Page 43 of Show Off

If I didn’t know him, I might feel afraid. But this is Dal we’re talking about—the man I’ve wanted for months,years. His aggression only fans the flames.

He’s kissing the tops of my breasts now, one large hand curled tight at my waist. I’m melting. I’m drowning in heat, liquid pooling between my thighs. My nipples ache with need, but he’s not even close to them. An inch and a half separates his lips and the sensitive tips pressing sharp against my silk cami.

I’ve never wanted anyone this much.

Dal groans and drags his mouth off my flesh. His dark eyes flash in the warm kitchen light. “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”

“Do I look like I want you to stop?”

He searches my eyes, jaw clenching. “I can’t tell sometimes with you.”

“Can’t tell what?” I’m aching and throbbing and seconds away from humping his leg.

“If you feel it for real or you’re doing a job.” He flinches at his own words. “Not a job. I just—” A growl rips his way up his throat. “I don’t trust myself sometimes to read the signs.”

His accusation, his confession, swings me from lust to anger to need. I’m dizzy from the back and forth. From the aching urge to keep kissing him. Searching his eyes, I don’t see mistrust.

I see a man who wants desperately to believe.

So I take a step back and grab the hem of my top. “In that case,” I breathe, tugging it over my head, “let me be crystal clear.”

CHAPTER6

CONFESSIONAL 1128.5

Yang, Dal (Head Chef, Serenade: Juniper Ridge)

Trust is a chef’s best ingredient.

Not just your front-of-house team or the sous chef sweating on the line beside you. I mean cooking itself. You throw a knob of butter and a splash of balsamic in your hot skillet, you know every time you’ll get a deglazed pan and a perfect beurre noir. It’s science, right?

Science and trusting your instincts as a chef.

[glares at camera]

Yes, every fucking time.

Mostly.

Fine. I’m not fucking foolproof, okay?

* * *

Istare in tongue-tied awe as Lana drops her top. It floats to the floor in a cloud of pink silk as her thumbs hook the band of her shorts. “I want you, Dal.” She shimmies the silk down over her hips and lets them fall at her feet in a whisper.

Her eyes don’t leave mine as she kicks them aside. “Clear enough for you?”

I make a strangled noise like a man going under, which I guess I am. I’m drowning in my need to taste her.

“Jesus.” I gape like I’ve never seen breasts before. “You’re unreal.”

“Oh, trust me, buddy.” She sticks out her chest and hooks a hand on her bare hip. “They’re very real.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I swallow hard, fighting to get blood back in my brain. “I just meant?—”

“I know what you meant.” Her chin tips up and I remember all over again why I’m nuts about her. It’s this crazy blend of sweetness and spice, of boldness and unbearable softness.

I need to say this first. “I respect you.”

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