Chapter 69
Blaze
“You better not fucking burn this place down,” I say, eyeing Carlo like he’s some ticking time bomb with a goddamn lighter in his hand.
He just laughs, carrying a couple of shopping bags into the kitchen like he owns the goddamn world. Well, technically he owns this fucking house, so maybe he does.
“I ain’t that bad, baby,” he smirks, dropping the bags on the counter like it’s nothing. “I can cook… a little.”
“Yeah, fucking right,” I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “You were raised with a goddamn silver spoon shoved so far up your ass, I’m surprised you even know what a stove looks like.”
He chuckles again, that deep fucking sound that rattles straight into my bones. “Then I’ll assist, chef Blaze.”
I roll my eyes but I can’t help the way my mouth pulls into a fucking smile. God, I’m a mess for this asshole.
As I’m pulling out some veggies to start chopping, he’s unloading shit—meat, pasta, some fancy-ass sauce, even a goddamn bottle of wine. He looks so fucking proud of himself like buying groceries makes him a five-star chef or some shit.
I pick up a knife and start cutting, keeping my hands busy so I don’t do something stupid like jump him right there. His hair’s messy from the wind, jacket hanging off his shoulders, his sleeves pushed up, and those goddamn veins on his arms popping every time he flexes.
Motherfucker knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I was thinking,” I start, trying to sound casual even though my heart’s beating fast like a stupid kid with a crush, “since my legs are healed and shit… maybe it’s time I go back into training.”
He freezes for half a second before he grabs a chopping board and pretends to focus on it. “You sure you’re ready?”
I nod, slicing the carrots clean through. “Yeah. Alexi’s been riding with the others. I don’t wanna fall behind.”
Carlo doesn’t argue. He just gives this small, almost invisible nod like he respects it, even if he hates the idea of me pushing myself again.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly, voice coming out rougher than I want it to. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “For the new bike. For everything.”
He stares at me for a second, like he’s seeing through all my tough-guy bullshit. Then he steps up behind me, warm, big, and fucking overwhelming.
Before I can blink, his arms snake around my waist, pulling me back against him.
I stiffen a little at first—still holding the knife—but then his lips brush the back of my neck, soft and slow, and fuck, I melt.
“Carlo,” I mutter, trying to act annoyed even though my dick’s already twitching. “I’m busy. This is the kitchen.”
He doesn’t give a fuck. He just keeps kissing the back of my neck, working his way up to my ear, his breath hot against my skin. I feel him getting hard, pressing against my ass, and my brain short-circuits a little.
“You’re the one who looks so fucking sexy in an apron, chef,” he growls low in my ear. “And with your hair down like that… fuck me.”
I bite my bottom lip, trying like hell not to react. But my body’s already betraying me, heat pooling low in my gut, my dick hardening inside my sweatpants.
“I’m warning you,” I say, voice tight. “This is a brand new fucking kitchen.”
He slides his hand down, right over my cock, and squeezes lightly. “Then we better break it in properly, huh?”
Fuck.
I give up trying to fight it. I arch my ass back against him, feeling the thick line of his dick pressing into me through his jeans. He groans—deep and guttural—and it shoots straight to my balls.
In a flash, he’s undoing my belt, yanking my sweatpants down to my knees. My dick bounces free, already leaking precum, and he fucking chuckles like he’s proud of himself.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, running his hand up my thigh. “Already this hard for me, baby.”
I don’t even bother talking shit back. My brain’s gone. I just grunt, shoving the chopped veggies aside with my forearm, bracing myself on the counter.
Then I feel him. He pushes his jeans down just enough, grabs his cock—fuck, he’s already dripping—and rubs the wet tip against my hole.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I bite down on my own arm to keep from moaning like a little bitch. It’s been a while. Too fucking long. My body’s desperate, needy in a way that feels fucking pathetic but real.
He circles the tip around my entrance, teasing, his other hand gripping my hip so hard it’ll probably bruise.
“You ready for me?” he whispers, voice rough and dark.
I shove my ass back against him. “Just fucking do it.”
That’s all he needs.
He pushes in, slow at first. My whole body tenses, burning and stretching around him. He curses under his breath, forehead dropping onto my shoulder as he forces himself deeper.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “So goddamn tight…”
I hiss, digging my nails into the counter. It hurts—a lot—but it’s the kind of hurt I fucking crave.
He bottoms out inside me with one hard thrust, and I swear the whole fucking world tilts.
I can’t even breathe for a second.
Then he starts moving—slow, deep thrusts that rock me against the counter. Every drag of his cock inside me makes my legs shake, my toes curl.
We’re both desperate as fuck, clinging to each other like we’re scared we’ll fall apart otherwise.
