Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 12

  Sophia, on the other hand, wasn’t the sentimental type. Shit happens. Then you deal with it and you move on. I was really starting to appreciate that about her, even if it turned her into an ice queen to the casual observer.

  She’d also promised to come to my room tonight after midnight and let me do unholy things to her. Maybe we weren’t such a bad pair. We both wanted the same thing: our careers. And really fucking hot sex.

  When I opened the door, she stood wrapped tightly in a thigh-grazing black trench coat, with silky bare legs, and her Louboutins. The second I closed the door, I turned around to see her slowly untie the belt and let the coat fall to the ground. My dick was hard so fast, it almost hurt as it strained at my jeans.

  She wore only her black strapless bra and matching silk thong, and her eyes begged me to claim her.

  So I did.

  I claimed her as I rolled off that skimpy black thong and kissed every inch of her legs. I claimed her as my fingers stroked the sensitive skin on the back of her knees and watched her eyes dilate with lust. I claimed her as I dug my fingers into the small of her back, lifting her completely off the ground and onto me and my sheathed dick.

  She was mine.

  My cock slid easily inside her wetness, and she groaned against my throat in the most satisfying way. She had come ready to fuck, wanting me as much as I wanted her. I thrust roughly, listening to her cry out, begging me to go harder. My balls slapped against her ass as I drove deeper and deeper.

  She took my shoulders and pushed, like she could possibly throw me. I grinned, crushing her breasts against my chest and flipping us over with my cock still inside.

  “You want on top?” I asked.

  “Shut up,” she commanded, spinning around and leaning down to lick me before riding out her reverse cowgirl fantasies. I sat up and massaged her nipples, feeling her move at her own pleasure, moaning as she twisted up and down.

  She was panting for air, something neither of us could seem to get enough of.

  I ripped her off and plunged my tongue inside of her. She tasted feral and untamed, just like I remembered. It was an addiction, a craving I couldn’t get enough of. I never wanted to tame her, either. To hell with every man before me who thought they should.

  She arched her back and shuddered at the devastation my tongue was doing. I flicked her nipples, but she wanted more. She twisted her hips, rocking onto me, grabbing my head between her palms and shoving me onto her breast. I nibbled and teased as she ran her hands through my hair, letting it curl over her fingers.

  “Mm,” she moaned.

  I yanked free of her grip and went for her thighs, licking my way up one side and down the other. As my tongue went back for more, she rocked harder, groaning, unable to form basic sentences. Finally, she dug her fingernails into my torso and forcibly pulled me back. She enjoyed the exquisite pain of patience.

  “I don’t think so, Ice Queen,” I said. She radiated too much confidence, and I was ready to prove I could own a tiny piece of her.

  I sucked her lips, leaving her pussy drenched and red and pulsing for more. Putting in a finger, I took her wetness and rubbed it around her lips, bringing her to the brink. I teased her with my tip and by the look on her face, it was exactly what she craved.

  She grabbed my hips, steadying me long enough to thrust up and take me completely by surprise.

  “Ah, Sophia,” I hissed as she slid inch by inch. She took her time, and I savored the look of her rapturous pleasure. She gave me a wicked grin and pulled herself off completely, goading me to do something about it.

  My control cracked. I grabbed her pretty little ass and drove in from behind, bending her down and taunting her in return with my strokes.

  She cried out and I paused. But she was asking for more.

  “Don’t… stop,” she gasped, meeting my thrusts on her terms. God, I couldn’t even properly take her from behind without her asserting her control. Who made this woman like this? Somehow, she was the conqueror, staking her claim on me, and I was her prisoner. Every tingling nerve bowed down to whatever she wanted.

  “Come,” she ordered.

  And like her prisoner, I spilled into her, groaning her name as she convulsed beneath my palms in her own pleasure.

  We collapsed on the bed, and I gently held her, stroking her hair and leaving feathery kisses on her neck and shoulder blades.

  Sophia sighed deeply, stretching, but allowing me to continue.

