Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
101 Common Cooking Terms. It’s an alphabetical list, and the terms are not common to me at all.
Acidulation. Adding lime or lemon juice to make something sour.
Aerate. The process of sifting dry ingredients, allowing air to pass through.
Aerate. How does one even pronounce that?
Damon returns with two cappuccinos and sets one before me. “Oat milk,” he says.
I set 101 Common Cooking Terms aside. “Will you be my sous chef-slash-waitstaff tomorrow?”
“Inviting me on another date, Leon?”
I gulp coffee and cough. “It’ll help make me look legit.”
Damon stares at me, gaze dark under the shadows cloaking us. He sets down his drink, and the precise way he does it feels serious. “Will it be any different?”
I’m still coughing. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. First the run-around for Roger, now this guy.”
“I hope it’s different with this guy.”
Damon looks towards the ocean. “Mark used to like going out on Saturday nights.”
Mark?
I sit upright.
“Whatever theatre thing or exhibition he wanted to see always clashed with bingo evenings. So I stopped volunteering.”
“What? You love hanging out with the grannies for bingo!”
He smiles, and I see it in the reflection on the glass. “I thought I was in love. I thought I was happy. I thought I would do anything for Mark.”
Stupid Mark. “You’re better off without him.”
Damon looks at me. “I am. Now, to the question of going on another date with you.” He sips his coffee. “I’ll be frank. I hope I can get another snog out of it.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Is that all you’re asking for?”
His eyes flash.
I hold my hand up. “Not that I’d agree to more.”
“Damn, you got me all hopeful there for a sec.”
I laugh, and he’s laughing too. He’s beautiful, lounging in his chair loose and relaxed, content to be here. With me. And . . .
I slide down my chair.
“Leon?”
It’s darker under the table but moonlight falls on Damon’s lap. I crawl between the outlines of his parted legs.
“Leon?” he says again with a gravelly edge.
I slide my hands up his calves, along his thighs, and rise onto my knees, squeezed tightly between table and Damon. Muscles flex under my palms and Damon hisses when my thumbs arrive at his crotch.
He pinches my chin and steers my face to look up at him. His eyes are darker than dark, and they demand I tell him what I’m doing.
I’m losing the last of my self-control.
And so what? I know exactly what this is. Two currently single men starved of touch for too long. I have no delusions. This will be quick and meaningless. And tomorrow, Damon may set his sights on the next guy.
He’ll go his way, I’ll go mine.
But for now, I can give in.
I glide a hand over the heavy bulge trapped in his jeans and he shivers. “Will you let me snog you right here?”
Damon rips open the button of his jeans and I help him with the zipper. He shifts his stiff cock out the flap of his shiny boxers. I take the veined beauty in a greedy hand and engulf him.
He cries out. He’s thick and salty in my mouth and I let him stretch my lips, take him in as deep as I can.
Table legs skid and rumble as Damon shoves to give me more room. The scent of spilled coffee permeates the thickening air around us. God, it’s been forever. I’ve missed this. I wriggle fingers under Damon’s arse and urge him to buck into my mouth.
Damon touches my hair, a feather soft glide, then he clasps the back of my head and holds me still as he seesaws in and out over my tongue, shallow sweeps that lengthen until I’m choking on him and he’s staring down at me with the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m about to come in my pants.
“Goddammit, Leon.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. His breathing turns to pants and he pistons into me until he’s throwing his head back and his cock is swelling in my throat. “You’re perfect.”
He comes and comes and comes and his body jerks with each orgasmic wave.
I suck him clean and come off him. He’s still draped over his chair, groaning, as I tuck him back into his boxers.
Fingers find my hair again and he pets my locks. “Wait,” he murmurs and pulls himself upright on his chair.
I slip out of reach behind our lopsided table and what’s left of my coffee. I pick it up, drain it, and try not to look at him. Imagining is enough. Rucked shirt and open jeans, the sated lines of his shoulders, and the fading need to flirt with me in his eyes.
I head for the tarts and ginger fudge.
If we’d parted ways after that, it all would’ve been fine. But living together meant walking to the bach side by side, and once we’re in the bach, I’m confronted with the terrifying fact I can’t sneak into my bedroom and hide under my covers. I have to share his bed.