by Frankie Love
She bites down on her lip. “I can eat. A lot.”
I chuckle. “That so? In that case, I should be doing more than warming you up tonight’s dinner.”
“I’d think so if you’re the chef of this fancy castle,” she says with a smile. “I’m a food writer, and I don’t hold back on reviews.”
“A food writer?” I lift my eyebrows. “See, I knew you were fancy.”
“I’m not, unless it comes to food. Then I get picky,” she says, peeling back the lid on a food container. “But not tonight. Tonight I can handle these leftovers because I’m starving.”
“Are ya now?” I offer her a plate of crudités and dip and she grabs a fistful of cucumbers. “If you can wait ten minutes, I’ll make you my specialty.”
“Oh really? The poor country boy has a specialty now?”
I laugh loudly, appreciating her humor. I’m not a man who goes for weak lassies. I like a girl who knows who she is, who can speak her mind — who has an appetite.
“I can make a nice hanger. You fancy that?”
Her stomach growls, and she presses her hands to her belly. “See, I wasn’t lying.”
“Alright, you eat the cucumbers while I make you a real meal, darling. Just give me a sec, will ya?”
I sweep out of the kitchen and grab two pint glasses at the back bar, pouring us both a frothy Guinness. Back in the kitchen, I see she’s set down her purse and taken off her coat. “Bloody hell, woman,” I say, setting down the beer. Her tits look insane in that tight white little tank top. Her nipples have my cock growling. Damn, suddenly I’m the one who is starved.
She frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“You just, you took off the coat. You’re just…”
She lifts an eyebrow, taking the beer. When she pulls it to her ruby lips my body roars to life. “Just what?”
“You just look fecking gorgeous, Bridget.”
She laughs, throwing back her head. “You’re not so bad yourself, Beckett. It’s strange though, Tabitha gave me the impression you were much more of a grump than you appear to be.”
I smirk, taking a cast iron pan and setting it over a burner. I’ll wait to turn on the heat until the meat is ready.
“Tabitha is an old biddy. My granny’s best friend. She’s mad because I broke her granddaughter’s heart.”
“How’d you do that?” Bridget sits down on a stool, leaning over the counter. Her gorgeous rack is utterly distracting.
“She wanted to settle down. I’m not ready for all that. At least not with her. She wanted a life in the country.”
“And what do you want?” she asks as I toss a chunk of butter into the pan.
“I want to see the world. Learn to cook more than hanger steak and corned beef.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Bridget smiles, taking another sip of her pint. I ask her about her life in America, but she tells me she is unattached. Grew up in foster care and has always been a lone ranger. Flying solo. But the look in her eyes tells me she wishes for something different. Someone to share the stories with. A surge of protectiveness rises up in me as I listen to her.
“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot on your own.”
She shrugs, optimism flowing freely. “Life is what you make it. I like to take chances; risks. Live with no regrets. I want a partner in crime — but only if they want to be there as much as me.”
“I utterly understand.” I smile as I move to the spice rack on the other wall.
She follows, and damn, I’d like to lead her somewhere more private. “So tell me, Chef,” she asks. “How do you season your steak?”
“This for a review?”
“What else would it be?” She stands from the stool, walking over to the spices. There are dozens of tiny jars and bottles.
“I don’t know?” I look over at her, her fingers running over the handwritten labels. “Maybe you want to learn all my family secrets and steal them for yourself.”
“Someone in your family taught you to cook then?” Her eyes soften as she looks at the spices, and I can tell she appreciates the local herbs that I’ve collected. Carraway. Thyme. Bay leaves. Bridget reaches for a special jar containing my Granny’s infamous blend — she had specific thoughts on how and when to use it.
A blend of juniper berries, salt from the sea, and cloves. My cock twitches — this gorgeous girl ought to put that jar down. She doesn’t know what trouble she might get in if we used it on the steak.
I nod. “My granny taught me everything I know. She’s the actual cook for this kitchen, I’m just filling in.”
