Stephen had said that I was the one with the mediocre skill set? Once upon a time he had been a culinary genius, but now he was nothing more than a second-rate cook who wouldn’t know the difference between a banana and the unimpressive utensil he kept in his pants.
And Stephen being Stephen, he was no doubt sleeping with—and using—that poor sous chef who had no idea about the Mack truck gunning toward her. He would cast her aside, attempt to ruin her career and her reputation like he’d tried to do to mine, and she’d be blindsided.
As much as Stephen’s interview infuriated me, it also served up a heaping plate of reality. I was still letting the man affect my life, treat me like a footnote as Logan had said. And I refused to tolerate that. Stephen wasn’t going to keep me from a career I’d earned, and I wasn’t going to let that selfish prick keep me from going after what I wanted.
And right now I wanted a simple indulgence in the form of Logan Stonestreet.
“Mom, I need to take a rain check for dinner,” I said, pushing up from my chair and dumping my cup in the trash.
“You’ll be doing no such thing. Sit down, Gwen. Your brother will be here any moment—”
“I’ll call to tell him congratulations later,” I continued, rolling over her objections.
Not everything had to be complicated, and not every guy was looking to get ahead at my expense. It was high time I took Missy’s advice and had a little no-strings-attached fun of my own for once. Do something for me, be the taker instead of the giver. Without apologies, second-guessing, or commitment.
Because a girl couldn’t live on fine dining alone—sometimes she needed the no-frills deliciousness of a greasy, ooey-gooey American patty melt served between toasted slices of Wonder Bread.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Logan
After sitting in parking-lot traffic on the highway for more than an hour, I hadn’t been home from the airport thirty minutes when there was a knock on my front door. I sighed and hauled myself up from the couch. The least Dad could do was let me change out of my travel-day suit, eat some dinner, and maybe take a nap before he barged in here with a stack of film to analyze. Never mind the fact that I might not want to see how bad I looked after taking the field in the second half with limbs that felt like jelly and response times that were slow enough a toddler could see where I was headed.
There was another knock, louder and more urgent.
“Hold your horses, Dad,” I said, making my way through the condo. I was still walking with a slight limp, but at least the stabbing in my ribs from the illegal late hit had receded to a dull ache. I undid the lock and swung open the door.
“Gwen?” I asked, surprised to see her standing in the outer hallway. She wore an oversized sweater and black jeans. “What are you—”
“I haven’t,” she said, sweeping past me into the entryway. She sounded out of breath. Her face was flushed and slightly chapped from the wind and cold. Loose strands of hair had escaped from her bun. Did she run here?
“Haven’t what?” I asked, following her into the living room.
Gwen turned toward me and threw up her hands, as though exasperated that I couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. “Forgotten about it.”
The confusion must’ve still been evident in my expression, because she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. The boldness of the action caught me so off guard I momentarily froze. She tensed, but before she could pull away, I gripped her waist and spun her around, trapping her body between the wall and mine.
“Exactly how vivid is the memory in your mind?” I asked, smiling against her mouth.
“Shut up before you ruin it,” she said, then deepened the kiss.
Her lips felt soft and warm. She tasted faintly of fruit, and her scent—a combination of orange and clove—wrapped around me. When her tongue slid against mine, I groaned and nudged a knee between her thighs, hooking one of her legs over my hip.
She peeled my suit jacket off my shoulders and tossed it on the floor, then loosened the knot in my tie and freed it from under the collar. With shaking hands, she yanked my dress shirt out of my pants and dipped her fingers beneath the fabric, trailing them along my spine and pressing my body harder against hers.
But it still wasn’t close enough.
I wanted the full force of Gwen’s attention. I wanted to feel her feistiness in nail scratches across my skin and half-moon teeth marks left in my flesh. I wanted her control, her steady restraint, utterly broken until she was moaning and writhing beneath me as I touched and licked and sucked every inch of her, bringing her closer to the edge. And when I finally sank into her, I wanted to see Gwen fevered and frenzied and grappling, succumbing to the passion I normally witnessed only in fits and spurts while in the kitchen, watching as she unraveled around me.
