by Lili Valente
“A long time ago,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was eighteen.”
Under the table, I wrap my feet around his leg and give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine, making my chest feel even tighter. “Thanks. She was an amazing chef. It was her scone recipe that helped me snag that 8.”
“Oh, West,” I sigh, surprised to feel the back of my nose start to sting. “That’s great. She would be so proud of you.”
“I hope so. In any event, it was nice to have her with me today. That’s why Abby and I quit our boring day jobs to open the shop. For Mum. It’s been our secret plan since we were kids.”
I press my free hand to my heart and whisper, “Stop it.”
He arches a brow. “Stop what?”
“Stop being so…perfect.”
He grins one of his wicked grins. “I’m far from perfect. I have many unlikeable qualities. I can be very bossy.”
“Yes, I really hate that about you,” I say dryly, pulling my hand from his and crossing my arms.
His low, sexy laugh makes it clear he knows I love his bossiness, especially in the bedroom. “And I’m impatient and judgmental, especially with people who don’t share my values.”
“Values are important.” I find myself confessing, “As someone who’s been cheated on by every serious boyfriend I’ve ever had, I get that. I need someone who shares my values.”
West scowls, a dark look that actually makes me sit back in my chair. “What absolute pieces of shit. They all deserve to be castrated. Slowly and painfully.”
I smile. “I think the painful part can probably be taken for granted with that. But thanks.”
I take a breath, prepared to change the subject, when he says, “My last serious girlfriend saw me as more of a blank check than a boyfriend. Turned me off relationships, to be honest.”
I need to make a mental note in Sharpie that West isn’t looking for anything lasting. My squishy heart often wants more than a man can give. Must not forget he’s happily single.
“That’s understandable, wanting to steer clear of anything complicated.” I don’t want him to think I’m a clinger. I want him to know I understand the score. I respect his stance.
He motions toward himself. “Plus, not to brag, but I have several other excellent qualities on offer aside from my bottom line.”
I nod. “You really do.”
He frowns. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“No, you absolutely do. You’re great.” I pick at my napkin as I add, “I’m glad we’re friends.”
Friends.
We. Are. Just. Friends.
And that might be all we’ll ever be. He’s not interested in a relationship. He made that clear the night we met, and he just underlined it in red ink. And I can’t blame him for feeling that way, not when I said the same thing myself.
But I’m starting to realize that if I spend much more time with West, I’m going to fall in love with him. Deeply, wildly, madly in love. He checks so many of my boxes. Add in the fact that he’s so kind and willing to be vulnerable and calls me “adorable” in a way that makes me believe he really means it, and I’m on a collision course with heartache.
Not to mention having my focus shot to hell right when I need it most. If I don’t blow past him at the challenge in four days, I won’t have a chance of winning Mrs. Sweets.
But when he says, “So, friend, would you want to come to mine for a nightcap? I promise I’ll send you home in plenty of time to get your beauty sleep,” I find myself nodding and sliding out of the booth.
Just one drink.
How much trouble can I get into during one teensy tiny little drink?
12
Gigi
The answer is two fingers.
As in two fingers worth of whiskey in this Sazerac.
This heavenly, disgustingly good cocktail, both sweet and bitter, that’s taking the express lane to my head.
I tap the glass. “This is officially unfair.” I kick a petulant foot back and forth as I sink into the plush gray couch in West’s—I can’t believe I’m saying this—library.
The man has a freaking library.
With floor-to-ceiling shelves. And old books. And new books. And a ladder.
I just can’t.
I might come just from staring at the books.
But I’d rather stare at the man who can mix drinks as well as he bakes.
“What’s not fair, love?” West knocks back some of his drink then sets it down on the table next to my purse, cupping my knee with his warm hand, sending a rush of tingles through me.
Tingles that settle between my breasts, making my nipples hard.
So does the idea of banging on that ladder.
“First, the library. Second”—I gesture his way—“your face. Third, the drink, which is divine. All of it, unfair.”
I take another tiny sip, and he laughs, making me pout. “Are you laughing at the way I drink?”
“Are you laughing at my face? My unfair face?” He squeezes my knee harder.
Another flurry of shivers runs down my spine.
My gaze drifts down to his hand on my leg, then my thoughts traipse back to the diner, to the warning I gave myself.
I’m not going to blow him under the table.
And you know what? I didn’t.
I’m going to blow him in his library instead.
When I made that promise I had no idea the trifecta of whiskey-library-face seduction I’d be up against! No one in their right mind could fault me for breaking under this kind of pressure.
