Page 11

Chapter 9

Stella

F lour? Check.

Butter? Check.

Powdered sugar? Check.

After going over the ingredient list for these strawberry cupcakes at least a dozen times since deciding I was finally making them tonight, I’m still worried I might be forgetting something. Running around the kitchen, I gather all the ingredients in one spot on the counter, preparing to make some magic.

I’ve been trying to come up with a recipe using strawberries ever since I had these incredible cupcakes the last time I was in Nashville. They were out of this world—total strawberry lemonade vibes, and they were to die for. I don’t want to make the exact same thing, so I’m trying to put my own spin on the idea for when I open the new bakery. I’m two seconds away from branching out to a different recipe or flavor profile, but I’m giving this one last shot.

If this doesn’t work out, I’m hoping another idea comes to me quickly.

Turning the oven on to preheat, I move to the fridge and grab the eggs, finally ready to start mixing everything together.

I left Miles working on his puzzle in the dining room while I came into the kitchen to make cupcakes. It may be almost nine at night, but I’m wide awake, damn near wired, with the nerves of getting on a plane in the morning making me anxious. When I first got home from running to the bakery, I saw that Miles wasn’t here and was actually disappointed. I think it’s just that there’s a lot on the line this week and shit could hit the fan if we can’t get this place to pass inspection.

It's overwhelming, so I was thankful when he cut his guy’s night short to come back and get ready for the trip. He’s much quicker than I am when it comes to getting moving because within a few minutes of being back at the apartment, he had already started a load of laundry and found his suitcase. He’s efficient and will probably sleep like a baby tonight, without a worry in the world.

Me, on the other hand? I doubt I’ll get a good night’s sleep, which is why I figured I might as well stay up late and bake something instead of staring at the ceiling. When I’m in the kitchen, that’s when I’m at peace. My brain goes quiet, and I can work on autopilot. Most of the time I don’t even use recipes anymore. I have a range of core recipes that I tweak based on the flavors I’m in the mood for or whatever I’m trying to create for the bakery that week. So now that I’m baking something for myself, something I’ve been craving, I’m practically doing a happy dance around the kitchen while listening to some indie mix.

At least with Miles out there working on his puzzle, the likelihood of him watching my mediocre performance is slim. Still, it’s nice to have him hanging out with me so I’m not stressing out by myself. I was worried, especially after we kind of fooled around the other day, that he’d be weird around me or, even worse, mad at me for what happened between us.

He was a little quiet the next morning, but since then, we’ve been fine. He definitely perked up tonight when I told him I was making cupcakes. Miles has a bigger sweet tooth than I do, which makes it more fun for me to bake. The tasty treats go straight to his ass instead of mine.

Although, his ass doesn’t get any bigger, regardless of what he consumes. I guess it’s a perk of having to work out for your career.

The perk of my career?

I can make these cupcakes with my eyes closed, and they’d still come out delicious.

Quickly measuring out the ingredients for the batter, I mix everything together and pour it into the tins I found buried deep in a cabinet I’m pretty sure Miles hasn’t opened in ages. Once they’re all ready, I pop them in the oven, set the timer, and turn to clean up.

I hate when I’m cooking and there’s a mess everywhere, so I try to clean as I go. If I can’t, I at least stop between steps to reset my station. Rinsing the bowls so I can use them for my topping, I place everything else into the dishwasher.

Frosting is always my favorite part of a cupcake recipe because there’s really no limit to what you can do with it. One of my all-time favorites tasted like cookie dough. I’m pretty sure I made it at least five times over the next week and a half after making my first batch. A couple of those times, I didn’t even bother with the cupcakes—just made the frosting and dug in with a spoon.

Slightly embarrassing, but I have absolutely zero regrets about my choices.

Grabbing a mixing bowl, I combine the ingredients for the whipped topping, measuring out the powdered sugar, butter, and salt before turning the mixer on to its lowest setting. I then mix in a few chopped strawberries and vanilla extract after I measure with the heart, and I turn the speed up just a tad more to really start incorporating everything. I can’t go too fast or I’ll end up with powdered sugar and frosting all over myself and this beautiful kitchen.

Not sure how Miles would feel about that. Overall, he’s pretty organized, so a messy kitchen might just make him decide it’s time for me to get packing. The sloppiest thing he does is leave his shoes all over the apartment, but honestly, what man doesn’t?

Besides, it’s his apartment, so frankly, he can leave his shoes wherever the hell he wants.

