“Can I just take back what I said just now?” I ask.

“About being a virgin?”

“Yeah. I’d like to rescind that statement.”

He looks so hopeful, his dark eyes softening as they connect with mine. “Because it’s not true?”

“Unfortunately, it’s true. I want to take it back because it changed things between us.”

He tucks my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry, Hanna. I just…” He shakes his head. “Food. We need food.”

“What?”

“Cooking relaxes me, so I only stay in suites equipped with full kitchens if I can help it.” His bashful grin melts something inside of me. “Will you let me cook for you?”

Not where I expect this night to go, but… “Sure.”

I follow him to the kitchen, a small but lush space with a single-burner gas stove, granite countertops, and a stainless-steel fridge. I wonder what “cooking” means to a celebrity like Nate Crane. More than throwing a pizza in the oven, sure, but can he really cook? To me, cooking is about sauces and tender cuts of meat paired with fresh, crisp vegetables. I love cooking in a way my mother could never understand. And even better than cooking—baking. The chemistry of flour and sugar and the perfect hints of flavors melting on the tongue. I was always trying to spend more time in the kitchen, and she was always trying to chase me out of it.

Nate washes his hands in the sink then pulls a sauté pan from the cupboard and sets it on the cold stove. He starts removing items from the refrigerator and placing them on the butcher block—fresh asparagus, bell peppers, thin-sliced chicken breast, strawberries, and heavy whipping cream.

As he starts washing, dicing, and chopping, the surprise must show on my face, because he winks at me. “Did you expect Pop-Tarts?”

I grin. “Maybe. Can I help?”

“You’re the company. Sit and let me take care of you. Here…” He grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours me a glass. Pinot gris. “Drink.”

I pull a stool up next to his butcher block and settle in to watch him work. He has great hands. Nate chopping vegetables, flouring chicken, and drizzling oil in the pan to heat is far sexier than I would have imagined. Then again, it’s a beautiful man cooking. What’s not to love?

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask.

His lips quirk in a lopsided grin. “Here and there. Mom was always off on some movie set, and my dad, well…” He shakes his head. “I was close to our housekeeper. She let me help her in the kitchen, taught me to cook.”

“Your mom’s an actress?”

He nods. “Film and TV. Family curse, and I count my blessings to have escaped it.”

“Where was your dad?”

He shrugs. “Busy.” He exhales, and his shoulders drop as if he released his frustrations with the breath. “So I learned to cook young, and I liked it. I started watching cooking shows and shit. Just getting ideas.”

He places the flour-dredged chicken into the sizzling oil and gets to work washing strawberries and removing their stems.

“I love cooking,” I confess. “Well, baking, really. I always dreamed of opening my own bakery. I love making my friends cakes for special occasions, and I can just picture a little bakery on the main strip at home.”

He lifts his head and grins at me. “Why can I imagine you as a child, baking cookies with your mom?”

“Hardly.” I sigh and roll back my shoulders. “No, Mom doesn’t bake. In fact, she pretty much hates any food that tastes good. And it always seemed like the more my mom tried to teach me that food was the enemy, the more I loved it.”

“Food is life.” He grabs a freshly rinsed strawberry from the bowl and offers it to me.

I open my mouth, and he places it between my lips for a bite. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes.

“Food and sex,” he murmurs. “I never understood why people have to demonize something meant to be enjoyed.”

12. Nate

I WANT her. Fuck, do I want her. I watch pleasure flash across her face as she chews, and my mind instantly conjures an image of her enjoying a different kind of pleasure. It was too dark outside the club, and I wanted to see more. I want to know how she looks when she comes. I could hardly give my attention to her face while mine was buried between her legs. And then her confession pretty much spoiled the rest of my plans.

I can’t take her virginity, and if I would have known earlier…

No, I can’t lie to myself and say that I’d have resisted. Asher warned me off and I still didn’t stay away. I needed her tonight. Needed to escape in her, and she proved to be so much better an escape than tequila.

Her eyes stay on me as I work. I’m so hard and so uninterested in this food. All that interests me is being inside her. I can only imagine how good she’d feel. As f**king tight as she was around my fingers, as much as she responded to my touch, she’s a f**king fantasy. And I’d watch that sweetness in her eyes turn to heat as I slowly stretched her out.

I have to get my head together. If I study her lips for another minute, I’m either going to lose my mind or kiss her, and we both know it wouldn’t end with a kiss. I add wine and cream over the chicken and whisk it into a sauce before adding the asparagus to the pan. When it’s all ready, I place it on small plates that I take to the suite’s dining table.

Hanna hops off the stool and walks over to join me, the shirt shifting with every step to reveal another inch of her thighs before hiding it again.

She heads to the chair opposite me, and I say, “Nuh-uh. Come here, gorgeous.” I drag the chair between us a little closer to mine.

She grins as she sits. “Okay. If you don’t bite.”

“I never made any such promise.”

“Oh. Well, in that case.” She scoots the chair another inch closer and traces the numbers tattooed on my chest. “What are these?”

“My son’s birthday.”

Her lips part in surprise, and she studies the numbers again. “You have a son?”

I nod and swallow the thick knot in my throat. I don’t tell many women about my son. Not because he’s a secret, but because he’s none of their business. Telling Hanna about him feels like cutting myself open and exposing my soul for her inspection.

“He’s an amazing little kid. Wicked smart, clever, great sense of humor if you aren’t too mature to laugh about bodily functions.”

She grins. “What’s his name?”

“Collin.”

“And have you introduced him to Star Wars yet?” she asks, her face a mask of seriousness.

“Not yet,” I murmur. “I will when he’s ready.”

Her smile lights up her face and her laughter fills the room.