I finish my drink in a gulp, savoring the last drops of the lemon, the syrup, the bitters, letting them swirl on my tongue as I imagine other last drops.
A glint of curiosity crosses West’s dark eyes. “What’s on your mind?”
“Why would you think I have something on my mind?”
“Your eyes are ripping my clothes off.” He practically rumbles the words—a dirty, English rumble.
I set down the glass, feeling bold, feeling beautiful. Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe it’s West.
Maybe it’s me.
Whatever the reason, I want.
I want him. But I can’t lose myself in this man, so I choose my weapons wisely.
My mouth. That’s it. And I chart the course.
I slide a hand up his pants on a fast track for the thickening bulge that has all my attention. “I have a confession,” I whisper as I cover the hard ridge of his cock with my palm.
My breath catches; his hitches.
“By all means, confess. And I mean that in the bossiest of ways.” His husky voice makes a pulse beat faster between my legs.
I squeeze his cock harder, then I slide down to the floor. “I didn’t say yes to the drink because I was thirsty.” I work open the buttons, slide down the zipper.
“Let me guess, beautiful.” He slides a big hand through my hair, curling it around my head possessively, oh so possessively. “You came here because you were hungry? Hungry for my cock?”
A full-body shudder seizes me from head to toe, electrifies my cells. “Dirty talker.”
“Filthy,” he promises.
Damn. Yes, I could fall for this man.
But like this, on my knees, I’m in control of the moment.
And oddly enough, of my heart.
This is all I’ll allow.
The chance to please him.
I won’t be giving in to my soft heart if I take his hard cock to the back of my throat. I’ll just be giving in to my basest desires.
Those have a hold of me right now, and I don’t want them to let go.
He pushes his pants down his hips, to his thighs, gripping the base.
I lick my lips, then make a split-second decision. Reaching for my purse, I dip a hand into it and fish out a kinky baker girl’s best friend–a long, pink polka dot cloth headband that I use to hold my hair back by day.
I dangle it in front of me. “I said I liked scarves.”
“But hair ties will do just fine,” he finishes, then makes a circling gesture with his finger.
I rise, turn around, and let the man bind my wrists behind my back.
Then I return to the floor, kneel before him, and give him my only order. “Like you said, I’m hungry. Please feed me your cock.”
13
West
Gladly.
And with so much pleasure.
Gripping the base, I offer my cock to the woman in the red dress.
The one on her knees.
Between my legs.
Asking for my dick to slide between her lips.
This is clearly a dream. The most authentic, lifelike, intensely real dream I’ve ever had. I watch Gigi part those red lips and practically beg for me to fill her mouth.
I push in the crown, and she wraps her lips around my dick like she’s just tasted the most succulent dessert. Groaning, I curl a hand through her hair. “That’s right, beautiful,” I murmur as she draws me in deeper, swirling her tongue over the head, sending bolts of pleasure straight to my balls.
She hums around my shaft as she takes me in farther, bringing me deeper into the warm paradise of her mouth.
A shudder wracks me as Gigi opens wider, flicking her tongue as I slide home, and then, she takes me to the back of her throat on a sexy, needy pant.
Her eyes float closed, and she looks enraptured.
I am on fire.
Flames lick my skin.
Sparks cover my body.
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this kind of treatment, but I need to find out and do it again and again. “Yes, nice and deep, beautiful. That’s so fucking perfect,” I rasp, clutching her head, sliding my other hand through her hair, too.
I guide her through the blow job, the way she asked me to do when she told me to tie her up. It’s a filthy sight. This goddess trussed up, mouth wide open, lavishing fantastic attention on my cock.
As I control her.
As I grip her head.
As I set the pace.
Like she wants me to.
My sweet, submissive—but always on her terms—dirty, little lover.
My thighs burn with pleasure as Gigi licks and sucks, doing all the work. As she swirls her tongue, I punch up my hips, wanting to fill her mouth, to thrust deep.
But a gentleman should make sure such advances are welcome.
“Can I fuck your mouth, love?”
Her answer comes in sparks in her blue eyes, and a speedy nod.
With her permission, I nudge my cock deeper, grip her tighter, and thrust.
I fuck her gorgeous lips, watching her cheeks hollow out, as Gigi takes and takes and I give and give, until my balls tighten, and pleasure charges down my spine, barreling through my body.
“Yes. Fucking yes. Coming. Coming now.” I squeeze my eyes shut as my orgasm pummels me with excruciatingly blissful force.
It annihilates my senses, frying brain cells.
When I open my eyes and stop shaking, I smile woozily at the scene in front of me.
Gigi, with wild intent in her gaze.
Her lips parted.
Her thighs squeezing.
