I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m the CEO of a major corporation with hundreds of employees. For crying out loud. A self-made millionaire who worked her way up from literally nothing to become the kind of woman that girls all across America aspire to become. When Beyonce asks who runs the world, I’m the answer.

And what am I doing right now? Chopping potatoes for a pot roast I’m making so that I can impress a guy with my cooking skills. A guy who lied to me about who he was so he could get in my pants!

Okay, I suppose that’s not exactly true. But there’s no still no denying the fact that I’m making pot roast for the first time since I was an adolescent, and I’m doing it for a boy. There has to be some sort of lesson there, but whatever it is, I can’t see it. All I know is he damn well better appreciate it.

Ben—I mean Justin, I can’t believe I still have to catch myself—suggested that I come to his penthouse and have dinner brought it, but I made the counter-offer of cooking for him at my place. I get that he was trying to make up for being closed off before, but I’m not ready to give him the home court advantage just yet. He needs to work for this.

Although he’s already done a lot on that front by bringing me up to speed on Darryl. I knew he was born a trust-fund baby into a family of real estate developers, and if he’d just stuck to that, he’d probably have turned out fine. How did Justin put it? “Darryl could have simply lived off the family fortune and spent his time jet-setting around the globe and being an entitled asshole. No one gets hurt that way.”

But that’s not what he did. Instead, he decided that he was smarter than everyone else, so he leveraged the Lawrence name around the city to get loans that let him start dabbling in a dozen different types of businesses. There’s nothing wrong with that on its own, as long as the person knows what they’re doing. But Lawrence is so monumentally arrogant, and more than a little stupid, so he thinks he can run all these companies himself.

He runs them, all right—straight into the ground.

Justin said Darryl’s holding company is in a lot of trouble right now, which explains why he’s suing for more of an interest in PinkBook. He must be as dums as Justin says he is if he thinks he’s going to somehow get more stock that he already has for his paltry investment of $15,000. Sure, we needed it at the time, but we could have cobbled it together somehow without him. And it’s not like he’s done anything since then except collect his dividends, so any judge would laugh the suit out of court.

But Justin’s worried that about the timing of it, and that Darryl will use the threat of bad press to force me into settling instead of going to court. If Darryl truly believes that’s going to happen, then he’s even stupider than we thought. He’s messing with the wrong woman.

The fact that said woman just happens to be making a pot roast for a man right now is beside the point.

My hands make the magic happen as all this runs through my mind. Even though I haven’t made pot roast in over a decade, it’s still part of my muscle memory from childhood. Slicing the carrots and potatoes and onions and mushrooms, shredding the garlic with a serrated ceramic dish so that it becomes a paste, toasting the rosemary just the tiniest bit to bring out as much flavor as possible. And the secret ingredient: homemade marmalade.

The key to the meat itself is to choose the right cut. My mother taught me that cooking pot roast slowly is what makes it taste so good. When you grill a steak, you want a nice, tender, well-marbled cut like a rib-eye because it cooks quickly and the fat provides the flavor. But with pot roast, the tougher the beef, the better the roast will be when it’s done cooking because the muscle fibers hold flavor until it’s released by the cooking liquid and heat over time.

Speaking of liquid, I uncork the wine I bought specifically for this roast and measure out a cup. It’s a syrah that will compliment the marmalade and balsamic vinegar in the roast, and that we can drink with the meal as well. I splurged on it, but I figured if Justin can pay $30,000 for a bottle, I can afford $750. Every fiber of my upbringing was screaming “wasteful, wasteful” as I handed the gal at the vintner’s my black AMEX card, but hey—every once in a blue moon I have to remind myself that yeah, I’m rich, bitch. I’m just not Justin Lucas rich.

Yet.

I click on the slow cooker and turn my attention to the dough for the rolls I’m going to bake. I make these quite often as gifts for friends, so they’re even easier to do from memory. Once those are in the oven, I’ll get started on the butter with a pint of fresh cream I picked up from the Union Square Greenmarket and my mixer. It won’t be like when I was young and churning it with cream straight from the cow, but it’s a close second. And I’m willing to bet Justin won’t be able to tell the difference.

* * *

I’m mid-swipe on a Candy Crush level when the doorbell rings and I almost jump out of my seat. Great start, Sarah, I scold myself. You’re supposed to be playing this cool.

