Page 23 of Sweetest Temptation
I ignored the heat creeping up my neck, slid the tray into the oven, and turned to face him, chin high. “Don’t get kicked out.” I huffed.
Samir chuckled, low and amused, the sound wrapping around the kitchen like smoke. “You’d miss me too much, baby.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for the torch, setting it down with a little more force than necessary. “Don’t flatter yourself.The only thing I’ll miss is silence if you keep running your mouth.”
He grinned wider, unfazed, and pushed off the counter, moving closer with deliberate ease. The scent of his cologne brushed the air between us, mingling with vanilla and sugar.
“You’re good with fire,” he said, nodding at the torch. “Fits you.”
“Keep talking and I’ll show you exactly how good I am with it.” I shot back, lifting a brow.
“Feisty! I like it,” he said smoothly. “But when those tarts come out, you better hope they taste as dangerous as they sound.”
I snorted, grabbing a dish towel to busy my hands. “Trust me. They’ll do more than that. They’ll shut you up.”
He chuckled again, unbothered as he eased himself onto one of the stools at the prep counter. He rested his forearms on the surface like he owned the place. “So, while we wait, tell me how you got into baking?”
“Why?” I asked without looking at him.
“Because I’m curious. Most people don’t wake up one day and say, ‘I’m gon’ make desserts that shut people up.’ There’s always a story.”
“Maybe I don’t feel like being your bedtime story.”
“Oh, I definitely want you in my bed. But you know that already. For now, give me the short version of what got you into this. Humor me, Zanova. You got twenty minutes on that oven timer, and I don’t like silence.”
“Fine. Just don’t get comfortable thinking this is some kind of bonding session. And don’t think I missed that other thing you slipped in. It’s not happening, sir.”
“Wanna bet?”
“My gun may be small but that won’t stop me from shooting you in the kneecaps,” I stated my threat clearly before sighing. “Ilearned from watching my grandmother. She baked everything from scratch. Cakes, pies, biscuits that could make you forget all your problems filled her kitchen regularly. When I was little, she’d pull a chair up to the counter and let me measure sugar or crack eggs. She would say that the kitchen was where love showed up the loudest.”
My throat tightened as I thought back to all those times in my grandma's kitchen. The images were so vivid. Her humming along to a gospel song she’d had playing on the radio. Her telling me stories of her childhood, good and bad. I remember that every story seemed to end whenever whatever she’d been baking was done.
“She passed away my first year of college, and for a while, I didn't even bake a cupcake. Too many memories. Eventually, I realized baking was the one thing that kept her close. So, I leaned into it. What started as me trying not to forget her turned into something I couldn’t live without. Something that wasn’t about hustling or surviving, just creating those cakes that can keep my grandmother's memory alive.”
I grabbed a towel and wiped the counter, forcing my tone flat. “That’s the short version. Satisfied?”
“Explains everything. That’s why your desserts hit different. They don’t just taste good, they carry history, love, and a little pain too. You can’t fake that.”
I rolled my eyes, ignoring the way his words landed deeper than I wanted. “Don’t get all poetic. You came here for a tart, not a therapy session.”
“Maybe I came for both. Maybe I came here for something that I know is sweeter than that damn tart.”
Samir began moving toward me, that grin tugging at his mouth as he backed me up against the metal table. My breath hitched as my palms flattened behind me against the cool surface.
“Samir…” I warned, though it came out softer than I intended. The air between us thickened, heavy with the kind of tension I’d been pretending not to feel since the first day we met.
My hands gripped the edge of the table, searching for balance I didn’t really want. My heart was beating so loudly, I swore he could hear it. I thought about pushing him away, but when he brushed a curl from my face, I froze. Every part of me ignored the voice in my head telling me to stop him. But for some reason, I couldn’t.
When his lips found mine, I knew I was done. Memories of that night came flooding back. The way he made my body feel, his touch, and everything else. Before I could stop myself, Samir's grip tightened just enough to lift me onto the table. My palms flattened against his chest as my legs instinctively parted to hold steady.
“Samir,” I breathed, half warning, half surrender.
His gaze dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. “You want me to stop?”
I didn’t. Not really.
The heat between us was thick, pulsing, and dangerous. He leaned in closer until our foreheads touched. His hands slid along my thighs, stopping just above my knees, his touch warm and possessive.
