Things We Burn Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports, Virgin Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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That fascinated me, people who lived lives like that. I was jealous of that freedom. Then it dawned on me... That was Kane. Rather glaringly obvious, since I was in a tattoo parlor with him at midnight, and he was on a first-name basis with those who worked there.

William led us to the end of a partition to a table covered with plastic, the walls covered by various posters of dragons and mythical creatures, pictures of tattoos. On a shelf beside the tattoo table sat a stack of worn paperbacks.

Curiously, a lot of them were culinary related, biographies on some of the greats.

“Take a seat.” William nodded to a chair beside the bed.

“You know the drill, brother,” he said to Kane.

As I was about to let go of him to sit down, Kane’s hold flexed on my hand, and he dragged me to him so our mouths crashed together.

He kissed me hard and passionately, and though I was aware of the other man in the small space with us, I kissed him back with the same fervor.

Sitting once he let me go, I looked down at my lap. My ears became hot, knowing we had an audience, one who actually knew who I was, but William hadn’t so much as blinked, busy putting on latex gloves.

“What are we doing today?” he asked Kane. “Got sketches from some billionaire after you lost a bet again?”

Kane chuckled, the sound low and throaty.

“Nah, this one’s simple. ‘Yes, Chef,’ right here.” He whipped off his shirt then pointed to the empty spot on his left pec.

My heart skipped. My mouth went dry.

Had he just said what I thought he did?

He stared at me, an easygoing expression on his face as if it were totally normal for him to get a tattoo that was about me—on his heart no less—after however long we’d been ‘together.’

Was I missing something? Had I been out of the game so long that tattoos of names of lovers were no longer a faux pas? Surely not.

Or maybe it was Kane. William had just said he permanently inked his body when he lost bets, so maybe it meant something different to him.

His eyes went to mine, and something passed between us.

No, it didn’t mean anything different to him.

He was getting me, inked on his body.

I watched it happen.

Then, after shooting the shit with William, sharing a beer and talking about food, we left. We rode through the night, back to his brownstone where he made slow and purposeful love to me with my name inked on his chest.

We didn’t speak of it.

I told myself I didn’t need to, the look, the act said it all.

But mostly it was because I was too damn terrified of what it meant.

I didn’t see Kane for two weeks after that night.

Two agonizing weeks. I worked fourteen days straight—not uncommon for me—and I did twelve-hour days—also not uncommon. Every second was busy, full of decisions, of menus, of practice plates, of sourcing the exact fish I needed at the docks and negotiating prices.

There was not a moment to think about a romantic entanglement.

Or at least there shouldn’t have been.

But every minute, every second, Kane was there. At the forefront of my mind. His rough, callused hands running over my skin, his cock pumping inside me, his arms crushing me to his body in his sleep.

And every time I heard, “Yes, Chef”—which had to be hundreds of times a day—my pussy tingled, and my knees weakened, thinking about the rough and guttural way Kane said it. Then my mind flashed to those two words, inked into his chest.

I missed him, to put it simply. Even though it was infinitely more complicated than that. It felt like my cells were dying without him. Like I wasn’t entirely alive.

It was an obsession we had for each other, pure and simple. It couldn’t have been healthy, it sure as hell was dangerous, and it was bound to burn itself out at some point. But I couldn’t find myself caring. For once, I was being reckless with my time, my energy and my heart. I’d deal with the fallout when it came.

I did find myself watching the clock like a hawk all day, waiting for the time to strike so I could leave the restaurant with enough time to go get ready and make it to the arena.

Kane only flew in today. Because of the way his schedule worked, he had to go straight to the arena to prepare. I could’ve seen him before the show, but that would’ve meant I would’ve had to leave the restaurant even earlier. And I needed to be there to prepare, to school my staff, to basically control everything I could. It was enough that I was taking time off for a man.

Unheard of.

It was my challenge, my punishment to myself, that I would not get to see him until after the show.


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