by Zuri Day
He felt her body grip him, heard the familiar sounds that began at the base of her throat, felt her grinding faster against him.
“Ah! Oh my God!” Sam screamed with pleasure.
Nick quickened the pace, joined her in cascading over the edge. Spent, satiated, they crawled into bed.
Sam kissed him lightly, snuggling her backside against him. “You,” she whispered, and fell asleep.
The deep sleep lasted just a few hours. Awakened by the hazy Bahamian sun, Nick stretched amid a yawn. He rolled over slowly so as not to awaken the sleeping beauty. Perched on an elbow, he took in her serene expression. It shouldn’t make someone this happy watching somebody else sleep. A few minutes is all he lasted until he kissed her. Softly, just at the edge of her eye.
Her lids fluttered before her eyes opened fully. The look in her deep brown orbs was mesmerizing as her lips slowly morphed into a smile.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
“Good morning. I can’t believe you’re awake already.”
He nodded toward the open balcony door. “The sun.”
Sam perched on her elbow and looked over her shoulder. “This view is to die for, truly paradise.”
She threw her arm over Nick’s body, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I think I kinda love you.”
Nick kissed the top of her head. “Really?”
Sam fixed him with a look. “And?”
“You aiiight.”
She reached behind her for a pillow to smack him. “Just all right?”
“Okay. Better than all right.”
Sam turned her body to face him directly, adopting her sexiest tone. “How much better?”
Nick licked his lips. “Damn. A lot more. So much so that...wait a minute. I can show you better than I can tell you.”
He bounded out of bed.
“Nick, where are you going?”
“Be right back!” There was the sound of rumbling before Nick spoke again. “Okay, now close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Must you always engage that beautiful brain? Just do it, woman!”
“Okay.”
Nick peeked around the corner before walking back over to the bed. “Okay, hold out your hands.”
“Why? Okay, never mind.” Sam lifted her hands. The sheet floated away from her body. Her nipples pebbled against the early-morning breeze. Nick almost forgot what he was about to do. Change both of their lives. After which, there would be plenty of time for lovemaking.
Still, he kissed the exposed nipples before covering her up.
“You’re making it hard to keep my eyes closed.”
“Yeah, you’re making me hard, too. You’ve made me a lot of things. An executive with rental properties sold out worldwide. A father to the most adorable boy on the planet. A man who’s ready to stop playing around and make a real commitment.”
Sam’s eyes flew open.
“What did I tell you?”
“I can’t keep them closed when you’re talking like this! What are you saying?”
Nick reached for her hand, began stroking her finger. “I’m saying that I love you, and that I’m in love with you.”
He brought the hand from behind his back and slipped a ring on her finger.
Sam was shocked speechless, her eyes tearing up as she gazed into his.
“I’m saying, Samantha Price, that I can’t imagine spending my life without you and Trey, and maybe a few brothers and sisters for him to play with.”
“Nick...”
“I’m asking if you’ll do me the honor of becoming my wife. And that the only acceptable answer is yes.”
Sam’s eyes sparkled. She remembered. It’s the same thing he’d said when she got offered the job.
“Are you sure that’s the only acceptable answer?”
“Unless or until I hear it, we’re not leaving this island.”
“Well, in that case...yes, Nick Breedlove. I’d love nothing better than to become your wife.”
“Good answer.”
Without another word he reached over, slid the sheet away from her body and began covering it with soft, wet kisses. There were no more secrets, big or little. Tonight, there was only love...
* * *
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The Rebel Heir
by Niobia Bryant
One
April
Jillian Rossi pushed her tortoiseshell spectacles up on her nose as she looked over the rim of her cup of coffee at the spacious chef’s kitchen of the townhouse in the prominent, historic Lenox Hill section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She eyed the dark wood custom cabinets against the light walls, chrome appliances and bronzed fixtures. She loved the space. Knew it well from working as the private chef to its owners for the last year.
Not that she wasn’t used to working for the wealthy and famous.
After many years of learning about cooking at the elbow of Ionie, her beloved grandmother, Jillian had gone on to culinary school with a dream of one day opening her own restaurant. Social media success garnered for posting home-cooked savory meals and delicious desserts led to her traveling the world as a personal chef for well-known athletes and celebrities—waylaying her restaurant dreams. Yacht parties. Elaborate dinners. Whirlwind events during award season. Private jets. Mansions. Penthouse apartments. Private islands. Celebrities.
“Lifestyle of the rich and famous,” Jillian sighed.
Several years later she’d left being a part of the more glamorous side of life to finally open her restaurant, assuming her days serving as a private chef were over. Unfortunately, the venture had bombed, leaving her in massive debt just a year after its opening. The sting of disappointment and embarrassment from her failure was all too familiar, and the past year had not lessened it any—nor had the return to work as a private chef.
She loved cooking. And, considering the Cress family were world-renowned chefs, they seemed to enjoy the meals she prepared without question. Jillian took that as a feather in her cap. She just considered the position a step backward in her career path.