Ripping my mouth away from hers, I kissed her cheek, her chin, her neck, until I reached her ear, gently biting the lobe. I traced the shell with my tongue, savoring the little indiscernible sounds that fell from her lips.
She released a ragged breath. “Logan.”
A jolt of desire shot through me at the husky, hungry timbre of her voice. I lifted her over my shoulder, grinning at her sudden yelp, and carried her upstairs to my bedroom. I placed her feet on the ground. Her bun had come loose, and the long, silky strands appeared almost midnight blue in the soft glow of the moon that illuminated the space.
For a moment, we stared at each other in silence, the anticipation thrumming between us like a living, breathing thing ready to pounce and rend and devour. Her expression shifted, became tentative, as though Gwen was worried I’d changed my mind about being here.
Before she allowed her thoughts to spiral downward, I tugged her to me and recaptured her mouth in a kiss that consumed me until everything faded away into a distant hum I’d only ever experienced on the field.
Until now.
I buried one hand in the hair at the nape of her neck while the other roamed the length of her body, memorizing every curve through her clothes. Gwen stood on tiptoes again, her nails raking over the soft cotton covering my chest and lightly digging into the ridges lining my stomach. A groan escaped from deep in my throat as her thigh grazed where I was hard and ready for her.
My fingers slipped under her sweater, skimming up her ribs to the swell of her breasts, eliciting a shiver that traveled through her. Gwen’s skin was so soft and smooth, her muscles trembled as I massaged her tender flesh through the sheer lace of her bra, her nipples pebbling. She gasped against my mouth, and I broke away to drag kisses along her neck and collarbone. I could feel her pulse beating an erratic rhythm.
When my teeth nipped the sensitive spot under her jaw, Gwen moaned and dropped her hands to the waistband of my pants. She unfastened my belt but fumbled with the button and zipper, and it took all my willpower not to undo them for her. Finally she got the zipper down, gripping my ass through my boxer briefs and pulling me flush against her.
And it was as if I’d been electrocuted, every inch of my skin alive and buzzing with untamed energy. I stepped back long enough to kick off my pants and remove my shirt. Then I stripped off her sweater and unzipped her black pants, pushing them down over her hips, my gaze drinking in her nearly naked body.
I’d been waiting years to witness her like this, so wanting and willing and vulnerable. The matching bra and underwear—the color, the texture, how they left nothing to the imagination—were so unlike her, I wondered if she’d branched out of her comfort zone and chosen the set with me in mind.
“Were you expecting Blizzards powder blue?” she asked.
The way she stood there, breathing hard and unashamed, only intensified my desire. Where I’d expected a flush of nerves in her cheeks, the pink tint of embarrassment to flood her pale skin, instead I got a pointed look that said You plan to gawk at me all night, or are you going to take what we b
oth know you want?
“Get over here,” I growled, reaching for her. With a flick of my fingers, I unclasped her bra and flung it to the other side of the room. Then I walked Gwen backward until her legs hit the bed and guided her down onto the quilt. She inched toward the headboard as I crawled over her, my body molding to hers.
Cupping her breasts in my palms, I ducked my head to one nipple, tracing the taut peak with my tongue before drawing it into my mouth, then doing the same with the other side, blowing cold air over both. Whimpering, Gwen arched into my touch. I smiled, amused at how completely I’d wound her up. But then she wove her fingers into my hair, tugging my lips back to hers in a frenzied kiss. Our tongues stroked and teased as her hands staked their claim to me, exploring every inch of my exposed skin and moving lower, gripping and squeezing my erection through the thin fabric of my boxers until I nearly came.
Fuck, I loved her like this—passionate, uninhibited, as desperate for me as I was for her. A rush of lust surged through me.
