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“Maybe?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
“You already admitted it once. Why not again?” His smile turns wicked. “Consider it payback for all those times you pretended not to want me.”
“Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
It’s not what he asked for, but— “Your food doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. That’s what makes it perfect. That’s what made it perfect for me.”
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers weaving in my hair.
“God,” he breathes against my lips. “Never leave me.”
The “I won’t” is lost as his lips crash into mine.
Brandon kisses like he cooks—all passion and purpose, with an intensity that makes the world dissolve around us. I arch into him, my fingers finding purchase in his shirt as his tongue traces my bottom lip. When I open for him, a needy sound escapes my throat, and his grip tightens in response.
There are no voices in my head, no guilt clawing at my thoughts. There’s only this: his mouth claiming mine, his body pressing me against the counter, and the delicious heat building between us.
“Brandon.”
“Again,” he growls against my pulse point. “Say my name.”
It comes out breathier this time. “Brandon.”
He captures my mouth again, slower, savoring every taste, every touch. His thumb strokes my jaw, tilting my head to deepen the angle.
The kitchen counter isn’t exactly comfortable, but I couldn’t care less. Not when he’s kissing me like this, like I’m an essential ingredient he’s addicted to. Not when his other hand dips under my shirt, palm hot against my skin.
He slows the kiss, drawing it out, his thumb brushing the hollow of my throat, memorizing the way I breathe. I feel unsteady, the world tilting on its axis, leaving only him.
I don’t want to move.
I don’t want this to stop.
But reality creeps back in, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the lingering scent of vodka sauce. If we stay like this much longer?—
“We’re in Elliot’s kitchen.”
“So?” Brandon’s thumb traces my jaw. “You started it with that whole ‘I like Brandon’ speech.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You were being honest.” His lips ghost over mine. “Finally.”
I can’t focus on anything except the way his body cages mine, how his chef’s confidence bleeds into something darker, more demanding.
“Brandon…” My voice catches. “The food will get cold.”
“I can always make more.” His fingers thread through my hair. “Now that I remember how.”
“Elliot will kill us if we?—”
“If we what?” His breath fans across my neck. “Christen his kitchen?”
The way he says it makes my toes curl. “You’re impossible.”