Been there. Done that. Now I’m doing it again.
Jillian crossed the kitchen to enter the large pantry to the right. Here there were custom cabinets filled with perfectly organized essentials. The counters were marble-topped and beneath one section there was an under-the-counter commercial-size freezer. There was also a large rinse sink to handle food prep if necessary.
As she moved to the office area set up for her, she checked the laser printer to ensure the cream heavy-bond paper with its gold, raised monogram was loaded. Using the touch screen computer, Jillian printed off copies of the breakfast menu. One for each family member’s platinum-rimmed place setting.
She was used to the grand nature of it all.
Being in such luxurious surroundings by such an accomplished Cress family only furthered her desire to succeed. The former chefs now operated a multimillion-dollar culinary empire. They also owned this five-story, ten-thousand-square-foot townhouse, which was large enough to accommodate the entire brood. The parents, Phillip Senior and Nicolette. The five sons: Phillip Junior and his wife, Raquel, and their four-year-old daughter Collette, Sean, Gabriel, Lucas and—
“Morning, Jillian.”
Cole.
At the deep sound of the voice of Coleman Cress, she paused for one telling second before reaching to remove the printed menus. The pace of her
heart sped up as she looked over her shoulder to see him standing in the open doorway. Filling it with ease.
Like his four brothers, Cole was a handsome man with a tall, lean, toned warrior-like physique. He had almond-shaped eyes of a grayish-blue against his medium-brown complexion. His good looks were best described as chiseled—from his high cheekbones and broad nose to his square jawline. But there was a complementary softness to his full mouth and the long lashes framing those eyes. He kept his dark brown curly hair cut low, the shadow of a beard and mustache intensifying his magnetism. His clothing preference—normally dark T-shirts, denims and leather motorcycle jackets—gave him just the right amount of edge to draw long glances.
Often, Jillian found his looks similar to that of the actor Michael Ealy.
Just pure goodness.
Her pulse raced. “Good morning, Mr. Cress,” she said as he stepped inside the pantry and closed the door behind him. She extended her arm to hand him a menu. “Omelets for breakfast. Here’s the list of the choices of ingredients.”
Cole locked eyes with her and smiled, as smooth as syrup spreading across warm pancakes. A knowing smile. A charming one with just a hint of the wile of a wolf. “Mr. Cress?” he mocked as he strolled across the pantry to stand before her, ignoring the paper. “Why so formal? Last night it was Cole.”
Cole, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.
She forced herself to break their gaze, shivering in her awareness of him, and flushed with heat at the memory. Over the last year they had shared many. Hotly. Secretly.
Cole eased his large hands beneath her monogrammed chef’s coat and settled them on her hips. She felt the heat of his touch through the black leggings she wore. “Tell me you don’t want to kiss me,” he whispered against her mouth as he lowered his head.
She closed her eyes and waited to feel his mouth with sweet anticipation.
His kisses are the absolute best.
“We can’t,” she whispered, stepping back before that glorious mouth of his could land.
Cole paused before taking a step that would close the gap she’d put between them. “I hate that you’re right,” he admitted, letting his eyes linger with apparent regret on her mouth before turning and exiting the pantry, leaving the door ajar.
Jillian released a little breath and bit her bottom lip as she watched him walk away in his bow-legged swagger. She waited for her pulse to cease racing. Cole had that effect on her. With him near her or just in her line of vision, she lost control.
He had been hard to deny since the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Last January. When she’d been hired. For the next two months, they’d shared long looks that had hinted at their mutual interest. By March, they’d been in a deep, no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached fling. A year later, as a woman in touch with her sexuality and not looking for anything serious after two failed marriages in her youth, she was still enjoying her hot, passionate, secret affair with the rebel Cress son.
Still, anything serious with him was not a part of her plan.
Clearing her throat, Jillian collected the printed menus and carried the stack out of the pantry. She walked to the dining room at the rear of the house with its elaborate glass wall as Nicolette Lavoie-Cress stepped off the elevator in the corner to her right beside the staircase. “Good morning, Mrs. Cress,” she said, giving a polite nod to the middle-aged, olive-skinned French beauty with silver-streaked blond hair and bluish eyes like Cole’s. “I was just putting out the breakfast menus.”
Nicolette nodded. “Very good,” she said with her heavy French accent. “For dinner, I am expecting the entire family...except Gabe.”
Jillian was well aware that Gabriel Cress had moved out of the family home after a massive fall out with Phillip Senior. He had not been back to the townhouse, not even for the fall and winter holidays. Cole had also revealed that Gabe was still with Monica, the Cress family’s former housekeeper for the past five years.
But she made sure her face revealed none of that awareness or that the woman’s regret was clear.
“The temperature is finally starting to warm up, so let’s do some kind of pasta,” Nicolette said.