“Oh, truly?” She turns to me in surprise. “I’d think a castle this size would have a fancy chef.”
“And how do you know my granny isn’t classically trained? She is, I’ll have you know. Went to Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
Bridget’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, I just —”
“It’s fine, lassie. My Granny is out of work this week because she twisted her ankle. She asked me to come home for a bit and take over.”
“And where do you usually live?” she asks.
“Dublin, working as a cook in a kitchen, but I promise you, it’s not as memorable as this one.”
“Speaking of memorable — that butter is smoking,” she says.
“Oh shit,” I turn down the heat and move the pan from the burner. Bridget is across from me, watching as I look back at the spice rack. “Can you grab me the small bottle, to the left?” I ask.
She examines the bottom in her hand. “What about this one?” She reads the label aloud. “Baby Spice?”
“Yeah, you won’t want that one, lass,” I say with a snort.
“How do you know what I want?” She sets the bottle on the counter.
“I don’t think you want a stranger to knock you up, is all.”
Her eyes widen. “Knock me up?”
I pick up the bottle, open the lid, take a good whiff. “This right here is Granny’s special formula. Guaranteed to make a woman mad with desire.” I lift my eyebrows. “Proven recipe to get ya pregnant. Is that what you want?” I raise the bottle above the steak.
“Pregnant?” She snorts. “Right, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know why you’re laughing, Bridget. Are you calling my granny a liar?”
She rolls her eyes. “There’s just no magic spice that can get someone pregnant, is all.”
I grin. “In that case, using this won’t hurt us, will it?”
Her eyes twinkle with confidence. “I don’t suppose it will.” She grabs the bottle from me and starts shaking the spices onto the steak.
I reach for her hand. “Easy there, lass. Or you’ll end up with triplets.”
She laughs, her stomach growling, the kitchen suddenly feeling brighter than it has in a good long while. “Triplets? Perfect. I’ve always wanted to have three kids. Might as well get it done in one go.”
“Is that right? You want to be a mother?” I set the steak into the cast iron pan, the butter sizzling against the meat.
She licks her lips, looking me up and down. “Sure. I mean, if I found the right man.”
My cock aches. I can just imagine Bridget pregnant. My seed filling her up nice and good, the swell of her belly, her tits full and round.
“I don’t know if Granny’s ideas about making a baby are real, they might be nothing more than an old wive’s tale.” I step toward her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. I breathe her in, and god, I want her. “But tonight, I suppose we could test her theories.”
Her eyelashes flutter, her nipples hard under her tank. She wants this. Me. “You saying you want to be my baby-daddy, Beckett? A few minutes after we’ve met?”
“I’m saying you came into my kitchen hungry and I want to get you nice and full.”
Chapter Three
2 Become 1
Bridget
I have no idea how one minute we’re talking about ’90s music, and the next we’re discussing a set of t
riplets — but we are. Beckett steps away from me and turns his steak over, the meat sizzling to perfection.
I could lick it.
Him, not the steak.
“It looks good,” I say, my stomach not the only thing growling with hunger. My pussy is wet, needy. It’s been so long.
“The steak?” Beckett asks.
I shake my head. My eyes are on his butt. It looks so good. He looks so good. Like the meal I really want to eat tonight.
“I’m so hungry.” I watch as he takes the steak from the pan, letting it rest on a cutting board.
“Good,” he says, stepping toward me. “Because I’m fucking starved.” He unbuttons his shirt, tossing it on the floor, and he eyes me with the kind of greed a girl could get used to.
I reach out, run my hand over his six pack, wondering just how close we are to doing the deed. I’m hoping close. Like, very, very close.
“I never do this,” I say. His skin is hot to the touch. My body tingles. I’m so ready.
“Do what?” he asks with a smirk that sends a shiver over my skin.
