Chapter 4: Kitchen Temptation
The kitchen was a gauntlet of normalcy.
Sun streamed through the sliding doors, highlighting floating dust and the carnage of a half-made breakfast. Ben, shirtless and grinning, stood at the stove, attempting to flip a pancake that more closely resembled a charcoal briquette. Chloe, in tiny shorts and a crop top, was perched on the counter, gesturing with a dripping spatula.
“You have to wait for the bubbles to pop, Benjamin! It’s pancake law!”
“Your laws are tyranny, Sanders. This is a free-flipping household.”
Dizzy hovered in the doorway, Liam a silent presence just behind her shoulder. She could feel the heat of him, a foot away, and the memory of his body pressing hers into the shower wall was as vivid as the smell of burnt batter. Her skin was still sensitive under her clothes.
“Look who finally emerged!” Chloe chirped, her eyes sweeping over them with unnerving focus. “We were about to send a search party. You two sleep okay?”
The question was innocent. It felt like an interrogation.
“Like the dead,” Dizzy said, moving to the ancient coffee maker, a fortress of busy hands. “Your guest bed is surprisingly comfortable.”
She felt Liam’s gaze on her back. A lie. They hadn’t slept in any bed.
Liam grunted a non-committal sound and headed for the refrigerator. “Any orange juice?”
“Probably behind the mystery yogurts,” Ben said, abandoning his pancake massacre. “So, big plans today? The surf’s supposed to be crap, but we could hike to the point.”
As Ben detailed potential activities, Liam opened the fridge door, the cool air washing out. He bent to search the shelves, blocking the view from the others. Dizzy poured her coffee, trying to focus on the stream of dark liquid, the ceramic mug’s heat.
A hand closed around her wrist.
She jumped, sloshing coffee onto the counter. Liam had reached back, his grip firm, and pulled her gently but insistently toward the open refrigerator door. In the shadow of the door, hidden from Chloe and Ben by the bulk of the appliance and Liam’s body, she found herself cornered.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, a frantic glance confirming the others were still arguing over surf reports.
He didn’t answer with words. His eyes, dark and hungry, scanned her face. His free hand came up, fingers tracing the line of her jaw where the shower’s steam had pinkened her skin. The touch was electric, a direct line to the throbbing between her legs.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured, his voice so low it vibrated in her bones. “I can hear you from over here.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“Liar.” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “You’re thinking last night was a mistake. That the shower was a bigger mistake. That I’m going to get what I wanted and ghost.”
Her breath hitched. He saw too much.
“I don’t ghost,” he said, and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t the tender kiss from the night before. This was claiming, punishing. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting of mint and coffee. He kissed her like he was starving, and she was the only thing that could fill him. One hand tangled in her damp bun, tilting her head back to deepen the angle. The other slid down her side, over her hip, and under the loose fabric of her shorts.
His fingers found her underwear, sliding beneath the elastic. He didn’t tease. Two fingers plunged into her, curling, already knowing how wet she was for him.
She gasped into his mouth, a muffled sound lost against his lips. Her hands came up, clutching at his shirt for balance. He worked his fingers inside her, a ruthless, intimate rhythm that had her hips pushing forward against his hand.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he breathed against her mouth, breaking the kiss. His eyes were locked on hers, watching her come apart. “Just from me kissing you. Just from being near me.”
He added a third finger, stretching her, the delicious burn making her whimper. His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles.
“They’re right there,” she panted, her head falling back against the fridge door with a soft thud. Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen island, maybe ten feet away. Chloe’s laughter pealed out.
“I know,” Liam said, his voice gruff with lust. “Let them be there. You be here. With my fingers in your cunt.”
He pressed deeper, harder. The dual sensations—the rough fill of his fingers, the precise torture on her clit—coiled the tension in her gut to a breaking point. The risk, the sheer audacity of it, poured gasoline on the fire. Her nails dug into his biceps.
“Come for me, Dizzy,” he commanded, his lips at her ear, his breath hot. “Right now. Quietly. Let me feel you come on my hand while they talk about the fucking weather.”
It was the filthy, impossible order that pushed her over. A silent, seismic shockwave tore through her. Her body clamped down on his fingers, a series of violent, pulsing contractions that stole the air from her lungs. She buried her face in his shoulder to stifle the cry fighting its way out, her entire body trembling with the force of it.
He held her through it, his fingers gentle now, stroking her through the last waves. When she finally stilled, boneless and gasping, he slowly withdrew his hand. He brought his glistening fingers to his own mouth, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean.
The obscene act made her knees buckle.
A sharp, metallic clatter rang out.
A bowl hit the tile floor near the sink, spinning noisily.
“Damn it!” Chloe yelped.
Both Dizzy and Liam flinched, the spell shattered. Liam smoothly shifted his body, using the fridge door to shield Dizzy as she hastily yanked her shorts back into place. Her face was aflame.
Ben chuckled. “Smooth, babe. Real smooth.”
“It slipped!” Chloe protested, then her tone shifted. “You guys okay over there? You’re being awfully quiet.”
Dizzy cleared her throat, stepping out from behind Liam’s shadow. She kept her eyes on the spilled flour now dusting the floor like fallen snow. “Fine. Just… looking for the sugar.”
Liam closed the fridge door, a carton of orange juice in his hand. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his eyes were still darkly intense. “Found the juice.”
Chloe hopped off the counter, grabbing a towel. Her gaze darted between them, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. She looked at Dizzy’s flushed cheeks, at Liam’s forced casual stance.
“Right,” Chloe said slowly, wiping her hands. “Well, sugar’s in the cupboard by the sink. Where it’s always been.”
The moment hung, delicate as a soap bubble. Ben, oblivious, started whistling as he scraped his blackened pancake into the trash.
Liam finally moved, pouring two glasses of juice. He handed one to Dizzy. Their fingers brushed. A current, live and dangerous, passed between them.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“So,” Chloe said, her voice artificially bright, “about that hike.”