Spice by Seressia Glass Read Free Book Online

pleasure so fine she couldn’t even cry out. Her hands dug into the sofa cushions as her inner muscles tightened around him, squeezing him.
    â€œNadia.” One hand slipped around her hip, fingers unerringly finding the center of her pleasure. The other hand gripped her shoulder for purchase as he increased the pace and force of his thrusts, driving into her in the relentless pursuit of ecstasy. His voice, low and breathless and hypnotic, wrapped around her, telling her how good she felt, how tight she was, how close to the edge she made him. She could only moan her agreement as she fell deeper and deeper beneath his sensual spell.
    With multiple waves of pleasure rolling through every part of her body, she danced a razor’s edge between being in the moment and being catapulted out of it. So close, so close . . .
    â€œOh God.
Kane
. Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .” The orgasm hit her like a sucker punch low in the gut. She threw back her head with a guttural cry, arching her back and grinding her buttocks against his groin to wring out every bit of sensation.
    Kane gripped her shoulders as he pistoned into her in a maddening pace, the slapping of their bodies loud in the open living room. With her orgasm still shredding her senses, her inner muscles continued to spasm around his thickness. “God, Nadia,” he breathed. “Want to last . . . longer. But can’t. Can’t. Have to, have to . . .”
    His hands dug into her collarbone as he slammed into her one final time, the force of it moving the couch several inches. With a deep rumbling groan he came, pulsing deep inside her and touching off another ripple of bliss.
    Spent, overwhelmed, she collapsed against the back of the sofa, dimly aware of Kane easing out of her. Struggling to catch her breath and gather her shattered senses, Nadia could only think one thing: Professor Kaname Sullivan had definitely made the grade.

FOUR

    N adia put the last pan of Wide-Eyed muffins into the oven, dancing as her tablet shuffled through her “shake and bake” baking music mix. She and her assistant Jas always started their very early day with upbeat music because she didn’t want to bake while in a bad mood, believing it transferred to her pastries. A silly superstition, perhaps, but she’d learned that from her grandmother and no one argued with Nana Elena. No one ever left the café in a bad mood either.
    She joined Bruno Mars singing about sex and paradise as she began to cut the dough for organic fruit turnovers. Jas entered the kitchen, grinning at her as he pulled on his apron then tucked his black bangs beneath a hairnet. “Morning, boss! I guess I don’t have to ask you how well it went last night, huh?”
    â€œHow do you know about that?” she demanded, not really angry. “You weren’t even here yesterday!”
    â€œTwo local celebrities hooking up is big news in a small town, even a small college town like Crimson Bay,” her assistant said, turning on the faucet at the wash-up sink. “More than a few people saw you guys at Pascal’s last night.”
    â€œI’m not a celebrity,” Nadia argued, feeling her stomach tighten. She didn’t want to be the town’s entertainment. Been there, done that, bore the scars.
    Jas stared at her in surprise. “Of course you are. You’re the goddess of goodies, the queen of croissants, the princess of pastries, the star of
Spice of Life
. And the professor, well, you know what his fans call him.”
    The Spice of Life with Nadia Spiceland
. Her very own show, with cooking segments interspersed with trawling the party scene most twenty-somethings in Los Angeles gravitated to, was her prize for winning a reality television cooking competition that had catapulted her younger, stupider self to a level of fame she’d been ill-prepared for. “That was a long time ago, Jas,” she said,