Episode 17: Warm Temptation
Sugar cleared her throat. “Well, I’m waiting for that birthday song.”
“How about I sing it to you in person?”
The loaded offer tempted her, but her house was a total mess, and she looked like a total mess. Actually, she looked death warmed over, and she preferred to suffer through the symptoms of her terrible cold alone, without him as a witness.
“That’s...not a good idea.”
“I’ll throw in a mean bowl of my homemade chicken noodle soup,” he proposed, charm in every word.
Sugar hadn’t eaten all day.
She had been too drained to drag herself out of bed to fix something.
“That would be delightful,” she moaned.
She wasn’t supposed to say that.
She was supposed to kindly reject that offer, too, but now that her desire was out in the open, it was too late to backpedal. It was too final to deny and run.
Chef knew the truth. He knew what she wanted, and she knew he would do exactly what he promised: give.
“Then it would be my pleasure to oblige,” he said, his seductive emphasis on the word pleasure sending an ocean of goosebumps across her brown skin. “What’s your address?”
Sugar took a deep breath, an odd mixture of regret and excitement coursing through her.
“Now, listen,” she began firmly. “I’ll give you my address, but don’t think it’s an invitation to show up whenever you want because it’s not. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” he replied, a slight amusement in his voice.
“I’ll text it to you,” she said.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he returned with a chuckle.
Unsure of what else to say, Sugar ended the call quickly and sent him a text containing her address as promised. Her heart throbbed violently within the prison of her ribcage as her fingers typed out every single letter and number needed to send him to her front doorstep. Almost immediately, she received a text message back from him.
She had changed his contact name from Do Not Answer to Maybe Answer.
A small step in the right direction for a skeptical woman.
Maybe Answer: Thank you. You won’t regret it.
“Too late,” she said softly before putting her cell down and trying to keep herself occupied by watching television again. She streamed a mystery thriller, losing track of time. About eighty minutes into the movie, the sound of her doorbell sliced through the air.
Her breath hitched in surprise, and her heart picked up in tempo.
Chef had arrived.
Sugar climbed out of bed, wobbly on her feet from the lightheadedness that swam around her stuffy head. Sniffling and coughing along the way, she made a slow trek through her house to the front door. She unlocked the door and sluggishly opened it to reveal Chef on her doorstep, holding a brown paper bag packed with groceries.
He wore a dark gray fitted shirt that stretched across his sculpted chest, torso, and arms. He had on pitch-black jeans with an imposing silvery skull as a buckle on his leather belt.
His gaze swept over her from head to toe.
Sugar knew she looked terrible. Her long, dark hair was a frizzy mess. Her skin was slick with a light coat of sweat. Her nose was slightly reddened and utterly stuffy. She had puffy dark circles underneath her tired eyes.
His eyes trailed back up the length of her body, settling on her chest. His face darkened with an unreadable emotion. She glanced down and immediately remembered that she wasn’t wearing a bra, so her breasts were free, and her erect nipples stood out against the fabric of her mid-thigh-length silk nightie.
Sugar was too exhausted and sick to react accordingly, such as covering herself up.
Instead, she stated deadpan, “I’m not putting on a bra.”
Chef grinned, settling back on her face again. “You won’t hear any complaints from me, sweetheart.”
She fought back a smile, moving to the side to allow him inside the house. She closed the door once he was inside and led him into the kitchen, turning on the light.
“I apologize for the wait. I wasn’t sure what you had, so I did some grocery shoppin’,” he explained as he placed the heavy-looking paper bag on the kitchen counter directly beside the stove. “Got caught up in the evenin’ rush. Long lines. Not enough checkout lanes open.”
“Words won’t do you any good for leaving a woman in need waiting,” Sugar said in a mildly teasing tone as she stepped up to the counter beside him and peeked inside the brown paper bag, “I’ll take the ‘mean’ chicken noodle soup you promised as a proper apology.”
Spices, fresh vegetables, raw chicken, and much more were piled inside the bag. Sugar peered at him, impressed by his selection of ingredients.
“You should go back to bed and rest while I do some dirty work,” he said.
“You’ve only been in my house less than five minutes, and you’re already bossing me around,” she chaffed, arching a delicate eyebrow. “What happened to the whole ‘you give, I take’ spiel?”
Chef bent his head so his face lingered just above hers as she looked up at him. “I gave you an order, and I expect you to take it, so I can take care of you.”
Sugar eased a little closer to him and stared him down with challenging defiance in her eyes, tapping an index finger against his defined right pectoral. “You promised a birthday song, chicken noodle soup, and nothing more. Nowhere during our phone call did you ever mention—nor did I agree to—the idea of you taking care of me. And just to be clear, I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
“Too bad ‘cause I’m gonna,” he returned.
“What makes you think I’m gonna let you? I could kick you out of my house anytime I want to.”
“You could,” Chef agreed with a nod, “but you won’t ‘cause deep down you wanna know what it feels like to be taken care of by me. You wanna know how I’m gonna pamper you.”
A bolt of arousal struck her hard.
“Sounds a lot like romance to me,” she breathed, her voice shakier than she wanted.
A slight grin quirked on his lips. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“It’s not what I want to call it,” she returned. “I don’t want romance. I want—“
“I know exactly what you need,” he cut her off smoothly.
She scoffed. “And what’s that, Chef?”
“To go back to bed and rest,” he paused, the right corner of his mouth lifting a smidgen while those gorgeous stormy eyes danced with a challenge—a promise he intended to keep. “Unless you want me to put you to bed myself.”
Sugar swallowed hard. “Now, I wonder if you often put women to bed, Chef.”
“I believe in quality over quantity. I’ve put very few women to bed, but when I did, they enjoyed it immensely,” he replied. “So, what’s it gonna be, Sugar? You gonna go to bed willingly, or do you want me to tuck you in myself?”
“I’ll tuck myself into bed,” she informed him stubbornly, even though every fiber of her screamed in protest at her decision. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
“What a shame,” Chef said. “I was lookin’ real forward to carryin’ you in my arms back to your room.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Sugar said, pretending to sympathize as she sauntered out the kitchen.
