Page 34 of Almost Paradise

“What on earth are you doing?” she finally asks. She moves from the wall and sits on the kitchen countertop. I look around until I find a cutting board.

“I’m making us dinner since you only offered me tea.”

“Well, I don’t cook,” she says.

“Really? For someone who doesn’t cook, your fridge sure is stocked with food.” And it’s fresh food, not processed junk.

“My mom fills my fridge every week.” She shrugs.

“Your mom?” I ask with a laugh.

“She comes over about once a week and cooks for me. Or she’ll bring me food, but she couldn’t come this week. She’s visiting her sister in New York. My daddy says I’m spoiled.”

I bet she is, and I’d like nothing more than to have the opportunity to spoil her even more.

“Good thing I’m here to cook or all this food would go to waste. How about a real drink?”

She eyes me up and down, probably still not trusting me or my motives, but I ignore her and focus on the food. I open the packet of chicken and start to cut the meat into cubes. I started watching cooking shows in graduate school and then started cooking for myself. I discovered I not only liked to cook, but I was also very good at it.

“White wine or I can mix whiskey sours. That’s the only drink I know how to make.”

“Whiskey sours, please.”

I make chicken stir fry, and while we’re on our second drink, she sets the little table in the corner. I plate our food and bring it over.

“I could get used to this,” she says after her second forkful. “This is delicious.” She reaches over to my plate and takes a piece of my chicken. She smiles at me when she does it, and I smile back. I take a piece and offer it to her. She opens her mouth, and I slowly pull the fork out. “Where did a rich boy like you learn to cook?”

“I’m a rich boy of many talents,” I say. I learned long ago to never lie or minimize how rich I am. It comes off as insincere. Besides, she works for my father’s company, so she knows. We live an affluent and public life.

Once we’re done, she clears the table and makes another drink. She doesn’t ask me to leave, so I follow her to the living room.

“I’m going to find a boyfriend who can cook.” She throws herself on the couch and pats her stomach. I sit at the end and put her feet on my lap. “And no more drinks for you. You can stay until you feel good enough to drive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. I don’t know what possesses me, but I take her hand and pull her up into a sitting position. She’s little, and I lift her and put her on my lap. She straddles me and I run my finger down her smooth cheek. Her lips pout, and I lean in. She comes closer, but she doesn’t kiss me.

“You can’t be my first white boy,” she whispers above my lips.

“Why can’t I be?” I ask.

“Because you’re—” I finally get to taste those perfect pouty lips. Whatever she was going to say gets swallowed up by my kiss. I don’t start off slow. I devour her, loving the taste and smell of her. She moans in my mouth. I cup the back of her head and deepen the kiss.

While my mouth ravages hers, I stroke her back, sliding my hand underneath her crop top. I stroke the soft skin at her lower back. Emboldened by her moans, I slide my hand into her shorts and cup her ass. Each cheek fits in my hand perfectly. Her ass is like a perfectly shaped small peach.

“I want you,” I say against her mouth. She pulls away and looks into my eyes. Her breasts rise up and down with each deep breath. She bites her lip and looks down. I know she can see the evidence of my desire.

“But you’re Drake Paradise,” she says. That usually has the opposite effect and gets me any woman I want.

“And you’re Nia Nash. Lovely to meet you.” I bow my head. When I look back up, she’s grinning.

“What happens on Monday morning when we go back to work?”

“We can figure that out on Monday. Let’s live in the moment.”

I wrap my arms around her and rest my head on her chest. Her breasts are soft and perky, and I can’t wait until I can touch and kiss them. When she starts to pull my T-shirt up, I lift my head so she can take it off. She tosses it to the floor, and I finally get to take her crop top off. She has no bra, and her breasts bounce in front of me, making my mouth water. I attack one of her nipples, and her hand slides through my hair.

“Oh, God,” she moans.

I lick her nipple and blow on it. She grinds on me. With her in my arms, I stand and walk to the back of the apartment. Her bedroom is small. It barely has room for her full-sized bed and dresser. I drop her on the bed and pull her shorts and underwear off. She reaches for my pants, and I let her undo my belt and pull them off.

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