After checking on the cupcakes in the oven and seeing they’re done, I pull them out and set them on the cooling rack. I check the frosting next and see that it’s too runny, definitely not something I’m putting on these cupcakes.

I reach for the powdered sugar and add it slowly, making sure it doesn’t explode into the air, then move to turn up the speed again. But as I shift the lever, I trip and fall forward, knocking it all the way back—sending frosting showering everywhere.

The sound of his laughter erupts in the kitchen as I’m pelted in the face with chocolate goop. Whipping around in surprise, I see Miles standing behind me, leaning over the counter to get a better look at what I was making, which caused me to stumble. I slam the mixer off and spin to face him.

He’s covered in light pink spatters. Thankfully, I used white chocolate for this recipe, or it’d be an even bigger mess. He doesn’t seem to care, though, seeing as he hasn’t stopped cracking up since it happened. Frosting is splattered on his cheeks, his clothes, and all over the kitchen, yet all the man can do is laugh.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, choking out the words between bursts of laughter, his hand clutching his side as he doubles over, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve turned your kitchen into a disaster all because I’m clumsy and wanted cupcakes,” I say, pouting at the pink goo-covered mayhem around us.

“Don’t be silly; it’s a kitchen. Aren’t they designed for messes?” he says, and I feel ridiculous. I just hate when little blips like this happen.

“Yeah, but still. I hate that I wasted so much of this frosting, especially when it was so delicious the first time I tasted it.”

“Ooh, really?” Miles says, his eyes lighting up with glee. Leaning forward, he scoops a bit of frosting from my cheek, the pink topping coating his finger as he pops it into his mouth. With a low moan that sends a jolt to my lady bits, he sucks it clean.

“You’re right…it’s delicious,” he says, his eyes darkening as the space between us shrinks, our bodies slowly moving closer and closer.

“I’m glad you like it. You’ll have to try it with the cupcakes I’m making—the frosting is even better on those. I’m thinking about putting it on the menu at the bakery, maybe as a specialty treat or something. I just love how it pairs with the chocolate.”

“You should,” he says, taking another step closer. My chest tightens, and the air between us thickens as his eyes stay locked on mine. Breathless, I wait, my heart pounding, wondering what his next move will be.

“Can I have some more?” he says, surprising me. “Please?”

“Of course,” I say, moving to get a bowl, a cup, or even a spoon for him. But before I can, his hands move to my hips, stopping me in my tracks. With a firm grip, he lifts me up and sets my ass on the edge of the counter in one smooth motion. He slides between my legs, closing the space between us as he sticks his tongue out, licking me from my collarbone all the way to my chin.

Stepping back, he watches me as the last of the pink cream on his tongue disappears between his lips, his eyes wild with delight, as though he’s just had a delicious snack.

“You’re right. Frosting definitely tastes better on something.”

My cheeks burn, my neck on fire as I feel my panties drench further, his dirty mouth stirring up desires I know I shouldn’t be feeling for him, but I can’t seem to help it.

“I bet you’re so wet,” he whispers, his lips close enough to my ear that I can feel the heat of each word slowly coursing through me until I’m tingling, my body a live wire, just ready to ignite—and all he did was lick my neck.

But imagining what that would feel like between my legs has me so wet I could single-handedly solve California’s drought problem.

“Tell me, baby. If I were to slip my fingers inside you, would I find you dripping for me? Would this tight cunt be weeping for my touch?” he growls through gritted teeth, his hands on either side of my legs, palms pressed to the counter as I look down at him.

I wasn’t sure why he lifted me onto the counter, but from this angle, the way he watches my every movement, his eyes falling to the spot between my legs, I’m starting to wonder what it would take to make this man snap.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Do it.”

“I want you to. I want you to put those pretty little legs up on this counter and show me. Show me exactly how wet I made you. Let me see what you look like when you come, thinking about me.”

“Okay,” I purr, lifting slightly to wiggle my shorts and panties down, letting them fall to the ground beneath my bare feet. Leaning back, I smirk as a wicked thought plays in my mind. “I’ll do it…but only if I get to watch you, too.”

I want to watch him. Is that a crime? I want to see him pleasure himself, see the way his body reacts while he’s focused on me. If he wants to make demands, then I need to be able to make my own.

“Spread them, baby,” he says, his pants dropping just enough to show me his cock, already thick and hard, veins throbbing as he pumps himself slowly, a bead of precum dripping from his head, and I’m dying to taste it on my tongue.

Fuck, he’s bigger than I remember.

If he looks at me like that and bosses me around with that kind yet dominating voice, I’ll damn near do whatever this man wants me to.