THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ eleven ◘🔥

So cold, so hot. So stoic but so sexy.

Zane Rose was a brick wall I wanted to barrel through and destroy, but at the same time stop and press into for stability. A blanket I wanted to rip to shreds, but also envelop myself in for warmth.

He towered over me, a bombshell of bullshit, every word spewing out of his mouth a veiled insult or an excuse. And yet he exuded such sex appeal that it was hard to pretend our bodies weren't drawn to one another the longer we stood so close.

Too close.

I moved backwards, regretting my actions. Going to his place was stupid, reckless. I knew getting close to him was dangerous, but I hadn't listened to my hunches, only to my physical instincts that wanted another round of furious sex with him.

I despised him. How smug he was, how overconfident in his cooking skills. How he expected everyone to adore him, to praise him. He stayed in the dark and popped out from the shadows, tada, I'm the chef of Gastrognome, surprise! And assumed everyone would be awed and shocked and excited that he, Zane Rose, was the new, hot chef in town.

Not that I cared about his success—good for him, truly—but stepping all over me and others in the process wasn't right. Taking advantage of me, my show, to push his agenda? No, thank you.

My nostrils flared. I allowed one last look at him as he remained where I'd left him, feet away, eyes hardening and softening in turn, confusing me. Fuck, he knew what he was doing. Seductive, silently flirtatious, daring. He knew how much I'd enjoyed the sex—silly me for letting the truth about my pleasure slip out—and he probably anticipated he'd get me to sleep with him again.

The issue was...he was correct. I absolutely would get naked with him again. All he needed to do was ask, beg, take his shirt off—and we were on.

I watched his mouth move, ruminating over choicy words to get me riled up. Because he loved getting me riled up, I realized that now. Too late.

That night still haunted me. The more days passed, the more bits and pieces I remembered, too. Things he'd done to me, to my body, that continued to give me shivers whenever I recalled them. And that happened a lot, too much for my taste.

My desire for him was its own separate entity, in a way. Mentally, out in the open, I loathed him and everything he stood for. Demeaning me, shaming my tastes and manner of cooking, taking advantage; but physically? He was a god I wanted to worship. His body was the altar I wanted to lick until it melted on my tongue.

"Ha," he said, snapping me out of my tongue-swirling desires.

I blinked, shaking out my stupor, horrified as I realized I'd been ogling him in the crotch area. "What?"

"You're considering another round of super angry sex, aren't you?" He stroked his chin, fingertips fussing over the scruff that I was craving to touch. "Sober super angry sex, in fact. So you can remember it to better hate me later."

I was considering it. He knew that, naturally, and now needed to prey on my lust.

We were pretty drunk that night, for sure. Maybe I'd hoped that sober, the attraction wouldn't be as intense. That our tryst came from an intoxicated magnetism, something that manifested only after a few drinks.

But there we were, both sober—at least, I was, despite my quick slurp of rosé before I left home.

And...nope, the attraction was still there. It was fire in my gut, spreading to my core, tingling my breasts.

Fucking with my head.

My body, my brain, my heart all screamed at me. They throbbed for him. I wanted to smack him, but my lips were still imprinted with the aroma of his liquored tongue, and they wanted more. My waist waited for his deft hands to hold me tight as he rammed into me.