My reflection looks damn good in the hallway mirror: hair neat but not really styled, just a touch of blush in my cheeks, nothing on my eyes but mascara, and no lipstick. Like I said, Justin’s going to have to work for this.

I smooth my skirt and open the door on Justin’s smiling face. He’s shaved for the occasion, and his hint of cologne smells of musk and sandalwood, with just the tiniest floral note. He’s dressed down in a casual short-sleeved shirt and jeans that are loose in the right areas and tight in the wrong ones. The combination of it all sends an electric tingle runs through my belly and down to my groin, and suddenly all my bravado threatens to go flying out the window.

No, Sarah. You’re stronger than that.

“Come in,” I say, trying to sound breezy.

He hands me a bottle as he enters, and my heart gives a little thud as I realize it’s the same stuff from our lunch yesterday.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I protest, even though I’m thrilling on the inside at the thought of another taste. “It’s—”

“Wasteful?” he finishes. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to that around me. I make an awful lot of money.”

“If you do say so yourself.” Prideful, my father’s voice says in my mind.

“I’m just being honest.” His grin is a thousand watts easy, and it makes me quiver. “I don’t want to keep anymore secrets. And it’s a fact that I’m very wealthy.”

“I suppose I asked for that, didn’t I?” I sigh. “Well, I hope you’re not expecting the same kind of meal we had at the Blackthorn.”

“Not at all. I eat there all the time. When you said you were making dinner, it was all I could do to not just rush over right that minute. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in—you know, I honestly can’t remember the last one.”

I lead him into the kitchen and set the wine on the counter. He sniffs the air and suddenly his expression changes, like a wolf catching the scent of his prey. For the briefest second, I wonder if he’s somehow smelling me and the desire that I’m trying to keep bottled up. What if he was to grab me right now and carry me to the bedroom and throw me on the bed and just…

“Is that pot roast?” he breathes, his eyes wide.

That brings me back to reality.

“Sorry,” I say. “That’s probably not what you expected. I make a pretty mean one, though, if I do say so myself.”

There I go already apologizing for the meal. Get it together, girl! You’re in charge here, not him!

If I keep telling myself that, maybe I’ll eventually believe it.

“God, I haven’t had pot roast since I was a kid,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Does that mean you like it, or that you hated it so much you stopped eating it?”

“I love it. Stella used to make it for me whenever I did well on a test at school.” He gives me a wry half-grin. “Which meant I didn’t get it very often.”

The joke is an attempt to distract from the obvious emotion in his voice. I heard it the last time he talked about Stella, too.

“She sounds like a very special woman,” I say. “You should talk about her more often.”

He clears his throat and grabs the bottle he brought.

“What we should do is open this up.”

He’s obviously not in the mood, so I reach behind me on the counter and grab the bottle of syrah that I used on the roast.

“I’ve already got one open,” I say, grabbing a pair of glasses from the cupboard. “Let’s finish it off. I’d kind of like to save your bottle for a special occasion.”

“Any time I get to see you is a special occasion.” His fingers brush mine as I hand him his glass, sending another electric jolt down my belly.

Steady, girl, my brain warns.

But another part of me is telling my brain to shut up and mind its own business.

* * *

“Seriously? You made this?”

“Sure,” I say. “It’s just butter.”

On the outside I’m all casual, but inside I’m preening at the fact that he’s so impressed by it. He’s savoring each bite like it’s the tasting menu at some snooty Paris restaurant instead of my kitchen in SoHo.

“It’s incredible,” he says. “All of it. I mean, the roast is better than Stella’s ever hoped to be. And these buns are phenomenal. You could serve this meal at Tavern on the Green. Hell, at the Blackthorn, where they don’t even put the prices on the menu because they’re so high.”

I feel warm blood in my face. “Oh, come on. It’s not as good as all that.”

Justin wipes a bun over the surface of his plate to mop of what’s left of his third helping of roast and gravy. Then he pops it in his mouth and chews slowly, his eyes closed.

“It’s more than as good as all that,” he says through his food. “And it’s not just the taste, Sarah. It’s the fact that you made all of it with your own two hands. In your kitchen. I don’t even know where my kitchen is.”

I let out an involuntary giggle, and he smiles. Every time he does, my resolve gets weaker and weaker.

