. But with Rylan, it's different somehow. She caught my eye from across the room, and when I stood beside her, smelled her perfume, and heard how intellectual she was, I was hooked.
We finish our meal but spend the next few hours out on the patio drinking wine and talking—about everything. From my horrible fraternity pledging days to her hobbies, and everything in between. The conversation seems effortless, flowing as if we've known each other for years. After a while, the temperature drops, and the fire pit start to burn down. She rubs her arms, shaking off the shiver rippling through her.
"Come on, let's get you inside."
Rylan accepts my hand and follows close behind me until we're back in the condo. I walk her over to the couch, suggesting for her to make herself comfortable. She unlocks her fingers from mine, and I rush down the hall to retrieve a throw blanket. On my way back, I snag a fresh bottle of wine and new glasses from my kitchen.
Rylan watches as I cross from one room to the other and join her on the sofa. She sits up, and I drape the cover over her shoulders. Once she's settled, I fill each glass with wine and hand her one. I nestle up next to her, and she sits so that she has the perfect view of the side of my face.
Her eyes burn hot into me, so I glance in her direction. We stare at each other for a moment, no words exchanged, we just observe. I trace every swallow, and every visible vein from her neck down to the crease between her breasts. And she follows my tongue every time it slicks across my lips.
My stomach grows heavy with anticipation and admiration. Damn, she's so beautiful. I tilt my head back, resting on the pillow to get a better look at her. It must make her uncomfortable because she props her elbow on her knee to cover half her face with her hand.
I reach to take her finger and pull her arm away. Rylan's eyes narrow, but she doesn't protest me.
"I want to see you."
I can't break the gaze I hold on her. It's like the myth of Medusa—a woman so gorgeous one glance turns you to stone. Everything about her, even her innate need to be in control, turns me on. The thing is, I'm not sure if it's because I fucking want her, or the burning desire to make her lose that control. Maybe it's both.
I swipe a loc behind her ear, letting my touch linger for as long as possible. Something flickers in her eyes, and she inches closer to me, lowering her head to kiss me. I don't move, not even to breathe. I just let her have her way with my mouth until the need to feel her skin takes over.
My heart races as chills run from my fingertips to my groin. I take our glasses and put them on the coffee table. In one swift movement, I grab and pull her onto my lap. Rylan straddles me, bringing her hot center down on me. My lower half jerks from the sensations building in my pants.
I want to take my time, but I also can't wait to get her out of all these fucking clothes. I've never hated clothing as much as I do right now. I yank her shirt over her head and fling it to the floor. Rylan undresses me next, starting with my shirt and stopping at my zipper. I claim her mouth, and fumble with her pants, desperately needing to feel her flesh.
When I see her in just her bra and panties, I ignite. I rub my hands up her arms and shoulders before I cup her face and taste her sweet and swollen lips.
"Why are you so damn sexy?" I breathe into her ear. "Stay the night with me," I insist when she doesn't answer.
It's not a question, hell it's not even a suggestion. It's a demand. I said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm going to consume her and triumph from the pleasure.
Rylan
When I open my eyes, I immediately close them to block the rays of sun shining in from the large bedroom windows. With a sigh, I peer down at my sheet-covered body. Just seeing my current state sends a wave of memories rushing over me.
A smile parts my lips as I stretch, appreciating the delicious ache from last night’s pleasures. I pat the space beside me, finding myself alone and Kareem nowhere in sight. I look around for my clothes but remember we left them in the living room.
Wrapping myself in the sheet, I crawl out of bed and saunter my way into the front of the condo. The sound of a pan sizzling and soft music greets me before I spot him at the stove. The first thing I see is his back, bare and flexing as he stirs what looks like eggs. He’s prepared an entire feast of meats and pancakes to boot.
I’m frozen in place at the edge of the hallway, watching him in his element, enjoying the way he moves. Kareem turns off the burner, giving the eggs one final fluff before filling our plates.
“Smells good,” I say after a moment, and stroll into the kitchen.
He glances over his shoulder at me, a grin dangling on his lips. “Good morning, how’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Not very much,” I tease with my brows raised.
