“Juice?” I have this sadistic need to watch him show new girl how to run the juicer. Who knew my jealous side had such an appetite?

“Ginger, apple, lemon, cucumber,” he fires off to new girl while taking the order of the next person in line.

A minute later, new girl hands me my juice, giving me the once-over and a catty smile. He should fire her. She’s bad Karma. I can feel it.

“Jake’s girlfriend?” she asks.

I take the juice. “Uh …”

“Avery. Aspen. Aspen. Avery,” Jake introduces us just before disappearing to the kitchen. Was that his way of avoiding Aspen’s question? Preventing me from answering her?

“If not…” she leans in and whispers “…I call dibs.”

Dibs? Did she really just call dibs on Jake?

Aspen, Mo … stiff competition.

Before I sharpen my claws on her perfect skin, I turn and retreat to the kitchen.

Seth gives me a friendly nod as he and Jake assemble plates and bowls of food.

“Juice okay?” Jake asks as he perfectly garnishes a plate of some kind of hash and gravy with mushrooms.

I nod, sidling up to him. Lifting onto my toes, I press my lips against his ear. “Three words … I need you.”

His hands still as he pulls away from me just enough to see my face. If he can’t read my come-hither expression, then he needs a thick pair of glasses. “Ave, I’m in the middle of the breakfast rush.”

Seth takes the plate from Jake and runs it out front.

Rejection sucks. Would he reject Mo … or perky little Aspen?

And the only thing that sucks worse than rejection is jealousy.

“K.” I smile like it’s no big deal. Like I’m not embarrassed for suggesting it. Then I pivot and make my way up the stairs to get my purse and get the hell out of here before I say or do anything else that’s impulsive and stupid.

As I grab my purse, the door slams behind me. I turn. Before I can take a single breath, Jake’s hands frame my face and his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s all consuming.

It burns through my skin as we stumble to the bed, clawing and tearing at each other’s clothes.

I moan as his tongue circles my nipple. My impatient hands tug down his jeans and boxer briefs. He attacks my mouth again, easing us to the bed.

It’s slow and methodic, yet every stroke is deliberate and perfectly timed. Guiding my knees to my chest, he pushes into me.

Thoughts vanish.

Toes curl.

My torso twists and jerks.

There. He’s the best at finding my “there.”

He’s the best at bending me to his will.

He’s the best at prolonging this feeling—finding the edge and keeping me there.

It’s torture. God … I love his kind of torture.