“Do this,” I say, lifting the hem of my tank top, pulling it off. I have on a white lace bra, and his eyes drop to my breasts. I smile, knowing he likes how big and full they are. Knowing he likes the way my nipples pop through the sheer lace. Knowing he likes the way I unbutton my jeans, shimmy them off. Step out of them and turn, letting him take in my butt.
“Feckin’ hell, woman,” he groans, pulling my waist toward him. My ass grinds against his cock. He’s hard and I’m wet and I know tonight is going to be about more than a good meal.
It’s going to be about a second course. Maybe a third.
I spin in his arms, facing him. His arms are muscular and you know what they say about big hands? Well let’s just say there are reasons people use that cliché. As I unzip Beckett’s jeans, his big woody greets me.
“Commando?” I whimper, taking in his girth. His length. “Is that an Irish thing?” I ask.
“It’s a Beckett O’Connor thing.” He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. “Tell me, what’s your thing?
He tosses my bra aside, dips his head to my breast, his tongue teasing my nipple and stirring more than desire within me. I am horny as hell and ready for that massive cock to fill my dripping pussy.
I slide off my panties. “This is a Bridget Martin thing,” I say, guiding his hand to my cunt. “I like to be completely bare. Do you like it?”
Beckett laughs tightly. “Like it? God, Bridget, I love it.”
I smile, knowing he would, his capable hand runs over my waxed pussy and his fingers tease between my folds. We’re standing in a kitchen, a hot steak beside us, and he’s getting me off. This has got to be against a health code. Do the same rules apply in Ireland?
“Good, because another Bridget Martin thing is how I respond when I orgasm.”
His hand stills. “How’s that?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
He kisses me then, his hands in my hair, his mouth on my lips, his tongue against mine and I’m melting. Into him. Into this moment. The possibility of now.
He lifts my ass, setting me down on the counter. His cock is so, so close. My pussy is just getting started.
I spread my knees, liking his attention. “I’m not wearing green, why haven’t you pinched me?” I tease.
“I’d much rather lick you, love.”
He drops to his knees and pulls me to the edge of the counter. His tongue running up and down my creamy slit, my tight pussy his for the taking.
When he plants kisses against my thigh, when he breathes warm air against me, I have to brace myself. My hands on his shoulders. We are alone, the kitchen is dark, the night is ours.
“Ohh,” I moan. It’s been so long since anyone touched me like this. Slowly. With consideration. We may have rushed into this but now that we’re here Beckett is in control. He is showing restraint. He is making my pussy hum. Later I’ll make his cock sing.
“You like it, lassie?” he asks, eyes looking up, meeting mine and I nod. I nod while biting my lip, my core alive.
He licks me up and down, his tongue twirling around my clit until I’m gasping. Then he presses two fingers inside me, my g-spot hot and ready. He knows what’s doing. He is making me his.
“You’re so wet,” he tells me. “So wet and so fecking tight.”
I close my eyes, breathing slowly as he moves against me, his fingers stroking me, in my most tender place, making it hard for me to stay present — his touch is washing me away. Out to sea. A few more minutes of this and we’ll both be drowning in my release.
“Oh, oh, Beck, ohh!” My cunt is dripping, so wet and so close. He knows it. He adds another finger to my tight pussy, and that’s when I show him the other Bridget Martin thing.
“You’re a gusher,” he marvels, finishing the finger fuck, and I cling to him, panting, my pussy so completely his.
“Do you like it?”
He answers by lowering his mouth to my cunt, sucking my clit until I’m screaming. Until his name is on my lips, until I’m begging him for more. Harder. Faster.
When I finish, there is sweat between my tits, on his brow. He reaches for a towel, offering it to me. As he does, my stomach growls. Still hungry.
He laughs. “Guess now that I ate, it’s time for you to have your supper.”
I smile, blushing at his words. He washes his hands before grabbing a serrated knife and cutting the steak.
Standing, I clean up my mess and reach for his flannel shirt. He smiles, watching me put it on. “It smells like you,” I say.
