Make It Sweet

Damn it, I wanted to grind into something. No, I wanted her. Slick and snug. She’d wiggle so sweetly on my cock. I could picture it well, her riding my dick, those sweet little breasts bouncing for me.

“Fuck,” I hissed, blood surging, and my hips gave an involuntary thrust. I was in very real danger of coming in my pants.

The horror of that was enough to quell my erection. Blowing out a breath, I straightened. My abs ached like they’d been punched. But at least I could walk normally now. And I headed downstairs, following the sounds of activity and the scent of food into a well-equipped kitchen. I was surprised to find the bride standing in the midst of half a dozen catering staff. Her hair was in disarray, skin flushed. She huffed out a sound of sheer despair and clutched her cell phone like she was trying to squeeze the life out of it. It was too late to back out—she spotted me.

“You need something, Luc?” she asked, polite but tight in a way that made it clear she was silently hoping I’d leave. I empathized.

I held up a hand. “Just wandering. Don’t worry about me.”

She smiled—thin, pained—then nodded before her shoulders slumped. The woman looked wrecked. Then I remembered she was a chef. Apparently quite a good one. Maybe she’d thought to cook for her wedding? The idea sounded like madness to me.

Before I could say a word, Macon Saint strode in, the big guy’s expression drawn with worry. “What’s wrong?” he said to Delilah, pulling her close before she could answer.

Delilah made a protracted wail and clutched him. “There’s been an accident on the 101.”

Saint paled. “Someone hurt? Who?”

“No,” she said. “No injuries. Unless you count our wedding cake.”

“Jesus, Tot. You scared the hell out of me. I thought it was something serious.”

Delilah glared up at Saint. “This is serious!”

Saint cringed, and internally, I did too. Poor bastard walked right into that one. “I meant like death . . . shit, okay. It’s serious.”

Delilah squeezed the bridge of her nose and breathed hard. “My cake. Splattered all over the asphalt. How am I supposed to get a cake ready in time with all I have to do?”

“I can do it.” Was that me who spoke?

They both turned my way. Yep, it was. Hell, I had surprised myself. But seeing Delilah frantic and in need of help that I could provide had kick-started a surge of adrenaline that I’d once only felt on the ice. Here was a challenge I could sink into, something I could do that was worthwhile—useful.

Saint immediately adopted a “Now I gotta deal with this fucking guy” expression. “That’s nice of you—”

“He’s not kidding,” came Emma’s voice at my elbow. I nearly jumped. The woman moved on cat feet.

Now that I noticed her, all other thoughts scattered. I couldn’t concentrate past the warm edge of her arm brushing mine. It was hard enough to look at her without illicit thoughts flickering through my brain. What would she do if I leaned in and licked her?

“I’m serious,” she said, breaking into my haze. “His pastries are the best I’ve ever tasted.”

A flush of pride washed up my neck and over my face. At some point, hers had become the opinion I valued the most.

Delilah’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”

I could do this. I wanted to do this.

“Well, I don’t know about the best ever,” I said. “But I do know how to make a cake. I promise I wouldn’t do anything to ruin your day.”

“He’s being modest.” Emma nudged me, as if to say, “Speak up, you dolt.” But she didn’t let me. “Saint, remember that week of filming we did in Lyon? And we went out that one night?”

Saint brightened. “Oh shit. That good?”

“Better. But I might be biased.”

I had no idea what they were talking about, and Delilah clearly didn’t either. But she was smiling, tentatively hopeful. Which was good. I didn’t want to see this poor woman undone by a cake disaster. Besides, being tucked away in the kitchen instead of mingling with guests and struggling not to carry Emma away and do dirty things to her was more than fine by me.

Saint glanced down at his bride. “What do you think, Tot?”

Delilah pinned her eyes on me, suddenly 100 percent master chef. “What can you do?”

“Depends on what you want. What was the cake you had ordered?”

“A hazelnut sponge with vanilla-and-mango mousse. Vanilla buttercream with a fondant overlay and flowers.”

Ideas flowed and pinged around my brain, kicking up that heady surge of excitement and challenge once more. This I knew. This I liked. “You’re feeding what? Forty?”

“Forty-five. Fifty, to be safe.”

“You want a traditional multitier with buttercream, then we’re pushing it. Especially if you expect any sort of elaborate decoration.”

“The cake feels cursed at this point.” Delilah’s scowl made me want to smile. It was as if she was personally offended by the bad luck, which I could understand.