Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
I'm enrolled in The Culinary Academy, and I start next week in their pastry program. I don't know if I'll have my own bakery someday or not, but Deck says it's up to me. So time will tell.
I watch as Allister eyes Leah. It makes me smile. It's more than just a professional glance.
"Hey," I mock. "Careful how you look at my sister."
Leah's cheeks light up, and considering all the 'errands' they've been running, the way Allister has become her personal valet recently, it all comes together.
"Wow." I crane my neck around to give Deck the squeezy eye. "Did you know about this?"
"I know nothing, except I'm ready for our forever to start. And if other people find theirs, I'm happy as hell, because there's nothing better than what I've found with you."
EXTRA NEW EPILOGUE
DECKER
Later That Night
My wife is shimmying in my kitchen.
Doesn't know I'm here. Doesn't know I've been standing in the doorway for a full thirty seconds, watching her hips sway to whatever song's playing in her head. Pink ruffled apron tied around her waist. Pink fuzzy socks. A smear of flour across her cheek. Nothing else.
The bow on the apron sits right at the small of her back, the loose ends draping over what is otherwise an entirely bare ass.
I'm going to untie that bow with my teeth.
Newly pregnant with my baby, and she still wrecks me harder than the day I met her.
"Nice outfit."
I see her half smile as she ignores my comment. "Practice run for the chef-in-training thing next week. Brown butter shortbread. Twelve eggs in. It's a serious operation."
"Looks like it."
"Don't even think about distracting me, Deck. This recipe is hard."
I cross the kitchen slowly. Set my keys on the counter. Pin her against the island with my chest against her back, my mouth at the spot behind her ear that makes her knees give.
"Just watching."
"You are not just watching."
"Just watching and holding."
My free hand slides up under the apron. Bare skin, warm from the kitchen lights. My imagination tells me her belly's just starting to swell with our baby, and I trace the curve of it with my thumb. The most fragile and ferocious thing I've ever felt under my hand.
She tries to pick up the next egg, but misses. The carton tips. Three eggs hit the floor like a small artillery strike.
"Oh no— Deck, the eggs!"
"They're done for, baby."
I step back to look at the damage, and my boot comes down in egg yolk. Slides about six inches before I catch myself on the counter.
May loses it. Doubles over laughing, holding her belly, the laugh bouncing off the cabinets. She's still giggling when I pull her back against me, her bare ass pressing right against the part of me that has been at full attention since I walked in the door.
"You think this is funny." I lean down to her ear. "Let me tell you what's actually funny."
"What?"
"That you thought you were going to bake shortbread tonight."
She goes still in my arms.
She knows what I mean.
I run my hand down her spine, slow, all the way to the swell of her ass. Squeeze gently.
"You ready, sweet girl? Bend over for me."
She bends forward without me asking, lays her forearms flat on the counter, presses her cheek against the cool marble. I can see flour on the back of her thigh, where she must have brushed against the counter earlier. The picture wrecks me. Bare ass, my baby in her belly, flour on her cheek, eggs murdered on the floor.
"Christ, May."
"What?"
"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen."
I undo my belt one-handed, the other still on her hip, keeping her in place against me. My slacks hit the kitchen floor with a thud. The olive oil is right there on the counter, glinting at me like it's been waiting for this moment, and yeah, the kitchen is a war zone, but why not. I pour a generous drizzle into my palm and slick myself up, the cold of it against my heat making me hiss through my teeth.
"Decker."
"What."
"That's expensive olive oil."
"Worth every penny."
I position myself against her, one hand spreading her gently, the other holding her hip steady.
"Breathe, baby."
"Okay."
"Push back when you're ready."
She does it slow, easing back against me, and the heat of her, the impossibly tight grip, has my vision tunneling before I'm even an inch in. My forehead drops to her shoulder blade. I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right there.
"Holy hell, Deck."
"I know, sweet girl. I know."
"Is it... Is it always going to feel like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like I might split open in the best possible way."
Jesus Christ. The shit she comes up with. I bury a laugh against her neck, because I'm afraid if I make any noise that isn't laughter I'm going to come like a teenager.