“I missed you,” Carlo grits out, pounding into me harder now, his hips slamming against my ass. “Fuck, Blaze, I missed this so fucking much.”
“Missed you too,” I choke out, voice wrecked. “Fucking asshole.”
He laughs breathlessly, picking up the pace. My apron’s bunched up around my waist, my hair’s falling into my face, the kitchen cap barely hanging on.
He pulls it off and tosses it aside, fisting a hand in my hair instead, yanking my head back so he can bite down on my neck.
I cry out, the pain flashing hot and sweet through my body.
“Say it again,” he growls, thrusting so deep I see goddamn stars.
“I fucking missed you!” I yell, slamming my hips back into him.
He loses it.
He fucks me harder, deeper, rougher, hands bruising on my hips, teeth marking up my skin. The kitchen’s full of the sound of skin slapping skin, grunts, moans, curses.
It’s messy. It’s desperate. It’s fucking perfect.
My cock’s leaking pre-cum all over the counter. I reach down, jerking myself off in time with his thrusts, moaning uncontrollably now.
“Cum for me,” he orders, voice a wreck. “Fucking cum, Blaze.”
It only takes two more thrusts before I’m coming hard, shooting all over the goddamn counter, my knees buckling under me.
He groans my name, thrusting a few more times before he shudders and cums deep inside me, filling me up so fucking much I can feel it dripping down my thighs.
We stay there, panting, bodies glued together, sweat sticking us to each other.
Neither of us says shit for a long minute.
Carlo finally pulls out, and I hiss at the loss, feeling sore and used and fucking alive for the first time in a long damn time.
He bends down, grabs my sweatpants from where they’re hanging around my knees, and helps me step out of them. Then he’s wiping between my thighs with a kitchen towel, all gentle now like he didn’t just rail the fuck outta me ten seconds ago.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction.
“Yeah, whose fucking fault is that?” I snap, even though my whole body’s humming with this stupid, warm happiness I can’t shake.
He grins and tosses the towel onto the trash can, not giving a shit. “You look better like this anyway. All fucked-out and ruined for me.”
I roll my eyes and punch him lightly in the stomach, making him grunt. He grabs my wrist and pulls me into a kiss—slow and deep and dirty, like he’s tasting the mess he made outta me.
It’s ridiculous how easy it is for me to just… melt into him.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard again, my lips swollen, my body still trembling a little from everything.
“I seriously gotta finish cutting the fucking veggies,” I mumble, trying to regain some fucking control here.
He leans his forehead against mine, smirking. “Yeah, good luck standing straight, chef.”
I flip him off and turn back to the counter, grabbing the knife again even though my hands are still shaking a little.
Carlo starts rummaging through the bags like nothing just happened. Like we didn’t just fuck each other’s brains out all over the goddamn kitchen.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, feeling my chest tighten weirdly.
It hits me all at once—how much I missed this. Him. His stupid comments, his annoying smirks, the way he looks at me like I’m the only motherfucker that matters in the whole damn world.
I almost lost all this. I almost lost him.
My throat feels tight as fuck, but I swallow it down and focus on chopping the carrots again. Just gotta keep moving. Can’t let the emotions take over. Not right now.
“Hey,” he says after a second, voice softer now. “I meant it, you know.”
I glance at him. “Meant what?”
“That I’m proud of you,” he says, meeting my eyes. “For getting back into training. For not giving up. For… fuck, Blaze, for surviving all the shit you’ve been through.”
I blink, not sure what to say to that. Compliments always feel weird, like shoes that don’t fit right.
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, clearing my throat awkwardly. “I’m stubborn as fuck.”
He grins. “Yeah, you are.”
We fall into a comfortable silence after that, the kind that only happens when you really know someone inside and out. He helps me finish the chopping, even though he sucks at it, and I end up fixing most of his slices when he’s not looking.
We start cooking together, moving around the kitchen like a fucking team.
Every now and then he brushes against me on purpose, his hand lingering on my lower back, or he bumps my hip with his. Each tiny touch sparks something under my skin, a live wire buzzing with want.
By the time the pasta’s boiling and the sauce is simmering, we’re both laughing about something stupid he said, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this fucking light.
“You’re such a dumbass,” I tell him, grinning.
“Takes one to know one, baby,” he fires back without missing a beat.
I shake my head, grabbing plates from the cabinet. He steals one outta my hand just to be an asshole, and I smack him with a dish towel.
He grabs it and tries to wrestle it outta my hands, and we end up tangled together again, laughing and cursing and fighting for dominance.
God, it feels good.
It feels real.
For the first time in a long fucking time, I’m not thinking about the past, or the shit that broke me, or the future that scares the crap outta me.