Chapter Three

Lauren

God, I’m hungry. The tornado blew away and left the farm mostly upright. Now, a few nights later, I hunt through the refrigerator some time around midnight, wearing nothing but a thinning gray nightshirt and white panties. You can kind of see my nipples through this thing, but it’s okay because everyone should be asleep.

I open the refrigerator door, its light spilling into the dark kitchen. I bend over, rubbing the back of my leg with my foot as I look at what ingredients I can work with.

Milk. Butter. A jar of sun-dried tomatoes. Cottage cheese. Berries.

I’ll make crepes.

I reach for the gallon of milk, but just as I’ve wrapped my fingers around the handle, the light in the kitchen turns on and I jump back, closing the door so quickly I hear the bottles inside the door rattle.

Chase stops a few feet away from me, azure eyes wide and thin eyebrows raised.

I let out a sigh of relief, placing a hand over my chest to still my chaotic heart. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“Yup, just me.”

He tucks his hands into the waistband of his jeans, the gesture making his chest and abdominal muscles push against the cotton of his black shirt.

Of course, he looks like he’s stepped out of the pages of GQ, while I’m a complete mess with my wrinkled shirt and uncombed hair. Not to mention I’m… underdressed. Suddenly self-conscious, I tug at the hem of my nightshirt, pulling it down my thighs as far as it can go so that he doesn’t catch a glimpse of my panties. Unless he already did when I was looking inside the refrigerator.

Shit.

He grins. “Nice shirt.”

I cross my arms over my shirt. I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that I’m not wearing pants, or that I’ve already taken off my bra and he can probably see the tips of my nipples poking the cotton of my shirt. My only consolation is that my nightshirt is gray and a little thick so it isn’t see-through, at least not compared to the white one I own. Even so, that does little to ease my mind or body. My heart is still doing jumping jacks.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Chase.

He steps forward, grabbing the door of the fridge. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone you’re ruining your unnecessary diet by snacking on leftovers.”

“I’m not–” I roll my eyes as I step aside. “Never mind.”

“I’m just here to get a beer,” he says, pulling a bottle of ice-cold Bud Light out of the fridge. “Your dad said I could get one whenever I felt like it, as long as it wasn’t more than twice a week.”

I chuckle.

He holds the door open. “Sure you don’t want to get anything?”

I purse my lips and tap my arm.

“Going once…”

I take the door from him, opening it wider and grabbing the gallon of milk, the bar of butter, the carton of eggs and the bowl of berries from inside the fridge. This time, I bend my knees so that I don’t reveal too much of what I am and what I’m not wearing. Even still, I can see him trying to take a peek from the corner of my eye.

I steadily balance all the ingredients in my arms as I transport them to the table.

“Whoa.” He closes the door and then grabs the bottle opener hanging from one of the cupboard doors to open his bottle. “That’s more than leftovers. I may have to file a report to the diet police.”

“Shut up.” I set the ingredients down. “I’m going to make crepes.”

“Oh.”

I look at him. “You know what crepes are, don’t you?”

Chase takes a sip of her beer, shrugging. “Of course. I’ve eaten a few.”

“Know how to make them?”

“No.” He walks toward me, setting the bottle down on the table. “Want to teach me? I do believe you owe me a cooking lesson.”

Now? I lift my eyebrows at him.

Yes, I did say I’d give him a cooking lesson. But, now? In the middle of the night, with me in just this nightshirt?

I sigh. Oh, well. I might as well teach him since he’s already here in the kitchen. Besides, he’s always busy during the day.

“Fine.”

I snatch my frilly red apron off its hook and slip it over my head, tying it around my waist. It isn’t a pair of pants, but at least it’s an inch longer than my nightshirt and can cover my breasts so that I don’t have to.

“Nice apron,” Chase says, nodding in approval as he looks at it from top to hem.

I try not to blush as I meet his gaze. “I’d lend you one, but my dad doesn’t have any. So unless you want something with hearts or flowers…”

The image of him wearing an apron with pink hearts – just an apron like one of those calendar guys – pops into my mind and my breath catches, my heart going still as heat explodes in my chest and between my legs.