I kissed my way down her stomach to the hem of her underwear. Gwen propped herself on her elbows, breath hitching, watching as I dragged the lace down her legs and cast it aside. Then I dipped my head, running my tongue along her inner thigh and inhaling her scent, before I opened my mouth over where she was swollen and aching for me, sucking and licking.
When I pushed two fingers inside, Gwen gave a little cry and collapsed back onto the bed, her hands searching for anything to anchor herself to, never quite grasping the headboard or pillows. I increased the pace, her body shaking under my thorough attention, her skin glistening with sweat. She was teetering at the edge, but I refused to stop until she tumbled over. With a twist of my wrist, Gwen’s hips jerked off the mattress, then a startled shout spilled from her lips, raw and real and ridiculously sexy, as I felt her contract around my fingers and tasted her warmth on my tongue.
As if the sensation was too much, she grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me up so I hovered over her again, bracing a forearm on either side of her face. She looked at me with hooded, glazed eyes, her chest rising and falling in sharp pants, her stomach muscles tense beneath me.
“Please, Logan.” Her words, part plea, part demand, made me dizzy with how much I wanted her.
I shoved off my boxers. Blindly, I reached into my nightstand and removed a foil packet. Tearing it open, I rolled the condom down my length and settled between Gwen’s thighs again.
“Stop teasing.” She shifted her hips so I slid over her slick entrance, and I let out a loud grunt.
“Gwen, I don’t mess around.” My throat felt scratchy, my voice gritty. “Not when it comes to you.”
I sank inside her, both of us groaning as we found our perfect tempo. With every thrust I watched her face, fascinated by the play of emotions—shock morphed into pleasure and bled into hunger.
Her brown eyes flashed when I sped up, pushing harder and deeper into her, lost in how tight she felt around me. She arched her hips into me, matching my rhythm. Wrapping her legs around my waist, she dug her heels into my ass and scraped her nails across my shoulder blades, teeth nipping my earlobe.
I hissed but never slowed or let up on the intensity. A flush spread across her chest, her whole body vibrating—she was close again. Pulling her knee up to her shoulder, I pressed into her and thrust even faster, relishing the sounds of my hips slapping her thighs. She threw her head back, unintelligible noises filling the room.
“Fuck, Gwen,” I said through gritted teeth, staving off my release until she reached her own climax. “Let go for me.”
That’s all it took.
She screamed, her body bucking off the bed as her orgasm ripped through her, her muscles clenching around me. And it was like an explosion—everything blurring around me. My orgasm barreled up my spine and I came in a blinding rush of light. With a loud shout, I collapsed on top of her, panting, my body boneless and pliable and drenched in sweat.
We lay there for several moments, me crushing her under my weight, both of us trying to catch our breath. Once my heart rate returned to normal, I moved onto my side, the length of my body touching hers, not yet ready to break our connection. Spread out on the mattress next to me, Gwen draped one arm across her stomach and shielded her eyes with the other, as if she were trying to hide.
I was about to ask if she was freaking out over what’d just happened, but after a moment, she dropped her arm and turned onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. “At the risk of stroking your ego,” Gwen said through a wry grin, “I’m going to want to do this again.”
“God, yes. Only question is if the order goes food first or another round.” I traced a finger over the curve of her hip, then down below her belly button and along the line where her thighs were pressed together. “I think we’ve got at least one more in us, maybe two. Then I’ll fix breakfast and we can see if you’ve got the stamina for round three.”
“Breakfast?” she asked. Where I’d expected laughter, or teasing, or a joke about food poisoning, I instead found a clouded, closed-off expression. “That’s ambitious.” Gwen rolled away and swung her legs over the bed.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I said, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her back. “You’re gonna miss the best part.”
“Pretty sure we covered that a few minutes ago.” Her voice was still raspy but serious, almost sarcastic.
“I meant the afterglow,” I said, running my palm along her spine. “You know, the warm, fuzzy tingle. The liquid muscles. The sheer belief that you might actually melt into the mattress.”
