Big O Box Set

“That, and I want to get a taste of your work.”

The way he says taste, all sultry and sexy in his thick London accent, makes me think he’s talking about more than just my cake. The ones I bake, anyway.

“You won’t be disappointed.” I lock eyes with him. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s satisfying cravings.”

“Now that, I believe,” he answers with a soft laugh as I finish unlocking the door and lead him inside.

He behaves—for the most part anyway—while we get the bakery set up. He satisfies himself with only passing touches—standing a little too close beside me while I show him how to prep the batter; reaching around me to grasp my hand where I’m holding the mixer handle while we stir it. Even those small touches—plus his proximity, just looking, smelling, feeling the way he does—are driving me wild.

But he’s actually listening to me too, I realize. When I tell him to prep another batch just like the first, he adds all the ingredients in the right order, remembering the steps I showed him. He even stirs it correctly, not too fast in case he whips it into too much of a fluff.

“Why did you want to learn to bake?” I ask. “Why not just have me make this for you?”

“Needed to learn how to make one of these so I can hide a nail file in one later for prison breaks,” he says, smirking.

I snort and roll my eyes, elbowing him. “Seriously.”

“Seriously?” He catches my eye for a long moment, then glances away. “My niece loves your cakes. I wanted to learn the secret.”

My cheeks flush. “I’d better be careful not to give away all my trade secrets then, huh?”

He laughs. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not exactly a pro baker here.”

“No,” I admit. “But you’re learning fast.” I side-eye him while he pours his batch of batter into the smaller tiered pan we’ve prepped. The one I made first is already proofing. “You’re a good listener.”

Caleb catches my eye. “Why do you think I’m so good in bed? I always listen to what my partner wants.”

My cheeks flare red-hot again, though at least now, with the ovens preheating, I can blame the blush on the heat in this kitchen. But his comment is making my mind run to places I don’t want it to. I’m thinking about him with other people. Other clients. I’m thinking about him listening to what other women want—delivering their dirty, sexy, kinky fantasies the way he fulfilled mine.

It makes my body flush for a whole different reason. It makes my stomach turn over and my muscles tense. I hate thinking about him with another woman.

Which is stupid. Crazy. It’s not my place to think like this, not about him. He’s an escort. It’s his job to do this kind of thing.

I’m his job. I need to remember that. I can’t go mistaking this for anything more than what it is—a business arrangement. Just like this cake we’re baking. He’s just another extension of my company, another business partner. So what if the service he’s providing is white-hot kinky sex? It doesn’t change the fact that I need to remain professional about things.

And professionals do not get jealous about their business partner’s other jobs.

If he notices the way I’ve gone quiet, he doesn’t say. He just finishes pouring his batter and waits for my next instruction.

Once we have the cakes baking, we turn to the frosting. I show him how to mix different colors.

“What did you have in mind for the decoration?”

He tilts his head, considering the cake in the oven and the frosting between us. “She really loves the ocean,” he says. “Her whole birthday party is aquarium themed. So maybe something with an ocean vibe to it? Mermaids, she loves those, too. God, the number of mermaid dolls I’ve bought her…”

Watching him talk about his niece opens up a whole new side to him. His eyes light up, and his attention drifts away, an open-hearted smile on his usually devious mouth.

“You spend a lot of time with her?” I ask as I start to prep some blue frosting.

He joins me, hands just inches from mine as he works on another tube. “As much as I can. I babysit when I don’t have classes.”

A whole new side to my escort. Who knew? I side-eye him. “What classes are you taking?”

“Physician’s assistant.” He shrugs. “Not exciting, I know. But I want to help people. And, you may have noticed,” he says as he traces a finger up my arm, leaving a playful streak of icing there, “I’m good with my hands.”

“Mm…” I meet his gaze steadily, chin high, and smirk. “I might have noticed that.”

“Only maybe?” He steps closer, the icing suddenly forgotten beside us. “I must be losing my touch.” As he says touch, he lets his other hand slide around my waist, and down, cupping my ass, not quite squeezing. Not yet.

“You could always provide me with a demonstration,” I point out, batting my eyes.

He squeezes my ass hard, strong enough to pull me forward a step. Suddenly, my hips are pressed against his, his thigh between my legs, as he runs his other hand along my neck to cup the back of it and pull me up toward him. We’re nose-to-nose, an inch apart, just a bare breath of air between us.