He smirks and meets me at the island. My lungs tighten as the little air I have left squeezes from my body. Why is this man so damn fine? I think while gawking at his naked chest. It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before. Yet, all I can do is admire what’s in front of me.
I trace the tattoos up his arm and over his chest, letting my eyes trail his torso, committing to memory every ab, the birthmark just below his navel, and the faint line of hair that leads downward. I focus on what he’s wearing—the thick gray material of his sweat pants does nothing to hide the bulge staring back at me. The only thing that would make this a better view is if he was covered in sweat with his deep brown skin glistening all over.
I stare unrestrained at his crotch, not realizing I’d been biting my bottom lip until he speaks.
“My face is up here,” he jokes.
But I don’t break my gaze. I don’t care. I’m all too aware of what he has in his pants. What magic does he have over me? The island separates us, but I wish we weren’t. I’m not supposed to be here. He shouldn’t be in my world. No one should. There’s a pull in my gut, and it tells me to get my things and leave before anything else can happen.
The pressure is heavy against my ribs. My brain tells my feet to move, to grab my clothes and thank him for a good time. Every other fiber of my being keeps me rooted in place. Kareem makes me feel things, things I gave up long ago. Things that turn the pull in my gut to flutters.
He sets the plates down and stands beside me. With a deep intensity, he peers at me, our souls seeming to connect in the silent moment we share. I try to look him in the face, but all I can do is breathe in deep to still my racing libido.
“Why do you look like you want to run?” he asks, and my breath hitches.
There he goes paying attention again. All he’s done, from the moment we met, is prove he sees me.
“Let it go. Whatever you’re holding on to, let it go.”
I feel the back of his fingers against my neck before my mind registers he’s touching me. Kareem presses his thumb to my throat, his eyes zeroing in on the swallow I take.
“Can you do that for me, Rylan? Can you let go?”
My only reaction is to stare at him, my back rigid, and my breaths trapped. I lick my lips, and where the lack of words fails, my skin speaks for me. Goosebumps form alon
g my arms when he inches closer to me. I drop my gaze to avoid the seriousness of his words, my focus immediately redirecting to those damned grey sweatpants.
His presence is suffocating. Not in the I can’t breathe kind of way, but more so overwhelming, intoxicating. I place my palm to his chest to gently push him back. Kareem puts his hand over mine, pinning it to him like he’s trying to make us one. I gingerly rake my touch down his frame, and he holds tight, not wavering in his position. He wants me to know he’s in charge, and damn it if I don’t like it.
He hooks a finger around the sheet near my chest, tugging, and it gives no hesitation to his demand. Honestly, I forgot I’m still naked in the middle of his kitchen. The fabric pools to the floor as he moves closer, trapping me between him and the island. I realize he likes doing this, getting me in a position where I have no choice but to submit.
Kareem holds my hip with one hand and the base of my neck with the other. “You want to fight me, but your body wants to be here. It likes what I do to it,” he whispers on my lips.
I smell the coffee on his breath and nearly whimper at the scent. “The food’s going to get cold,” I huff.
He spreads my legs apart with his foot. “Fuck that food.” With the swiftest of motions, he lifts me and splays my ass out on the marbled surface. “Don’t move.”
He backs away as I lean back on my elbows, watching him rush over to where his jeans are bunched at the foot of the couch. Kareem finds a condom and hurries back to his place between my legs, his dick already hard and straining to be freed. It’s a good thing he’s tall. Otherwise, this wouldn’t work the way either of us is picturing it.
He yanks me to the edge of the counter, spreading my legs until they touch the cold surface. My nipples harden under his gaze. Lust fills us both, but I can see him losing his composure—the veins in his neck pulse when he stares at my core.
“I don’t know who hurt you, but he’s not me,” he says, making eye contact with me.
Is it that evident? The pain and reluctance I feel over my past. Not wanting to talk about it, I reach for his shoulder, pushing him down until he’s eye-level with my pussy. The memory of us in his office sends a throbbing rush to my sex.
