Graham

All day Friday at the office, all I can think about is CJ. Making love to CJ. How sweet and sexy and incredible she was last night, and how much I need to have her naked in my arms again, calling my name while she comes on my cock, ASA-fucking-P.

We’re more than halfway through our seven days, and there’s still so much ground left to cover, so many lessons left to learn . . .

The afternoon is a full course in patience, as CJ and I exchange mutually frustrated text messages about how intolerable it is to have to remain clothed and in separate offices in different parts of the city all day.

The evening is a master class in anticipation as I treat CJ to happy hour martinis and my fingers skimming up the inside of her thigh beneath the tablecloth at our corner booth.

Friday night begins with a lesson in how much fun we can have in the shower together, with nothing but body wash and a fresh sponge. It ends with a four-hour tutorial in going nearly all night long.

Never has exhaustion been so sweet.

Saturday morning dawns with a warm yellow glow through the curtains that has me up and at ’em, even though I closed my eyes less than five hours ago.

But I’m full of energy. I finally have an entire day stretching out in front of me with nothing but CJ in it. No work. No meetings. Just full-immersion sex education for the next forty-eight hours. I kiss her softly on her forehead, slide quietly out of bed, and head down the hall to the kitchen with a spring in my step.

I whistle as I start the coffeepot and dig deep in the drawers for the pans I rarely use. Sure, there’s a voice in my head warning that there’s no reason to be so excited—this sex fling is going to be over tomorrow night and there will be no more lessons, no more CJ in my bed, no more waking up with her warm and delicious in my arms—but I ignore that voice.

No buzz-killing on the menu today. Just buzz-encouraging.

Which means pancakes and extra-dark French roast coffee.

Now if I can just find that pan . . .

The one you use to, um, cook things . . .

* * *

CJ

I wake up feeling like I barely survived one of the hard-core boot-camp weekends Chloe drags me to every June before bathing suit season.

I’m sore in every single one of my muscles, even ones I wasn’t aware existed until they started aching. My brain is a sluggish lump sitting heavily in my skull, refusing to think thoughts more eloquent than “Coffee now. Coffee good,” and I’m so exhausted I’m pretty sure I’m going to need assistance to drag my butt out of this heavenly soft bed.

Oh yeah . . . and I’m also completely giddy.

Graham is mine for the weekend, and I refuse to let anything get in the way of my last two days with him. Two days of Graham making me feel earth-shattering, mind-blowing, perspective-revolutionizing things that have made it abundantly clear what the fuss is all about. The fuss is about orgasms and more orgasms and yet even more orgasms delivered by a sexy-as-hell man who tells me that I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

I sigh as my mouth begins to water. I’m not sure if it’s memories of Graham, or the scent of vanilla and sugar in the air, but I’m suddenly starving.

After a full-body stretch, I swing my feet to the floor and pull on one of Graham’s T-shirts and a pair of panties.

I find him in the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a chef’s apron. Only Graham could mix adorable and sexy so well.

A skillet sizzles on the stove. Oblivious to my presence, he hustles about the kitchen, pulling items from the refrigerator, setting them on the counter, and rushing back to the stove where the sweet smell is coming from.

Pancakes?

I sneak quietly up behind him to plant my elbows on the center island. “Well, well. I didn’t know you cooked.”

Graham spins with a slightly harried smile. “Good morning, Butterfly. How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead,” I confess. “But in a good way.”

He grins. “Me, too. And yes, I like to use the kitchen once a year or so, so it doesn’t feel neglected.”

“Biannually, eh?” I shake my head as I tease, “I’m thinking that doesn’t bode well for the quality of these pancakes.”

He places the bowl of batter on the counter and snatches his spatula from near the sink, where several other bowls of lumpy batter have apparently already been discarded. “You wound me, Murphy. Here I am, slaving over a hot stove to feed your sexy body pancakes and—”

“Graham, I think—”

“And you’re insulting my cooking prowess before you’ve even—”

“Graham,” I say more urgently as smoke begins to rise behind him.

“—tasted the fruits of my labor or—”

“Graham, the stove,” I break in, jabbing a finger at the skillet, where tendrils of brown smoke are quickly turning black. “Your pancakes are burning.”

Graham whirls around. “Shit.” He snatches the entire pan—charred mess and all—from the stove and practically tosses it into the sink before turning on the water, sending the smell of soggy, burning batter whooshing through the kitchen.

“Exhaust!” I hurry around the island and flip the exhaust switch. Immediately, the cloud of smoke begins to clear.

I turn to Graham, who is looking positively sheepish with his spatula in one hand and a potholder in the other, and I burst out laughing. “Give me that.” I take his spatula and use it to make shooing motions. “Make way for a professional. You clearly need a proper class in when to flip your pancake.”

His brows bob playfully up and down. “That sounds dirty. I didn’t know you wanted to flip my pancake.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say in my best sexy voice, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I grab the least offensive bowl of batter from the counter. “Get me a fresh skillet, baby. The student is about to become the teacher.”

Graham offers a snappy salute. “Yes, ma’am. One fresh skillet coming up.”

Ten minutes later, I’ve instructed my eager pupil in the proper temperature, timing, and flipping technique to achieve perfectly browned pancakes every time. And I actually manage to get a small stack of ready-to-eat hotcakes stacked on a plate next to the stove before Graham circles his arms around me, and my devotion to the curriculum begins to wander.

“You are so hot right now.” His fingers slip beneath my T-shirt to skim my ribs as he kisses my neck. “All bossy, taking charge of my kitchen . . .”

“Someone had to take you in hand.” I bite my lip as his palms glide higher. “You’re clearly a pancake-flipping virgin.”

“You’re so right.” He cups my breasts, making my next breath rush in on a gasp of awareness as his thumb brushes across my nipple. “And so generous and patient with me. I wonder how I can ever repay you.”

Flipping off the heat to the burner, I lean against him, offering him unimpeded access, glancing over my shoulder to meet his gaze as I whisper, “I have a few ideas about repayment.”

“Oh, yeah?” He somehow manages to maintain his innocent expression even as he rolls my nipples harder, making me fight to hold in a moan. “Might they have anything to do with a lesson in up-against-the-refrigerator sex?”

I lick my lips, pressing them tight together as hunger floods my every cell. “I think refrigerator sex is a good start. Though, I may require further payment after breakfast. I have some questions about alternative uses for maple syrup that I would like to explore.”

Graham makes a contemplative sound deep in his throat. “Tell me more.”

But before I can answer, and tell him exactly what I have in mind for syrup, he’s captured my mouth with his, sending the taste of sweet, sugary coffee and Graham flooding through my mouth.

And it is as fantastic as always.

The best taste. My favorite taste.

Pancakes are definitely going to have to wait.