I do what I need to do almost on autopilot because my thoughts are occupied with a certain husband that disappeared after our first kiss. It’s frankly embarrassing how many times I’ve relived that short kiss in the week since we’ve been married. It feels like every minute of every hour has been taken up reliving the rush of emotion that hit me when our lips met.
But it’s not just an emotional wave—it’s a physical one, too. And that kiss, the memory of it, I’ve been amplifying every detail I can remember. Turning it over like a pebble in my hand again and again, memorizing every edge, every angle. Examining each facet and savoring it.
I think about the way he smelled like open sky and winter nights in a cedar cabin. I remember the rough scratch of his beard where it was growing in, scraping across my lips and cheeks. The feeling of his fingers on the back of my neck holding me close with gentle pressure. The hard edges of callouses on his fingers. Hands like that could only come from hours of hard work in the hot sun.
Shit, the thought of Clayton sweating, shirtless, on that ranch? It does things to me. Things that I’m not really prepared to confront, but neither am I able to give them up. Even though I’m standing in front of a hot stove, preparing a sauce that needs to be watched like a newborn baby, my mind wanders back to that kiss. To those ten seconds a week ago. I should be paying attention to my work but I’m not. I’m sinking into the same daydream that I’ve been having the last few days.
It started with simple curiosity. Would the callouses that I felt on his fingers feel different elsewhere? Feel better elsewhere? When I’m alone in my bed, I let myself imagine what it would be like if that kiss had continued, and we had been alone. What would it be like to feel my husband undress me? Would his fingers shake as he unbuttoned my dress? Would he take his time and tease me? Or would he rush, unable to wait another second before he touched my bare skin?
Really touched me.
Would it feel like fire to have those hard fingers stroke across my ribs and touch my breasts? Would he be gentle?
No. I don’t think he would be.
Nothing about Clayton Burgess seems gentle to me. Everything about him seems harsh and rock hard. I’d be lying to myself if I believed that I didn’t want to feel every inch of that rock hard body against me and inside me. I can only imagine that sex with Clayton Burgess would be wild and rough and life changing.
He’s already changed my life completely and he’s only kissed me once.
No matter how much I want to see my brand-new husband again, I won’t. This is a contract. Business. Nothing more. I only knew him for an hour. There isn’t any reason for me to get hung up over it. It’s a new revenue stream. A direct deposit once a month.
But business arrangement or not, I can’t ignore the way my memory of him makes me shiver, and the fact that I plan to thoroughly try to get over him with my vibrator once I get home tonight.
I pour the sauce over the entrée, and a hand slides down my ass. For a split second I think that I’ve gone insane, and that my power of imagination has become so heightened that I can feel Clayton’s hand so clearly on my ass.
But then reality hits, and it’s not Clayton’s hand, it’s Solomon’s.
I blink, frozen.
Solomon’s hand is on my ass.
What the hell?
Moving on instinct, I slap his hand, forcing it away from my body as quickly as possible. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask. It’s not loud enough to draw attention—the kitchen is already so loud—but I speak firmly.
He honestly looks shocked. “I thought I made it clear last week that I was interested.”
I shake my head. “And did I ever give any indication that I was interested back? I did not. Not only am I not interested but given that you’re the head chef and I’m a junior one, it’s beyond inappropriate.” I glance around, but there’s no one paying attention to us.
Solomon rolls his eyes. “Please, Rachel. I’ll define what’s appropriate and inappropriate in my kitchen. And I’m interested in you. I mentioned a promotion, and I plan on giving you one. You should consider being more grateful.”
Cold fear runs through me. “So you planned on giving me a promotion only because you’re expecting to sleep with me?”
He smirks. “Not because of that, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt. You’re a talented chef and I’m a talented chef. We’re both smoking hot. We could be the power couple that takes the culinary world by storm.” The smirk grows deeper, verging on a leer. “And if in the meantime I get you to scream my name, that’s just a bonus.”
“That is never going to happen,” I spit out, fighting against my instinct to gag. The first head turns toward us, and I see Solomon notice. “The kitchen is too hot. I need a minute.”
It takes every bit of my willpower not to sprint all the way through the kitchen to the alley. It isn’t until I burst through the door that I realize I’m holding my wedding ring through my shirt like it can protect me from the possessive looks that Solomon was giving me. The way he touched my ass as if he already owned it.
The cool air feels good in my lungs.
“Rough night?”
Miguel is leaning against the wall tapping out something on his phone. He