  I went for her nipple, but she playfully batted me away.

  “Give them a minute,” she said, wrapping her arms around my torso and snuggling under my chin.

  As I lay there, one thought kept building in my mind: this didn’t feel like scratching an itch. This was intimate, touching all the parts of me I thought I’d tucked away, kept untouchable. It was exhilarating, thrilling, and fucking terrifying. Instead of admitting any of that, I sank my fingers into the soft skin under her jaw and kissed her.

  “I could eat you every day,” I told her, holding back the real words playing at the tip of my tongue.

  “We can’t do that,” she said. She stood up and re-hooked her bra, stepping into her heels first, then her panties. God fucking damn, even the way she dressed was a turn-on.

  I pulled her back onto my bed. “And why not?”

  She belted her coat across her stomach tightly and gave me a sad little smile. “This was the revenge fuck you’ve been wanting. We both know that.”

  I stayed perfectly still. “Ah.”

  “Anyway,” she continued. “If someone saw us, we’d be fired. The morality clause is pretty severe in the contract. Speaking of which, I’m going to sneak out now.” She rearranged her hair into a bun. “Don’t fuck it up on camera.”

  It took me three heartbeats after she left to realize I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sophia

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Finally, production splurged on a plane. They’d clearly learned their lesson. I watched the clouds glide over the Mediterranean on our way to Turkey and tried not to picture the hottest fucking sex of my life again and again. In what universe did I think Quick Mitch was enough? Or Harry Tickler? It hurt to speak ill of the dead, RIP Harry, but that rabbit had nothing on Hawthorne.

  Speaking of which, Hawthorne had been distant. Was it possible I’d hurt him by suggesting he guilted me into sex? If a man like Hawthorne could truly have feelings.

  I remembered the way he looked at me with true guilt in his eyes when I read the gossip article aloud to him, and the way his voice almost broke telling me about his mom. Maybe I had him all wrong. Maybe he did have feelings. That’d be weird, but okay.

  One more revenge fuck wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. We’d already broken the morality clause, and no earthquakes had shattered my world. Just my vagina, and she’d live. She’d happily live.

  I guess it was my turn to swallow my pride and call a truce. Anyway, I really wanted to feel him again. Celibacy was so overrated. Add morality clauses to that list.

  I palmed the key card Hawthorne had left for me in our five star accommodations in Istanbul. The Turkish knew luxury. They kept damask linens on every king sized bed, golden chandeliers in every spacious room, and ice cold champagne for every moment.

  Wealth.

  I slipped the key in the lock and waited for the beep. With a last look around the hallway, I slipped inside and got comfortable. The champagne bottle popped and fizzed. I filled two flutes and removed everything but my bra.

  You’re welcome, Hawthorne Fucking West.

  Of course, by the time I heard the door beep ten minutes later, I was a wreck. What if he laughed? Maybe this was a huge mistake. I was really taking my morality clause and shredding it between my very hot and bothered thighs.

  When Hawthorne saw me, he paused. “What’s with the bra, Sato?”

  I shrugged. “Felt more erotic.”

  He nodded, walking to accept the
flute from my fingers. We clinked and Hawthorne watched, still fully dressed in his body-hugging, dark blue suit. Tom Ford, if I were a betting type.

  “Take it off.”

  I automatically reached behind and unclasped my bra. It dropped to the floor, leaving me completely exposed. Hawthorne lazily watched, looking up and down, zeroing in on my breasts. Without yielding an inch, as if in punishment, he took a sip, refusing to remove even his shoes.

  Instead, he choose a piece of ice from the champagne bucket and clenched it in his palm. Water dripped through his fingers. My body hummed in anticipation of what he would do with that piece of ice.

  With a careful glance at my eyes, he ran the ice over each nipple. He dragged it down my belly and followed the directions of my landing strip. All of the little hairs along my arm stood up, and I shivered.

  “How’s that, Ice Queen?”