“I think I’ll do without the apron,” Chase says.

I look away, taking a deep breath. “Good.”

He lifts his bottle to take another sip. “How do we start?”

How? I’d like to start by clutching the front of his black shirt and pulling him close so I can inhale the smell of him and then rip that shirt off so that I can run my fingers over those…

I shake my head. We’re making crepes, not anything else. And I may be a virgin, but I’m also a grown woman. I’m not supposed to be having these delusions.

Focus, Lauren.

“We’ll start by making the crepe mixture,” I answer, getting a mixing bowl from a cupboard. “We have to whisk together the flour and the eggs then add some milk, some water, and some of the butter that I have to melt first.”

I grab a pan above me and put it on the stove, lighting it up.

“Can you pass the butter?”

“Sure.” He places the bar on my palm.

I peel it open and cut some off, tossing it into the hot pan. After a split second, the butter begins to sizzle and melt.

“Melts fast,” Chase says, looking over my shoulder.

“That’s because the pan’s hot,” I tell him, swirling the shrinking piece of butter around the pan.

And it’s not just the pan. It may be a cool night and my fever is long gone, but the kitchen feels warm, especially with Chase standing next to me. He’s so close I can hear him breathing, my sex sizzling and melting in response just like the piece of butter.

I take a deep breath.

“There,” I say as the butter has melted completely, turning off the heat. “Now we can add this to the mixture.”

I pour the frothy, golden liquid into the bowl and grab the whisk.

Chase’s fingers close around my wrist. “Let me do the mixing.”

I nod, stepping aside.

He puts his bottle down and starts whisking but he must be too strong so he ends up whisking too fast. I take the whisk back.

“Slowly. Gently.”

I carefully move the whisk around the pan, the ingredients swirling.

“You have to make sure the ingredients mingle together, that they become one,” I tell him as I keep whisking, my other hand holding the bowl steady. “If you’re too rough, the mixture will split.”

Chase nods. “I can do slow and gentle.”

He places his hands over mine as he stands behind me, stroking my fingers before putting his between them, both of us holding the bowl and the whisk, mixing together.

I draw another deep breath then pull away.

“You take over.”

“Gladly,” he says, continuing to combine the mixture.

I watch him from a few feet away, wiping the beads of sweat that have suddenly formed on my brow. I loosen my apron, which suddenly feels as tight as a corset.

Whew. It sure is getting hot in here.

“What do we do next?” Chase asks, still mixing.

I rattle my muddled brain to remember the recipe.

“Do you want sweet or savory?” I ask him.

Chase stops mixing, holding my gaze. “I like sweet, but I think I’m more of a savory person.”

And I’d love nothing more than to savor him right now. My mouth is watering.

I swallow, tucking some hair behind my ear. “Okay. We’ll do a bit of both.”

“Perfect.”

I transfer some of the mixture into another bowl. “You do the sweet mixture and I’ll do the savory.”

“What do I do?”

“Just add some sugar, a bit of vanilla, and some brandy into that mixture and keep mixing,” I answer, fetching the ingredients from the cupboard. “I’ll add some salt and herbs to mine.”

“What herbs?” Chase asks, adding sugar into his mixture.

“Chives. Parsley. Thyme.” I grab the bunches of fresh leaves.

“Sure those are edible?”

I cast a frown at him. “What? Do you think I’d poison you? You were the one trying to do that.”

He winces. “Ouch.”

“Of course, I could poison you if I wanted. Some herbs are poisonous, after all, but don’t worry, I’d never do that. Not to you.”

“Glad to know.”

“I’m just adding these for flavor.” I chop the leaves. “And then I’ll add some spices, too.”

“I like spicy,” Chase says, the heat of his gaze piercing through me.

I grab the bottle of paprika, trying to focus on what we’re making.

Crepes, Lauren. That’s what you’re making.

