“You’re changing the subject. I want the cookies I ordered.”
“Is that all you want?”
“No. But it’ll appease me… for now.”
I sigh. “Fine, then. I’ll deliver them tomorrow.” Looks like I’ll be baking two hundred Christmas tree cookies in the morning.
“No, Sugar. I want them now.” He takes a step toward me.
“Are you crazy?”
“Crazy for your cookies? Quite possibly.”
“You’re mental. It’ll take hours.”
“I’ll wait. In fact,” he says, shrugging his coat off and hanging it over a chair. “I’ll help.”
“Have you ever baked anything?” I ask, curious.
“No, but I’m a quick study.” He rolls the sleeves of his white shirt up. My mind instantly goes back to the last time I witnessed him doing it, and to what followed straight after.
I shake my head, but I must have lost my mind because, somehow, I wave for him to follow me into the kitchen area.
“I guess you’ll be learning how to bake and frost tonight,” I say, handing him an apron and turning the ovens on. I go to the pantry and take out eggs, flour, sugar, and butter. “And you want two hundred of them?”
“I’ll take a hundred since I’ve eaten those that didn’t belong to me.” He smiles cheekily. My stomach flips…is he talking about the cookies or…my cookie? Gah!
I hand him the eggs and a bowl just to shut my stupid hormones up. “Crack ten of those,” I mumble and turn around, taking a few shaky breaths. You’d think that since my body got a bunch of out-of-this-world orgasms, it would be satisfied for a while. Alas, it ain’t so. My nipples are so hard they must think it’s Antarctica out here. Any minute now, they’ll poke through my bra and clothes. It’s inevitable.
I walk over to my industrial-size mixer and dump the butter and sugar in it, adding some vanilla for flavor and a dash of cinnamon—just because he’s being a demanding douche canoe doesn’t mean he’ll be getting half-assed cookies. Nope. These babies will be the best thing he’s ever tasted.
I turn the thing on and from the corner of my eye, watch him crack the eggs into the bowl. He looks happy, humming to himself as he breaks them one by one. The expression on his face turns gleeful once the last egg lands inside. Aww, look at that, he’s proud of himself. I chuck a whisk his way, which he catches without a problem, damn it.
“Beat it.”
“Huh?”
“Beat the eggs,” I say innocently.
“Right on. Can I put some music on?”
“Be my guest. Plug yourself into the speaker.”
He smiles a genuine smile and taps away on his phone before plugging it in. A few moments later, a familiar beat fills the kitchen.
I try to hide my smile. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“What if I am?”
“It’s not working.” I bite my lip as he saunters over to me, caging me against the counter.
“Don’t delete the kisses, Natasha.”
I blink at him. “How do you—”
“Know your name? Don’t you know I’ve been obsessing about you since the moment you left my office?”
His voice has all my senses tingling. “No.” I shake my head.