  He circled my lips with the ice, kissing my other ones, and when I thought I might die of frozen pleasure, he finally stopped, giving me a wicked grin.

  “Spread your legs wider.”

  I complied, panting for want of him. He plunged the dripping piece of ice inside of me. I gasped. Holy fucking shit, what the hell?

  I jerked at the ice inside of me and flipped around, but Hawthorne roughly moved me back, his fingers sinking into my skin.

  “Don’t move.” Hawthorne’s heat and the rough feel of fabric against my body had everything surging inside of me to take him and do what I wanted.

  I stilled, though, waiting. Anticipation built hotly, rushing down my body as the ice melted.

  Hawthorne inserted another one and I gasped, holding onto his biceps for stability and control. But who was I kidding? The days when I was in control around him were over. Dead and gone.

  He cupped my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers while I resisted all temptations to grind against his leg.

  “Tell me what you want,” he ordered, rocking his finger down my body and into my wetness.

  “You,” I breathed. “I want to feel you. I want to fuck you.” Before he could stop me, I yanked on his shirt, ripping the buttons off and grinning at his abs. “Oops.”

  I reached for his belt, but Hawthorne beat me to it. He unbuckled it, snapping it a few times.

  “You’re being naughty.”

  “So spank me.”

  It just slipped out of my mouth. I had no idea where that came from, but it was there, hanging in the air, and I didn’t want to take it back.

  Hawthorne dropped his ruined shirt to the ground and snapped his belt again. The sound rang through the air, heightening my awareness of what he would do.

  The hit cracked, sharp as a knife. No warning, no explanation.

  Then it paused. I turned around, and Hawthorne was on top of me, savaging me with his mouth. Like he couldn’t control himself, either. One little spank and he was done. His tongue darted in and out, and I reached for his pants between our kisses.

  Desire ripped through me at the sight of his rock-hard cock. I would have been proud, having him right where I wanted him, except, I wasn’t. All I wanted was to enjoy him.

  With his special latex-free condoms on, he grabbed my knees and spread them.

  He dipped into me, pulling out just to rub my wetness around, masturbating me with his cock. In and out, rubbing, making me shudder. He twisted me into some pose they had yet to name, then he grabbed another ice cube between his teeth. He sucked on it, and blew icy air on my nipples.

  I moaned. “I can’t… too many sensa—” And I came, clenching around him tightly and riding the waves that made speech impossible. As I began to come down, I felt Hawthorne’s beginning, making me tighten and ride back up with him. Dear Lord, this wasn’t real. He moaned out my name and kissed my lips.

  Hawthorne grinned, giving my nipples a final lick, and pulled out.

  When Hawthorne went to shower, I couldn’t resist placing my fingers on my lips where he’d kissed them gently.

  Shit.

  There were two huge outdoor/indoor shopping centers in Istanbul. The Grand Bazaar was the more famous, touristy spot where you could buy any trinket. The Spice Bazaar was where the locals did their shopping. The Spice Bazaar in Istanbul exceeded all of my foodie expectations.

  We’d sent the contestants off to find various spices, meats, cheeses, and vegetables. They had GoPros strapped to their chests and a few cameramen chasing them through the narrow, dark, spice-laden alleyways.

  One cameraman stayed back to listen to us chat with local sellers about their products and try various delicacies for television promos and B-roll footage.

  I bought a few packages of baklava and Turkish Delight that the vendor vacuum-sealed for shipping, right in his shop over the cobblestones. Rie would be delighted.

  Hawthorne slipped past me, grazing my breasts as he scooted between tea sets, golden plates, and huge bags brimming with delicately dried rose tea, blood-red sumac, cooling mint, and grassy oregano. It was a chef’s dream.

  Except the only thing I could dream about was Hawthorne taking me behind a stall and sucking my rock-hard nipples.

  I could barely make it through filming, picturing all the ways I wanted to ride him. We’d woken up two more times to fuck—and then once more in the shower before call time.

