Delectable Desire. Farrah Rochon
his workstation in the kitchen at Lillian’s, his family’s bakery. It was stocked with all of the necessary ingredients for his newest creation, a salted-caramel, dark chocolate cake. As he surveyed his supplies, Carter realized he was missing the most important ingredient: flour. He strode over to the pantry where the drums of high-quality cake flour were stored.
He entered the pantry and stopped short.
Instead of flour, Carter discovered a caramel-colored beauty who looked as edible as the cake he was about to make. She crooked her finger.
“Come here, Carter,” she whispered in a silky voice.
His mouth went dry as he took a step forward.
“No, Carter, why don’t you come this way?”
He whipped around, finding another incredibly hot woman perched on the counter, her dark, smooth thighs crossed. Her breasts were precariously close to spilling out of her low-cut top. She reached over and picked up a sliver of the Belgian chocolate he’d chopped for his cake. She parted her soft, full lips and placed the chocolate on her tongue.
Carter groaned, taking a step toward her.
“Don’t go there, Carter. Come here.”
He turned to his right and found a third woman. This one was honey-colored and, as far as he could tell, completely naked. She had locks of silky, light brown hair flowing down her body, strategically covering all of her luscious girl parts.
He tipped his head to the ceiling and laughed. “This must be heaven.”
“Caaaarter,” the three women sang.
Carter’s gaze shot back to the counter. Miraculously, all three were now perched there, sitting side by side.
And now all three of them were naked.
The dark chocolate beauty picked up a plump strawberry and bit into the tender fruit.
“Do you want a piece of this, Carter?”
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he groaned.
His caramel goddess held out a bowl of fluffy whipped cream.
“How about this?” she asked, scooping some up with her finger and sticking it between her lips. Her eyes closed as she ran her tongue up and down her finger, licking it clean.
“You’re the cake artist, Carter,” Miss Honey said. “Why don’t you come over here and show us what you do best?”
This was definitely heaven.
Carter walked—no, more like glided—across the floor. Dark Chocolate held out the half-eaten strawberry to him.
As he leaned forward to bite it, the oven’s timer went off.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Wait. That wasn’t the oven. It was his phone.
“Nooooo,” Carter growled.
His eyes popped open. Just as he’d feared, he was lying in his bed, twisted up in the sheets. He closed his eyes, but it was too late. The dream was gone.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
“Dammit.” He reached over and grabbed the phone. “Hello,” he bit out.
“Carter, where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
It was his cousin Belinda. Great. If the incredible dream he’d been in the midst of hadn’t already rushed out of his head, it sure as hell would be gone now. Carter peered at the clock on his nightstand. He’d slept right through his alarm.
“Carter, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” he said, yawning and stretching.
“Grandma Lillian wants to meet with us. You need to get over here now.”
“I’m on my way.” He disconnected the call and closed his eyes again, hoping against hope that Dark Chocolate and her ripe, juicy strawberry would reappear, but she wasn’t there. Instead, he saw his grandmother frowning at him. That instantly iced his smoking-hot dream. And lit a fire under his ass.
Carter hopped out of bed. He grabbed a quick shower, making sure he scrubbed away remnants of the previous night’s hard partying.
Last night had been epic, especially for the middle of the week. He’d complained about having to fly solo now that his best friend and fellow baker at Lillian’s, Malik, had gone and gotten himself hooked up with a woman—his cousin Belinda of all people—but Carter was no longer complaining. Not having Malik around meant more women for him, and he’d had no problems collecting phone numbers last night. He had four new ones stored in his cell. Now he just needed to remember which number went with which girl. He knew he should have snapped their pictures last night.
Clean and dressed in slacks and a pressed polo shirt, Carter snatched a banana from the bowl on his kitchen counter as he made his way out of his condo. He sank into the soft leather bucket seat of his Basalt Black Metallic Porsche Panamera—a little something he’d bought himself for his thirtieth birthday—and swiftly made his way through the tree-lined streets of Glenville Heights. He sailed past the Drayson family’s gated estate on his way to the Kennedy Expressway. A half hour later, Carter pulled into the garage just off North Michigan Avenue, steps away from the bakery.
His grandparents had been lucky to snatch up this prime real estate on Chicago’s famed Magnificent Mile. In fact, they owned the entire building. Various businesses leased the offices on the floors above, but the bottom floor was reserved for Lillian’s. Named after his grandmother, Lillian Reynolds-Drayson, who’d first ensnared the taste buds of Chicagoans while working at a local cafeteria, the bakery had a loyal customer base that couldn’t get enough of Lillian’s sweet treats.
Carter always felt a measure of pride when he thought about how his young, widowed grandmother had made a way for herself and her son, before his grandfather, Henry Drayson, had swept her off her feet. The story of the first time they’d met, and the early days of the bakery, was a staple around the holidays.
Carter entered through the back door. On one side of the hallway was the massive kitchen, which took up a majority of the first floor. The other side housed several offices that were used to conduct bakery business and a storage room for the extra bakeware and packaging materials. The front area comprised the showroom, which faced Michigan Avenue.
As he walked up the hallway, Carter strolled past framed photographs of Lillian’s throughout the years, starting with his grandmother holding Uncle Dwight in her arms in front of the modest first storefront on Chicago’s South Side, and ending with the family picture they took outside the Michigan Avenue store when Lillian’s was featured in a local magazine last year. The rich marble facade of this location was a far cry from the little nondescript building where Lillian’s had first gotten its start.
“Carter.”
Carter stopped and turned at the sound of his father’s voice.
“What’s up?” Carter asked.
Devon Drayson did not look as if he was in the mood for exchanging idle chitchat. “Why are you just getting here?” he asked.
“Had a long night,” Carter answered with a grin. “Believe me, it was worth walking in an hour late.”
“An hour and a half,” his father corrected him. “Carter, when are you going to start taking your work seriously?”
His spine straightened in protest. “I do take my work seriously. Do you know how many people come to Lillian’s specifically requesting that I design their cakes? My work brings in more business than anyone else around here.”
“I’m not discounting your talent, just your work ethic. You should have been here to open the bakery early this morning, not strolling in hours late as if you don’t have a care in the world.”
This from the king of the carefree lifestyle. His father had perfected