We haven’t kissed. Not once, not in the whole evening we had together. I’m suddenly terrifyingly aware of that now. And all too aware of the tingle in my lips, the pulse in the air between us. I want to kiss him.

“You want to see how I’d decorate you?” Caleb smirks. He traces that hand down the nape of my neck, around toward my collarbone. His fingers dance along the neckline of my shirt, and his other hand slides between my ass cheeks to grip my ass harder, draw me against him. I can feel the hard press of his cock against my thigh. He wants me. Fucking badly.

I want him too.

I flatten my hands against his chest, then run them along his body, down across those sexy washboard abs. I can feel his muscles through his T-shirt and I trace the edges of them. “I wonder how creative you’d get with your frosting technique,” I dare him.

Before I can react, he has my shirt bunched in a fist. He draws it up, over my head, my apron going with it. He tosses them in a heap beside the counter and bends me backwards over his other arm, so my whole chest is arched up toward him. With one deft shift of his fingers, he unclasps my bra and lets that fall to the side too. He dips a finger in the frosting and trails a line down the center of my chest, between my breasts.

“I’d start by outlining the basics,” he says. “Everywhere I want to lick, highlighted.” He dips his finger again and traces it around the edges of my breasts, underneath each one. My nipples start to go hard, despite the heat in here, despite the fact that he hasn’t even come close to touching them yet.

When he circles my navel in another dose of frosting, I finally snap to my senses. I slide my thigh against his bulge, along the length of his cock, as I lean up toward him.

“No sex around the food,” I say.

His gray eyes have gone dark with desire, hot with lust. “I thought you wanted me to play with my food,” he counters, smirking.

“No.” I smirk right back. “I only want you to play with me.”

“Fair compromise.” Without another word, he steps backwards and kicks open the office door. The tiny single-desk office with our one shared computer. The computer where I first stumbled across his website. The place where this whole mess started.

It seems fitting, therefore, when he tugs me inside after him and kicks the door shut behind him.

He bends me backwards over the desk, my chest exposed, still covered in the trails of blue frosting he left all over my skin.

True to his word, he sets right about licking those clean. He delves his tongue into my navel first, swirling it around, nipping lightly at my skin as he licks up every last trace of frosting. I gasp at the sensation, especially when he returns to lick up the line he left up my abs to between my breasts, his tongue hot and wet and flat against my bare skin. He traces his tongue under my breasts, one at a time, licking up all that

frosting, and then, just when I think he’s going to take my nipple into his mouth, he leans up and pulls me toward him.

His lips collide with mine before I realize what’s going on. Before I can think about what we’re doing.

My lips parts, and his tongue invades my mouth, over-sweet from the frosting. But underneath the sugar, there’s him, his scent, his flavor, unique in the world. I can’t get enough of it. I tilt my head, close my eyes, fall into the kiss. His hand buries in my hair, pulling my mouth close against his as we kiss.

Is this okay? I wonder. We didn’t kiss last night. Are you supposed to kiss your escort? Isn’t this off-limits, Pretty Woman style?

But he started it. And as I kiss him back, he seems perfectly fine reciprocating, his lips parting and closing against mine, his beard soft beneath my palm as I cup his cheek. He turns his head to kiss along my neck, and I sigh and let my head fall back again. He kisses down my neckline, along my collarbone, and his hands reach down to cup my breasts in a firm, solid grip. His palms graze my nipples, making them even harder, though that’s nothing compared to when he slowly rolls my breasts between each hand, working his fingers along until he has my nipples pinched between each thumb and forefinger, squeezing just hard enough to make me gasp with desire.

He leans down to suck my right nipple between his lips, his tongue rolling across the hard little nub. I bury my hands in his hair, arching my back. He swirls his tongue around me, teasing, taunting, drawing the pleasure out. Then he lets go and shifts sides, catches my left nipple next, while his right hand slides up to cup my right breast again.

I moan and spread my legs, and he slides his other hand between them to tease my inner thighs, trailing his rough, strong fingers up along the fabric of my jeans, tracing the inseams.

“Still don’t believe I’m good with my hands?” he asks, peering up at me.

I grin down. “Not convinced yet…”

He undoes the clasp of my jeans and slides one hand down the front of my pants. His fingertips push the fabric of my panties aside and delve right between my legs to cup my pussy. I gasp and arch forward to grind my clit against the heel of his palm, but he draws his hand back, doesn’t let me make contact fully. Not yet.