Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
But soon, we’d be alone. The kitchen staff always cleared out as soon as possible on Thursdays so I could bake the cakes.
I checked that everything was ready in the kitchen and headed into the diner, stopping when I realized that Ronan was wiping down the last few tables. The muscles in his arms bunched as he polished the tabletop, and his jeans stretched tight over his ass as he leaned over, making short work of the job. He stood and nodded, pleased with his efforts.
I flicked off the lights, and he followed me to the kitchen. I pointed out a chair in the corner.
“You can sit there and talk to me while I bake.”
He frowned. “I can help. I used to help Emmy all the time in the kitchen. She baked scones for a coffee shop when she was younger, and she always loved to bake at home. She let me help.”
“Emmy?”
“My aunt. She was a waitress. She put herself through school. Like you.” He stepped closer. “Let me help.”
I handed him an apron, unable to resist his earnest voice and pleading eyes.
I had a feeling he was going to prove to be that way a lot.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I slid the first of the cake pans into the oven and shut the door.
“You do this every week?”
“Yes. Eight cakes now. When we opened, it was three. And now on Saturdays, I often have extra orders. But it’s great. I make a little more money. I bake them and take them out to cool. I make the icing while they are baking, and in the morning, they’ll ice them and store them.”
“No one else can do it?”
I waggled my eyebrows. “If I gave them the recipes, maybe. But I refused—the recipes were my mom’s and her mom’s. This pads my income a little. My classes are later on Friday mornings, so I can work late Thursday baking, get Evan ready for school Friday morning, and relax a little before class. The extra ones I make I do between rushes on Friday night and Saturday.” She smiled. “The owners are very accommodating.”
“Because it’s damn good cake.”
Ronan rinsed the last of the bowls as I wiped down the counter. I had already whipped up the massive tub of icing, and I pulled off the beaters, offering him one. He took it, licking away the frosting. “Damn, I love cream cheese,” he muttered.
I tried not to stare. To fight down the wish that I was the beater he was using his tongue on. I failed at both, and he caught me looking, a teasing smirk pulling at his lips.
“See something you like?”
I swallowed, gasping in surprise as he moved fast, lifting me to the counter and standing between my legs. “Well?” he asked, plucking the other beater from my hand.
“Yes.”
He licked the beater, slowly twirling it on his tongue.
“That was mine,” I whined, not really caring. Watching him lick it was far more satisfying.
“Come get some, then,” he murmured in a low voice. He pressed closer, covering my mouth with his. I groaned as he swirled his tongue along mine, tasting the sweet icing and Ronan. The combination was highly addictive. So was the feeling of being wrapped up in his arms. I felt his strength, carefully held in check. His muscles that rippled under my hands as I stroked his back. The silkiness of his hair as I ran my fingers through it.
His erection, that, like the rest of him, was massive and hard.
I whimpered.
He kissed me deeper, pulling my ass to the edge of the counter and grinding himself against me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and rubbed myself on him. He groaned low and deep in his throat in satisfaction. I heard the sound of the beater he’d held in his hand hitting the floor as he gathered me closer. Our kisses turned frantic. Wetter. Deeper. Wilder. Our teeth clashed. Tongues dueled. Our noises grew louder, our movements frantic.
Then the timer went off on the oven, the loud beep pulling us apart.
We stared at each other, our breathing fast. His hand was under my shirt, his skin warm against my back. I had his Henley gripped in my hand, the material twisted between my fingers. The timer sounded again, and Ronan looked toward the oven.
“We heard you.” He grinned in amusement. “I think your oven is a little judgmental.”
I started to laugh, and he wrapped his arms around me, kissed my head, then lifted me to the floor. “Check your cakes.”
I opened the oven door and, satisfied, slid the pans onto the cooling table. The air was instantly filled with the scent of sweet and spice. I slid in the next batch, shut the door, and set the timer.
“So, we have another hour?” he asked.