“But too much is never good. You want the flavor to be there but not so intense that it’s overpowering.”

Speaking of intense and overpowering, I can feel him staring at me right now, his gaze making my skin tingle and causing even more beads of sweat to form on it. I wipe them off.

“You’re not mixing,” I tell him.

“I was waiting for you,” he says. “I want to match your pace.”

I ignore the remark, folding the additional ingredients into my mixture with a spatula. He continues whisking his, doing so slowly, gradually.

“You can go a little faster,” I tell him.

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

He whisks faster.

I mix the ingredients in my bowl in silence, avoiding his gaze even as I’m constantly and utterly aware of his presence. Then I go to the stove to reheat the pan where I melted the butter, adding a little more.

“What next?” Chase asks behind me.

“Watch me first,” I answer, fetching his mixing bowl.

“Gladly.”

When the pan is hot enough, I scoop a small amount of the mixture and pour it into the middle of the pan then I hold the handle and swirl the mixture around, spreading it evenly.

“You have to make sure the batter coats the surface of the pan evenly.”

“Right.”

He’s watching me all right. Closely. Too closely.

I focus on my pan, watching the mixture and then flipping it over with a spatula once it turns golden brown.

“Wow,” Chase praises. “It’s like pizza.”

“It is a bit,” I agree. “Now, we just have to make sure this other side cooks for about half a minute and then it’s done.”

After a few more seconds, I take the crepe out of the pan, placing it on a plate.

“Your turn.”

Chase takes over and this time, I watch him like a hawk as he swirls the mixture around the pan.

So far, so good.

“Remind me why you don’t know how to cook again,” I say. “Didn’t your mother teach you?”

“She left the cooking to the chefs.”

I blink. “Chefs?”

“I mean to the chef.” He sets the pan down. “My dad was a chef.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He was?”

“But he never bothered to teach me to cook,” Chase adds.

“Oh.”

His first crepe is a failure. He flips it too early so it collapses. I help him scoop it out and scrape it off the pan.

“Don’t worry.” I pat him on the shoulder. “The first time is usually a disaster.”

“In my experience, it’s usually perfect,” he says.

I step back, ignoring him. “Just try again.”

The second one ends up a bit burned. The third, however, is perfect.

“Third time’s the charm,” I say as he transfers the crepe on a plate. “Now we just have to keep going until there isn’t any mixture left.”

That’s what we do. We take turns, and after half an hour, we have a pile of crepes on a plate.

Now, that’s more than what I originally wanted to make. Thankfully, there’s two of us to eat it.

“What about the filling?” Chase asks, getting a berry from the bowl and rolling it in his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

“For the sweet, we can put berries with some cottage cheese, fold it and coat it with some cream and syrup.”

I do exactly that, spreading the filling over a crepe on a separate plate.

“Aren’t you going to put more?” Chase asks, his eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“If I put too much, it will spill out,” I say.

“Right.” He nods, taking a piece of crepe and spreading the filling on it. “If there’s too much, it could burst and go all over the place. You can’t put it all in your mouth, after all.”

I pause, a shiver going up my spine. I may be a virgin, but I know what he’s talking about, having read about it in my mom’s old romance books.

I swallow.

“What about the savory?” he asks.

“We can just put some tomatoes, chives, and cottage cheese,” I say, my voice still shaking slightly.

I prepare the savory mixture, spreading it while he finishes with the sweet crepes.

Chase sets down the bottle of syrup after dressing the last sweet crepe.

“Now what?”

“Now, the best part,” I say, folding the last savory crepe on my side of the table. “We eat.”

I grab a fork and dig into a sweet crepe, realizing I’m hungrier than when we started but trying not to gobble everything up. Chase, too, goes for a sweet crepe, even though he said he liked savory better. He puts half inside his mouth, nodding in approval then goes on to finish the other. As he does, a speck of the whipped cream gets caught on the corner of his lips.

Without thinking, I lift my hand and wipe it off with the pad of my thumb. As I do, my eyes clash with glistening pools of cobalt and I freeze, drowning in the desire I see in them, more intense than ever. My breath catches. My heart stops.