Gwen rose and collected her underwear off the floor. “Careful, Wonder Bread, it almost sounds like you want to cuddle.”
“I prefer to look at it as the strategy for keeping you warm and naked,” I said.
She didn’t stop getting dressed. If anything, her movements became hurried. Outside, clouds blotted the moon, casting her features in shadow.
I sat up. “What’s your rush, Gwen?”
“It’s late, and I need to get going.”
“Why?” I asked. “Stay the night.”
Spinning to face me, she tugged on her sweater and said, “Let’s not confuse things, okay? Tonight was hot, and I definitely want to do it again.”
“But?” I asked, raking frustrated fingers through my hair as the realization that I was being left thoroughly fucked and wanting more hitting me for the first time. I’d be amused—I’d never been on the receiving end of this particular play—if I wasn’t so annoyed.
“But I don’t want to make this complicated,” she said. “We’ve both got enough going on without adding the drama of a relationship.”
“So . . . what, then?” I asked, my irritation growing with each passing second.
Gwen shot me a look that indicated I was being especially dense. “So, we have fun.” She leaned over the bed and popped a kiss against my mouth.
“Fun?” I asked.
She nodded. “Casual and discreet, okay? Remember, neither of us can afford to make this anything more right now.”
Then Gwen winked and showed herself out of my room, leaving me lying there baffled and wondering if we were playing the same game.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Gwen
“Nelson, remember that you don’t plate the cocktail sauce with the oysters Rockefeller, and orders for the filet mignon should come before the Dover sole almondine, so both go out at the proper temperature,” I said from my expediting station at the front of the kitchen. I kept my tone authoritative but polite. The rhythm and structure of a well-operating kitchen demanded every member of the staff, from the dishwasher to the busboy to the line chefs, be on the same page, but I firmly believed the executive chef didn’t need to resort to screaming or tantrums the way Stephen had done anytime something hadn’t been perfect.
“Yes, Chef,” said Nelson, the lead sauté
chef, swapping out the cocktail sauce for lemon wedges and sprinkling red pepper flakes over the broiled oysters swimming in a butter, garlic, and parsley sauce. He slid the dish into the pickup window, his thumb dangerously close to touching a shell, and it took all my self-control not to swat his hand away.
Food in various stages of preparation cluttered the stainless steel counter in organized chaos. Ever since the review of Stonestreet’s two weeks ago, the restaurant had been slammed. Reservations were now required a month in advance, and open seating at the bar consistently had a crowd of guests clamoring for a spot. Some people had even resorted to sitting on the patio under heat lamps, never mind that it was late October and the city had its first snow yesterday.
“Two smoked sweetbread and ricotta casoncelli,” I read out to my sous chef, Amy, scribbling cook time instructions on the ticket and wedging the slip of paper in the metal rail. The stuffed pasta with cippolini onion and fried sage had been the most popular item on tonight’s specials board. That and the charred octopus appetizer.
The nightly specials board had launched to rave reviews from diners and the media. Until culinary autonomy had been ripped away from me, I’d never realized how much I needed it, how the independence fed my soul in a way that only creativity could. And now I wanted more of it, so much more.
“And a Colorado wagyu chuck eye, medium rare,” I read out, another entrée that’d been a huge hit tonight. “Make sure the bone marrow is—”
“Hey, Gwen, there’s a guy at the hostess stand who wants to speak with you.” The Stonestreet’s GM poked his head in through the swinging door, dragging loud, jovial noises from the dining room in with him like a magnet.
“What about?” I asked, worried a customer had discovered a fingernail in their soup.
He shrugged. “No idea.”
“Who is it?” I asked, irritation edging my voice. I tucked the pen behind my ear and stared at him expectantly. With my luck it was another gossip reporter salivating to catch a glimpse of the callous head chef who’d been suspected of trading sexual favors with the sports star owner to get ahead.
Intercepting the Chef Page 14