“I need to make you come, love,” I tell her. Since she likes my bossy side, I give her an order. “Stay on your knees.”
“Yes, sir,” she says in a salacious tone.
I tug up my briefs and trousers and move behind her, freeing her wrists.
“Hands and arms in front of you, on the couch,” I say, and she stretches forward, reaching her arms to the edge of the cushion.
Like a good girl, she lifts her lovely arse up, granting me full access.
I move behind her, one knee on the floor, one knee bent, and I yank her knickers to the side to sweep my fingers across her hot, wet pussy.
Fuck, she feels fantastic.
Slippery and warm and so ready.
“Oh, God,” she groans, offering me more, lifting her arse even higher.
Like that, I fuck her with my fingers, thrusting one, then two into her sweetness, playing with her, filling her.
With a moan, her head falls forward, her hips arching and swaying.
But I know she wants more than fingers.
She wants hands on flesh.
I raise my left palm and bring it down hard on her cheek.
She gasps.
I rub another finger against her clit.
Then lift my hand once more, swatting her again.
Another feral moan.
I crook my fingers, hitting that spot that makes her shake. That makes her legs tremble. That makes her cry out.
One more sharp smack, one deep thrust, then she’s falling apart, coming undone, calling my name.
She pants and writhes then sinks down to the floor.
I press a gentle kiss to her bottom. Then one more, savoring the soft skin. I rub gently where I hit her, soothing any ache.
She turns her face to the side, looking lust-drunk and so damn happy. “That was yummy.”
“Maybe now you’ll spend the night in my unfair library. Or, better yet, in my unfair bed, and I can feed you something unfairly fantastic for breakfast?”
I wait, hoping so damn hard. Wanting her yes more than I could have imagined.
Her face softens even more, the expression so lovely and inviting.
Perhaps I’ve convinced her.
I don’t breathe for a few seconds.
But she’s a lion underneath. She shakes her head, shudders out a no. “I want to, but I have to go. The longer I stay, the more I’ll never want to leave.”
She gathers her things, and she…goes.
Dammit.
14
From the texts of Gigi James and West Byron
* * *
West: Have you made it home safely, love? I expect a text when you’re all tucked in for the night.
* * *
Gigi: Bossy, bossy. *winking emoji* All tucked in, sir.
* * *
West: Fuck.
* * *
Gigi: No, we don’t do that. We’re just friends, remember?
* * *
West: Friends who fuck? Please say we’re friends who fuck. As lovely as everything else tonight was—and it was absolutely fucking lovely—I’m still lying here hard as a day-old scone, dying to be inside you.
* * *
Gigi: Considering scones are pretty hard to start with, that sounds serious.
* * *
West: My scones are never hard. They’re firm and flaky, yet delightfully dense. Come over, and I’ll feed you one. You’ll see.
* * *
Gigi: No offense, but I’m not into scones, either. You’d have to tie me up and hold my nose.
* * *
West: That can be arranged…
* * *
Gigi: Nope. That’s enough of that. Tonight was fun, but we have to focus. The next event is in four days. Four days, West! And I want to beat you fair and square, not because I kept you up for seventy-two hours straight riding you like a cowgirl at her last rodeo.
* * *
West: You. Cowgirl hat. Nothing else. I’m ordering one first thing in the morning.
* * *
Gigi: LOL. Go to sleep! That’s what I’m going to do. My focus is where it’s supposed to be—on the contest, not your cock.
* * *
West: Or your pussy.
* * *
Gigi: Or your hands on my ass.
* * *
West: Or the way your throat works when you swallow.
* * *
Gigi: God. I loved swallowing you. That whole thing was…so hot.
* * *
West: What was that? Sorry. I’d love to discuss that with you further, but a wise woman told me I should focus on handing her her ass in the kitchen, not smacking her ass in the library.
; * * *
Gigi: Speaking of libraries.
* * *
West: Oh, did that get a rise out of you?
* * *
Gigi: Well, I do like books. And you have so many. And so many big books.
* * *
West: I’m glad you were admiring my big books, along with my tall shelves.
* * *
Gigi: Seriously, though! A girl could get lost in that library. I could spend hours curled up on that couch, escaping into a story. I’d devour one, then the next one, then another.
* * *
West: So, you’re like Belle.
* * *
Gigi: Be still my beating heart. You know your princesses.
* * *
West: I would write LOL if I were an LOL-er. But yes, I do know the basic pop culture references, thank you. Also, I have a younger sister who loves them. But it raises the question—am I the beast?
* * *
Gigi: The beast is my favorite hero. Want to know why?
* * *
West: The library.
