Rowan let out a groan, the veins in his neck protruding.

My wicked plan was working.

“And technically, this counts as taking care of me since I’m medically in need of an orgasm from my man.”

Rowan’s eyes went half-mast. “You’re fuckin’ killing me, Nora.”

My smile stretched in satisfaction.

“Or…” I stepped back, eyes cast downward. “I can just make you some dinner as a thank you, then I’ll go up to my room to satisfy myself.”

I barely got the words out of my mouth before Rowan pushed off the wall and hoisted me into his arms without the kid gloves he’d been handling me with since I got out of the hospital.

My blood started pumping, and desire coursed through me.

“You will not use that fuckin’ vibrator without me in the vicinity,” he growled.

I let out a delighted squeal.

“And my cock hasn’t felt that sweet cunt in weeks, so I’m gonna be using that to make you come,” he added as we ascended up the stairs.

It was safe to say the vibrator stayed in the drawer, and I was very satisfied.

Unfortunately, we burned the lemon meringue pie.

Chapter Nineteen

Recipe: Carrot and Pecan Cake

From ‘Dessert Person’

Things were going well.

Ronnie Cockran had not come to beat me up, kidnap or kill me like Rowan had thought he might. Same with Nathan. We hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

I had recovered almost fully from my surgery and had been cleared by the doctor for a little over a week. I didn’t work until close yet, though—Fiona and Tina took care of that. I still came in in the mornings, with Rowan and Maggie in tow, doing all of the baking and spending most of the day at the bakery.

But the second it hit two in the afternoon, my phone was ringing. If Rowan wasn’t physically at the bakery, that was.

“Cupcake,” he’d greet me. But not in the sweet, melty tone I had become accustomed to. I’d also become accustomed to Rowan’s ability to communicate very different moods with a single word. That single word usually being ‘cupcake’ or ‘Nora.’

The two p.m. greeting was an order. A warning.

“I’m going!” I would say. “I’ve just got to frost—”

“You ain’t frosting shit,” he’d interrupt. “You get your ass in the car and get home and rest, or I’ll drive myself over there, throw you over a shoulder, make a big fuckin’ scene and punish you when we get home.”

Whatever variation of argument we had always ended with this or a similar sexual threat. Ones that made my knees weak and my fingers clutch the phone even harder. Ones that made me want to disobey him so he’d make good on that threat.

And it would be really fucking good.

But he had to work. It was unfair of me to expect him to come running in the middle of his workday in order to sexually punish me.