  Hawthorne had the same look in his eyes. He pulled me behind a row of carefully arranged dried figs and apricots, and I followed, giggling like a schoolgirl. The crew was only a boom mic away from the juiciest shot of the season.

  We could be caught at any second, and it made my pulse pound as Hawthorne covered my body with his. He kissed me like we were on fire, stopping to nibble the soft skin behind my ear. “Meet me tonight.”

  “Where?” I gasped.

  Hawthorne drew back, putting palms on both sides of my head. He leaned down and savagely stole a thousand more caresses. “Mmm. You taste sweet.”

  “It’s the Turkish Delight,” I told him.

  “About that.” He grinned. “How about some Turkish delight in the spa tonight? The baths here are legendary.”

  “I’m unconvinced,” I replied. “You better show them to me.”

  “Midnight,” he promised.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sophia

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Hawthorne met me at the entrance of our hotel’s Turkish spa, dangling a pair of keys in the air with a wicked grin on his face. Who knew I’d liked shower sex so much?

  “What’d you have to do to get those?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I think I’d rather stay mysterious.”

  “You’re a mystery all right,” I agreed.

  He kissed the back of my hand and led me deeper. “I’ll take that as the compliment you intended.”

  I felt like a teenager, overcome with the thrill of sneaking around. We slipped into a massage room, still warm from the dying heat of the granite stones.

  Hawthorne grabbed my towel and threw it across the massage table before scooting me up on it. “Where should I begin unthawing you?” he asked mischievously. “Here?” His tongue circled one nipple, then the other. “Here?” He moved down my belly. “Or maybe here?” He moved his tongue along my clit, and I moaned.

  His mouth was hotter than the steaming air, filling all the spaces I thought I’d let grow cold long ago.

  His hands were in my hair, yanking it in a fist and jerking back my head. My pain receptors fired off in the most delicious way. I dug my nails into his skin, returning the gift. He licked my clit, his rough scruff scratching the inside of my thighs.

  He pressed a finger to the top of my clit and rubbed in a circle one way, then the other. Everything ached for release, but Hawthorne wouldn’t let me finish. “Not yet,” he ordered, blowing cool air across all my hot spaces.

  Just as I was about to lose it on his tongue, he stopped. I grabbed onto his wild, dark hair and wrapped my legs around his hard stomach as he kissed me fully. Spots flared in my eyes as the intensity of our lips
and hands drove us to the edge.

  Suddenly, he leapt up and joined me on the table, straddling me with his legs and completely covering my body with his larger, primitive energy. Nothing about this man was gentle. Not his personality, not his lust, not even his scruffy face. I knew in that moment I was fucked. Worse, I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to always be taken by this man. I was fucked in so many ways. Maybe we didn’t know where we stood after all.

  He licked a nipple and blew a hot breath over it, hardening it before rolling it between his fingers. I arched and moaned. He already knew exactly what I needed.

  I reached up between his legs. Just feeling how hard and thick he was almost sent me over the edge.

  “Enough.” Two could play at that game. Two needed to play that game, if I was going to keep my sanity.

  I threw his hands off my breasts and licked him wet. Then, I guided his hips to mine. With one dark look, he plunged into me, slippery and thick, stretching and filling me without waiting. I was so wet, it couldn’t have mattered less.

  This was more primal than I usually let things get. Everything was slick and wild, and I bucked against his hips, taking him deeper. We fit together, moving in rhythm, as I tilted my hips to take him fully and release the exquisite pressure of the angle.

  In this moment, I didn’t care about stars. I didn’t care about smashing the patriarchy or rising to the top of my field.

  I wanted to know this would not end.

  “Come, baby, come for me.” He sensed by the squeezing of my walls that I was close. “I will give you another, just come for me.”

  I swore, letting the first one rip through my body. Hawthorne pressed a finger to the top of my clit, urging on the next one.

  My orgasms rolled into each other and that numb, blissful heat worked its way up from my toes to my head. The seismic waves rode me to the brink of consciousness before driving me back under the darkness.