Page 44 of Knot So Sweet
My tongue slides against hers, tasting, exploring. She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something uniquely her that makes me want more.
Her scent floods my senses with every breath. Vanilla and honey so concentrated I can taste it in the back of my throat. I breathe her in deep, letting it fill my lungs, saturate every cell. It's intoxicating. Better than anything I've ever experienced.
My tongue explores every part of her mouth. The soft inside of her lips. The smooth surface of her teeth. The warm velvet of her tongue as it tangles with mine. She makes small sounds of pleasure that vibrate through me, each one making my control slip further.
I pull back just enough to change the angle, then dive back in. Deeper this time. Thorough. Learning the taste and texture of her mouth like I'm memorizing a recipe. Every gasp, every moan, every small movement of her tongue against mine.
Her scent keeps intensifying, mixing with mine until the kitchen air is thick with it. Cinnamon and cardamom and vanilla and honey, all twisted together into something entirely new. Something that smells like us.
Her hands tug at my hair hard enough to make me growl. The sound rumbles between us and she responds by opening her mouth wider, inviting me in. I take everything she's offering, my tongue stroking against hers in a rhythm that makes her whimper.
I can't get enough. Can't get close enough. Can't taste enough of her. Every sweep of my tongue brings a new wave of her scent, a new taste, a new sound of pleasure.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen and wet from my kisses. Her eyes are dark and dazed. Her scent is so thick in the air I'm drunk on it.
"God," she breathes, and even that single word carries her scent, makes me want to lean in and taste it from her lips.
"Not done with you yet," I growl, and claim her mouth again.
11
XADEN
The kitchen's mine tonight. No staff. No servers. Just me, the silence, and Celine Dion playing on the speaker system in the restaurant, because apparently I'm feeling nostalgic.
I'm at the main prep station, wiping down surfaces that are already clean. The stainless steel gleams under the overhead lights, reflecting my movements back at me. My sleeves are rolled up to my elbows, black button-down already untucked from the dinner service hours ago. The fabric feels soft from too many washes, worn comfortable. Jeans instead of chef pants because I'm off the clock. Not that being off the clock stops me from being here.
I inhale the residual garlic and herbs with the faint char of the grill. Lemon from the sanitizer I've been using on surfaces. My own scent threads through it all, dark roast coffee and cedar wood, settling into the space I've claimed as mine.
Three years of running this place solo. Building something from nothing. Keeping my head down, my pack close, my life simple.
"All by myself," I hum along with Celine, my voice low in the empty kitchen. "Don't wanna be... all by myself..."
I move to check the burners even though I already checked them twice. Run my hand over the gleaming surface of the stove. The metal has cooled now, all the heat from dinner service long gone. I adjust a pan on the rack above, straightening it even though it doesn't require straightening.
Pathetic. But accurate.
The door swings open.
Vanilla and honey floods the kitchen so fast and so strong it forces me to grip the edge of the counter. My knuckles go white. My breath catches in my chest.
I turn around slowly, my hand gripping the counter like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
Violet stands in the doorway. The door swings shut behind her with a soft whoosh, and she's backlit by the hallway light for just a moment before she steps fully into the kitchen.
She wears one of Garrick's old Rise & Shine t-shirts. I recognize it immediately. Navy blue, faded from too many washes, the logo cracked and peeling. It hangs off one shoulder, the neckline stretched out and loose. Falls to mid-thigh on her smaller frame. Black leggings underneath hug curves, clinging to the line of her legs. Her feet are bare on my kitchen tile, toenails painted a pale pink.
Her dark hair is loose. It falls over her shoulders in waves that catch the overhead lights, turning gold in places. Messy, like she's been running her hands through it. Or maybe like she just rolled out of bed and came straight here.
The thought threatens my control.
"Sorry," she says, and her voice sounds soft in the quiet kitchen. Uncertain. "I heard music and thought... I didn't know you were still here."
Her scent intensifies as she moves closer. Takes a tentative step into the kitchen, then another. Vanilla and honey with something underneath. Something warmer. Richer. Deeper.
My alpha instincts recognize it immediately and roar to life in my chest.
Want.