“It’s just cooking. I’ve been doing it since I was a little girl. My earliest memories are of standing on a stool next to my mother, peeling vegetables. It’s just part of life in an Amish community.”

“Except then it was a job, or at least that’s how you made it out to sound. Like it was something that was expected if you.”

“It was,” I say simply.

He nods. “See, that’s what I mean. I didn’t expect you to do all this tonight.” He waves a hand over the spread on the dining table. “You didn’t have to do this. Believe me, I would have been just fine with ordering in a pizza. But instead, you went out of your way to make something that stirred up memories of some of the best times of my life.”

His eyes are glistening with emotion, and again I’m overwhelmed with the thought of how lonely he must have been growing up. I may have disagreed with almost everything my parents stood for, and I may have fought with my brother at every turn, and I may barely see my family at all anymore, but I’ve never once questioned the fact that they love me.

Justin didn’t have that for the majority of his life. And even when he did, it was stolen from him by circumstances outside of his control.

“I’ll cook for you anytime you want,” I croak. It’s out of my mouth before I even think about it. “You just say the word. Wait till you try my chicken and dumplings.”

Next thing I know, he’s got my hand in his and his thumb is stroking my fingers.

“God, what I wouldn’t do for your dumplings,” he husks, his steel-grey eyes burning a hold in me.

The touch of his skin on mine is like fire. There’s no denying what’s happening down below anymore, and for the first time ever, I don’t even care. I’ve made him work hard enough.

But not as hard as I’m going to.

Suddenly he shakes his head and breaks eye contact, letting go of my hand.

“I can’t believe I just said that,” he mutters. “That was a wonderful moment and I made it—”

“Shut up,” I breath as I reach across the table and pull his mouth onto mine. They touch and instantly our tongues are entwined like snakes, each wrestling for dominance over the other.

He pulls back for a moment. “Sarah, are you—”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

I zip around to his side of the table in the blink of an eye and we wrap ourselves around each other again. I can feel the steel of his erection straining against his jeans, and I press my groin into it as hard as I can. The heat and pressure there inspires a delicious itch that’s begging to be scratched.

And he’s going to scratch it. Nothing can stop that now.

“Justin,” I moan as my lips move to his ear. “It’s time.”

He responds by reaching under my skirt and clutching my ass, pulling me even closer to his hard cock. I gasp at the sheer animalism of it, the primal urge behind it. With two deft move, I release my skirt and it drops to a puddle on the floor.

Justin lifts me out of it and I wrap my legs around his waist. The thought that I’m finally giving into the hunger I’ve been feeling since we first met gives me the freedom to pursue the pleasure with abandon. He takes the hint and soon his hands are roaming under my blouse, unhooking my bra.

“Sarah,” he sighs. “Finally.”

My naked buttocks get a bit of a shock as he drops me on the edge of the cold granite countertop. His right hand quickly finds the buttons of my blouse while his left undoes his belt and the top of his jeans. The moves are fumbling and awkward, but his desperation to get naked and get at me just turns up the heat between my legs.

I shiver uncontrollably when his lips wrap around my nipple for the first time in what seems like ages, even though it’s only been weeks. Meanwhile, my hand has found his hot steel shaft and is giving it all the attention it deserves. His jeans and shorts suffer the same fate as my skirt and slump to the floor. He stops for a moment and grabs the tail of his shirt, not even bothering to unbutton it, to pull it over his head. A second later he’s fully naked in front of me, and it almost takes my breath away.

“Now you,” he growls, yanking my G-string under my ass and down my legs before tossing it across the room. It lands on the faucet and dangles there like a sleazy rearview mirror souvenir from a bachelor party.

That thought turns me on even more.

Our mouths come together again as our hands continue to explore. Now his fingers are inside me, bringing me dangerously close to a threshold I don’t want to cross yet. Not here in the kitchen.

And definitely not from his fingers.

“Bedroom,” I pant in his ear.

“Uh-huh.” It sounds like an animal grunt.

He lifts me into his arms and carries me down the hall to the back of my flat. Before I know it, I’m sailing through the air as he tosses me onto the bed as if I weighed no more than a doll. He stalks towards the bed as I prop myself up on my elbows. The sheer hunger in his eyes sparks fresh wetness between my legs.

I see him move to drop to his knees, so I spring forward and catch him by the shoulders.