He parts his lips as if to say something, but no sound comes out.

My own tremble along with my hand as it falls to my side. His hand goes up to touch my cheek. Still holding my gaze, he leans forward until I can smell the alcohol and berries on his breath, which mixes with mine. I suddenly feel weak, my eyelids slowly falling shut. The iron length of an erection brushes against my inner-thigh as he comes closer and closer…

His lips scrape across mine, and my whole world flowers open, even with my eyes closed. His tongue is in my mouth, tasting so sweet and creamy, dancing against mine. Two strong hands slide over my ass and squeeze me hard against that iron length.

No bra… no pants... I feel utterly naked. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break my ribcage.

The loud creaking of a door opening upstairs shatters the spell.

My eyes fly open but my vision is still a blur. Chase is a blur as he grabs his beer, in front of me one moment and gone the next.

I just stand there, gripping the edge of the table as I breathe and try to keep my balance in spite of my shaking knees, my sex still pounding along with my heart.

What on earth just happened?

“Lauren? What are you doing still up?”

“Having a midnight snack,” I manage to answer, rubbing my cheeks before facing him and hoping that I don’t look as disoriented as I feel.

“Alone?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

I place a plate over the spot where Chase’s bottle was to conceal the mark it left there.

Dad approaches the table. “Crepes?”

“Yup.”

He looks at the crepes on the table. “But there are too many of them.”

“I know. I think I went overboard. I wasn’t able to eat much when I was sick, so I thought I’d sort of make up for it. Turns out I’m not that hungry after all.”

Dad frowns. “Well, what are you going to do with all these?”

“You can have some or give some to Smoke. If I remember correctly, he likes crepes. The horses might like it, too.”

I take off my apron, put it back on its peg, and pat my Dad’s shoulder.

“I’ll go back upstairs. You can just leave the dishes in the sink and I’ll wash them in the morning.”

Before he can say more, I dart up the stairs. I don’t want it to look like I’m running away but I’m afraid if I stay around my father, he’ll notice how flushed and out of breath I am.

My body is still burning and my panties are soaked.

Back in my bedroom, I lock the door. I’ve never done that before, but I somehow feel the need to do so this time. I think of changing my underwear so that I don’t feel so uncomfortable. I push it down my knees and ankles and step out of it, tossing it on top of the pile of laundry.

For a moment, I stand there with just my nightshirt on, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm myself down. But I can’t. I’m too excited, too riled up, Chase’s touches are embedded in my skin. My chest feels like it’s about to burst as my heart keeps doing cartwheels.

And it’s not just my chest.

I’m supposed to get new panties from my drawer. Instead, I find myself stepping back until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I let myself fall on top of it, my hand traveling beneath the hem of my nightshirt.

Closing my eyes and remembering Chase’s heated gaze, his hands on mine, I touch the inside of my thighs lightly then move further up, shivering as my fingers brush against my clit. I imagine him teasing that nub, playing with it as he played with one of the berries earlier.

I move my fingers even lower, shuddering in anticipation. When they reach the place where I’m pounding, melting, I gasp. I spread my legs wider, pulling my knees up so that my nightshirt wrinkles up to my waist. I begin stroking myself, imagining Chase’s fingers caressing me there like he caressed those crepes when he was folding them, picturing his gaze on me, watching me carefully.

In seconds, I come undone. I feel something burst, something hot and sticky seeping out of my trembling sex as I gasp for air and shake all over, my toes curling and my head making a dent on the mattress, my other hand clutching the sheets.

Opening my eyes, I stare blankly at the ceiling, lying still, my nightshirt still bunched up and my legs still spread.

I close them, placing my hands over my chest as I look out the window at the moonlit sky.

I still don’t know what happened exactly. My mind is still a mush like that crepe batter was before we cooked it, my body numb now that the desire is fading, my skin cooling.

All I know is that I’ll never look at making crepes the same way again.