“And what’s that?”
“Like a man. A real man.”
He holds up a fork, piercing the meat. I lean close, take a bite.
“Oh my god,” I moan. “That’s so good.”
He smiles, charming and sexy and so freaking hot. “It’s the meat, a local butcher.”
“Not just that,” I say, taking another piece. “It’s the spices.”
His eyebrows lift. “You aren’t scared of my granny’s tales?”
“Are you?”
He shakes his head. “I wanna give you a wee little one, Bridget Martin. I want to give you a baby and make you stay in Ireland a bit longer. Maybe forever.”
I close my eyes, his words not ones I was expecting to hear tonight, maybe ever. No man has ever wanted to claim me. Make me his. Beckett is singular. How could I walk away from an offer like that?
“But I thought you wanted to travel the world,” I say.
He nods. “Suppose you’d want to do that, even after the babes come?”
“You’re sounding pretty certain.”
“I trust my granny.”
“I want to travel the world, Beckett. I love my job. Love the adventure. I wouldn’t stop for a man or a child. It’s kind of a package deal. The open road and I agree.”
He grabs a piece of meat, eats it. Hands me another. “Guess we ought to test the baby spice out before we start making plans for forever.”
“If it didn’t work, would you just … would you still want—”
He cuts me off. “Bridget, I’m falling for you, baby or not. You’re not getting far from me. You like the open road? Good. Because lassie, I’ve been waiting for someone to walk into my life and take my hand, and show me the way.”
“You want me to be the boss of you?”
He laughs, kissing me. “No, Bridget. I want you to be my wife.”
Chapter Four
Say You’ll Be There
Beckett
She looks at me with shock. Maybe a hint of fear. “Wife?”
“Is there something wrong with that?” I ask, grabbing her Guiness and taking a swig.
“Well. I mean. For starters, we just met.”
“It’s Saint Patrick’s day. A day of chance. Of luck. And hell, you’re much better than any four-leaf clover.”
She is naked, in my arms, and I want to stay like this for as long as she�
�ll have me. “Beckett, I might be a crazy person. A girl who collects balls of hair or, or, cats!” she says, clearly grasping at straws.
“You don’t collect cats,” I say with a smirk. “You’re never home. How could you feed them?”
“Well, you could be an axe murderer. Or a felon.”
“I told you I was a poor country boy, not much more.” I shrug. “Though, that’s not entirely true. I’m not exactly poor. My family owns this castle. And most of the land out here in the country. My brother Gerry and I are the heirs to the Cosgrave Textile fortune.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? Then why work at a pub in Dublin?”
I pull her to me. “I may be independently wealthy, but I like to cook. I told you that.”
She drops her chin, lifts her eyes. “You weren’t being serious though, were you?”
“I don’t play games, Bridget. I believe in fate. You came here tonight, hungry as hell. And the truth is, I’ve been starving. Waiting for you.”
She covers her face, blushing with incredulity. “Are you always so sure?”
I shake my head. “No. But now?”
“Now we give into our wildest fantasies?”
My face breaks into a smile. “You saying I’m your fantasy?”
She wraps her arms around my neck. “I’m saying that you’re what I want, what I really, really want.”
“So you’ll be my lover?”
“I’ll be your everything.”
I pull her to my, needing her sweet body against mine. My cock is hard and ready. Her body is warm and willing. It’s time for two to become one.
Running my fingers over her back, the curve of her ass, I squeeze her cheeks. Groaning with anticipation. This is what I want. Us.
I know she wants it too.
She wraps her hand around my shaft, teasing my stiffy into submission. It doesn’t take much. One meal with Bridget and I’m a changed man. Her man.
“God that feels good,” I tell her as she drops to her knees. She takes me in her mouth, her lips suctioned around my cock, and she sucks me hard. She lifts her eyes and they meet mine. I run my fingers through her hair, taking it in — the two of us in this stolen moment, this undeniable magic. The start of something real.