“Me first,” I say, and it sounds like a command.

Justin swallows hard and nods—as if he had a choice—so I kneel in front of him and gaze at the tip of that huge, hard cock. My hands reach up to clutch his sculpted ass cheeks while my lips slide ever so slowly over the tip. He lets out a long, slow breath of pleasure with each passing inch, each hot slide of my tongue.

“Unnnhhhh…”

A crazy thought flashes through my head: the Rumspringa’s on me, and it won’t be denied.

“Sarah,” he sighs as his fingers tangle through my hair. He doesn’t pull, just holds me while I take him all the way in.

Without even realizing it, I’ve been working my own fingers into my wet opening, driving myself closer to that moment where I’ll lose control. Finally, after I think he’s had enough, I give Justin’s cock one last, delicate kiss and pull myself back up. I lock eyes with him as I lay back down on the bed, pulling him down with me.

“I want to taste you,” he purrs in my ear.

“Not this time,” I whisper back.

He gasps as I reach down and grab his shaft again. My legs part and wrap around his lower back while I pull him towards my steamy opening.

“Are you sure?” he gasps. “I don’t have—”

I put a finger against his lips. “I went to the doctor before we—well, before that last night together. I’m ready.” I press my lips against his ear. “For anything and everything.”

He responds reflexively, plunging his shaft deep inside me on the first thrust and making me gulp in air like a fish on land.

“I’m sorry!” he gasps.

“No,” I sigh. “No, it’s good. Oh, God, so good.”

My arms wrap around his neck and pull him to me as he begins his strokes. They’re long and slow, but strong at the end as he tilts his hips upwards. Suddenly I’m quivering as a bolt of lightning races from the spot he strikes all the way into my belly.

“Holy shit. I’ve never—”

“I told you I was good,” he pants, his grin wolfish and predatory.

I grip his shoulders as his thrusts start to come faster and stronger. Each one ends with that same jolt of pleasure, that deep ache that makes me shudder and struggle for breath. Justin tilts backwards until he’s sitting on his thighs. Then his powerful hands reach under my ass and pull me upwards and into him, until every one of his hard strokes is hitting home right where they need to.

“Justin,” I moan. “Finally…”

His breathing is ragged now and his fingers find the little button at the top of my opening, and suddenly the world turns into a Technicolor kaleidoscope of images and silent sounds. All I’m aware of is the shuddering pleasure inside me and the animal grunts that accompany his thrusts.

“I can’t hold on,” he pants.

“Let go!” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Oh God, I’m… it’s…”

One last tilt of his hips and I feel an explosion between my thighs, carrying me up into the stratosphere. His breath gusts into my ear as my own blows back the hair above his forehead, our bodies rocking and shuddering in time with each other, until finally I can’t hold myself up and longer and I collapse onto my back into a puddle of sweat.

Justin falls on top of me, holding himself up on shaky arms, his heaving chest pressed against my breasts. Suddenly an aftershock hits, and my legs clutch around his waist to pull myself into him one last time.

“Huhhhh….” The sound comes out of my mouth like air escaping from a balloon.

“Sarah,” he sighs. “Jesus, that was…”

I save him from having to come up with an adverb by planting my lips against his and invading his mouth with my tongue. He responds in kind, and we spend long, slow seconds doing that instead of ruining the moment with more words.

* * *

“I definitely like Justin better than Ben,” I say as we lie entangled on top of the bed, our sweat drying in the cool air.

Justin chuckles softly. “And Justin likes what you do with him, too.”

“I guess I should make pot roast more often.”

He rolls onto his elbow to gaze down at me.

“It wasn’t the food,” he says. “It was what it meant.”

I press my finger against his lips again with a smile. I don’t want to dive into the deep end just yet. Who knows where this is going to go? All I know for sure right now is that there’s an incredibly desirable naked man next to me in bed, and we have lots of time.

He gets the hint and lies back again.

“Don’t going falling asleep,” I warn. “We’re not done yet.”

He reaches out and takes my hand in his, then places it on his cock, which is already throbbing and hot to the touch.

“Does that feel like we’re done?” he asks. “I remember someone saying anything and everything earlier.”

I grin and give in to the ache that’s already starting anew deep inside.

Turns out pot roast isn’t the only thing that brings Justin Lucas back for thirds. And I match him every single step of the way.