I’m so done for. “Wanna talk about the boyfriend who’s not really a boyfriend anymore?” It’s not my style to ask about old boyfriends, but I need to get my mind off the bed waiting for us in the next room and the sounds she made when I used my tongue between her legs.

Frowning, she pokes at her food, so I scoop up a bite on my fork and offer it to her. She parts her lips and closes them over the tines so slowly that my brain slingshots right back to the shower, to Hanna on her knees, her lips stretched around my cock.

“You are such a good cook,” she says on a moan. She chews slowly, and when she swallows, she sighs and shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about Max. He screwed up, but he’s not a bad guy. In fact…” She pokes at her food again.

“I promise it was dead before I put it in the pan.” That earns me a smile. I love washing the sadness from her face. More than I should.

“Maggie took Asher home with her the first night they met.” She keeps her eyes on the table and smiles softly. “She stripped and told him she wanted him.”

“Seems like that worked out for them.”

She nods. “But I’m not like that. Maggie knows men want her. Knows it. I’ve never had that kind of confidence, and for months, I’ve been holding back with Max and…”

“He broke up with you because you wouldn’t have sex with him?”

Her head snaps up and her eyes meet mine. “No. I broke up with him.”

I raise a brow. “And here I thought he broke your heart.”

“That’s why I had to break up with him,” she whispers. Then her cheeks flush and she shakes her head. “I am officially the worst date. How many rules have I broken? The V-word—that was a bad call. Then talking about my boyfriend? Crying into my dinner?”

“I’m sorry I freaked about the virgin thing.” I clear my throat. This isn’t exactly a conversation I’ve had to have before. “Your first time is kind of a big deal. Add that to the fact that you just broke up with your boyfriend and I’d be a total as**ole to sleep with you now.”

“I had to follow the sweet rocker back to his hotel room, huh?”

13. Hanna

“I’M NOT sweet,” Nate says, but even as he says it, he offers me another bite from his fork.

I take it, watching his eyes flare hot as I chew. It’s almost like everything I do is sexual to him, and I love that feeling.

“I’m a f**king no-good bastard. That’s why we have to put on the brakes. Don’t let the dorky shit fool you. I’m that guy who isn’t going to call you tomorrow. I’m that guy who isn’t going to return your texts. I’m that guy who’s going to f**k you silly and then act like it never happened. That’s who I am. That’s how I live.”

“I have trouble believing that.”

“Believe it, sweetheart. Damn it.” He drops his fork, takes a handful of my hair, and twirls his fingers in it. “I knew you were too sweet for me.”

I run my fingertips over the stubble on his jaw. How would I feel if I slept with him tonight and he acted like it never happened? My body is so full of hormones and longing right now that it doesn’t seem like it matters.

“I didn’t come here looking for forever. I came here looking for tonight.”

“And tomorrow I’m just going to be this mistake you made once. Normally that wouldn’t bother me, but you’re special.”

“I’m not worried about tomorrow. Worrying about tomorrow never got me anywhere. The only thing that matters is here and now.”

I scoot forward on my chair and kiss him tentatively. I don’t know if he wants to touch me anymore. I don’t know if I should stay back, but I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me, rub his scruffy cheeks against my neck before he bites it.

His hand loosens in my hair and he kisses me back gently, softer than he’s kissed me all night. I miss the frantic pace of our earlier kisses. I miss the rough way he tugged at my hair. But I’ll take this.

As if reading my mind, he pulls back and studies me. “I was too rough with you earlier. Jesus. I—”

I cut him off with a finger to his lips. “I liked it. Especially the part where you kind of pulled my hair while you were coming in my throat.”

He groans. “You’re killing me, Hanna. You’re this angel who could tempt a saint, and I’m no saint.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, tracing the blade tattoo on his side. “Maybe it’s not a good idea for us to have sex tonight.”

“I know I’m right. And I’m showing an uncharacteristic amount of restraint, so I should probably take you back to your room before that fades.”

His biceps flex under my fingers as I move to trace the Hulk tattoo on his left arm. God, he’s like this impossible combination of sexy-cool rocker and nerd.

“You weren’t lying about the tattoo.”

He raises a brow. “You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

I snort. “You’re a pu**y cat.”

He stiffens. “Don’t try to pretend I’m something I’m not.”

With a deep breath, I remind myself of the look in his eyes after he surveyed my nude body. To this man, I’m as good as any of my gorgeous sisters. Better, maybe, though I’ll never understand why. It’s only with that in mind that I can muster the courage to slide off my chair and onto his lap. I straddle him. I’m so close that the stiff ridge of his dick presses between my thighs, only the soft cotton of his sleep shorts between us.

“So maybe we shouldn’t have sex, but I was having an awfully good time doing all the not-exactly-sex stuff, and I think you were too.”

“You think?”

“I know,” I whisper. “Because I can still taste the evidence.”

“Hanna.” There’s a warning in his voice that neither of us wants to listen to.

“I could get turned on by the sound of your voice alone.” I lick my lips and slip my hand into his shorts, finding the slick head of his c**k with my fingertips.

“Fuck.” His h*ps jerk, and then my fingers are sliding around him.

I look to the clock on the wall. Three in the morning, and I’m not the slightest bit tired. He’s already hard, but I feel the blood pumping into his dick, making him even harder, thicker, as I stroke.

“Is it really your birthday?”

He’s watching me with heavy-lidded eyes as I work him over with my hand. “Yes.”

“And what if I told you I wanted to stay? What if I told you I wanted a second round of what we did in the bathroom?” My old insecurities sneak into my voice on the last question. I would elaborate, would tell him how turned on I am by the idea of his mouth between my legs, but I’ve already stretched my bravery to its limits.