Phillip Senior, a tall, solid, dark-skinned man with broad features and a bright smile, stepped into the kitchen. He was from England and had met Nicolette when they both attended culinary school in Paris. He shared an intimate look with his wife before he gave Jillian a formal nod of greeting and continued into the dining room. He claimed his seat at the head of the long table for ten, topped with charcoal leather and surrounded by steel-blue-suede armless chairs.
“How about seafood linguine with squid, mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops and lobster?” Jillian offered, wanting to reclaim the woman’s attention.
Jillian found her to be sophisticated and composed unless communicating with her husband. Her love for Phillip Cress Senior was of no question, nor his for her. Neither tried to hide their affection for one another.
“Merveilleux,” Nicolette said, moving across the kitchen to the dining room, as well.
Jillian, pleased that she thought it wonderful, followed behind and quickly moved around the table to set a menu on each place setting. Cole, swiping through his phone, did not look up when she put one before him. She held no curiosity about what had his attention. She neither wanted nor claimed ownership to a wild, rebellious man like Coleman Cress.
That would be ludicrous.
Jillian no longer trusted her love goggles. In truth, she’d shattered them under her foot, determined not to have yet another failed relationship thanks to childhood fantasies of a romance like that of her parents, who’d been together since high school. For now, Cole Cress and his eight-pack abs were all about fun distraction and nothing more.
And what could be more fun than lovemaking made all the more daring with whipped cream, taking long motorcycle rides through Manhattan, or bathing together in hot, scented water filled with flower petals.
As the rest of the family entered the dining room, Jillian cleared her thoughts and headed to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Chef Jillian!”
She smiled down at the happy face of Collette with her dimpled cheeks, bright yellow spectacles and big toothy smile. Phillip Junior and Raquel’s four-year-old daughter was completely adorable.
“No-no,” Nicolette gently reprimanded her granddaughter from her seat at the end of the table opposite her husband.
“Oops,” Collette said, giggling as she briefly pressed her hands to her mouth. “Bonjour, Chef Jillian.”
Nicolette, Jillian knew, was teaching French to the little one.
“Bonjour, Collette,” she returned warmly before continuing into the kitchen to retrieve a crystal carafe of her fresh-squeezed citrus juice and a warming carafe of Ghanaian coffee.
She eyed Felice, the live-in housekeeper who’d replaced Monica, in the den attached to the kitchen’s east side in the spacious open floor plan. Like Jillian, the older woman focused on her daily duties. She wasn’t as pleasant as Monica, but she got her work done, which was all that mattered.
“I see that you insist on dressing like a derelict, Coleman,” Phillip Senior said in his British accent.
Jillian paused because the annoyance in the patriarch’s voice was unmistakable. All of the other sons wore suits and held a more professional demeanor. Cole’s insistence on not doing so was a constant thorn in his father’s side.
Cole shifted his eyes up from his phone to glare down the table at his father. “If you mean comfortable and of my choosing as a grown man, then yes,” he said, his tone cold.
It was like watching day transform into night in an instant. Cole was charming and friendly, a charismatic gentleman—except in his interactions with his father. He seemed to enjoy antagonizing him.
“Life is all about the choices we make,” Cole continued.
Phillip Seni
or’s eyes narrowed to slits and the movement of his cheeks evidenced his clenched teeth.
Nicolette looked over and saw Jillian standing there.
“Phillip, I’m sure this can wait,” Nicolette said.
Translation: not in front of the staff.
At the woman’s movement of her fingers to enter, Jillian walked into the room as Cole broke his hard stare with Phillip Senior to return his attention to his phone. The wealthy playboy was always quick with a joke or sardonic comment and seemed to relish being the rebel in his family. She doubted he took anything seriously.
And thus why, for her, their connection was all about really great, super-spontaneous, hot sex. Cole was beautiful with his muscled body and sexy as all get-out. And he knew how to please her—in fact, he seemed to thrive on it.
Damn.
Jillian fought the urge to shiver in desire. That was the Cole effect. Just the very thought of his lovemaking was enough to awaken her privates. “Okay...” she began with a lick of her lips. “We have a nice selection of ingredients for omelets along with Lyonnaise potatoes. Also, there are fresh seasonal fruit cups in a light honey and your choice of toast.”
“Just egg white with spinach and a little mozzarella for me,” Lucas said before reaching for the citrus juice to pour himself a small glass.
That wasn’t surprising. The youngest Cress brother had shed fifty pounds and seemed dedicated to keeping the weight off—and his string of pliable women on.
As she took everyone’s choice, Jillian’s eyes kept going to Cole. She could tell from the stiffness of his shoulders that he was annoyed. He’d always spoken highly of her pan-fried potatoes sautéed with caramelized onions and butter. She served them for breakfast or dinner, along with a steak.
He won’t be ready to eat, though.
“Cole, what type of omelet would you like?” she asked.
He looked up at her. His shoulders softened and he smiled. A new switch from night to day. “I’ll pass on breakfast. Just coffee is fine,” he said with a seemingly polite smile.
