" A honey pie, lovingly made. The tiny sugar bee, still perched on the edge of the flaky crust, mocked me.
That little bee nibbling on her honey pie.
A pulse of sheer heat lit up my sex, licked down my thighs, tweaked my nipples. I shoved another messy bite into my mouth, relishing the taste, wanting...him.
This was his work, made with his hands, his skill, his mind. My grumpy man with the ability to create sweetness in the most unexpected of ways.
Somehow, at the back of my mind, I'd known from the start. From the way he'd all but ordered me to try his brest. How he'd watched me eat it with that strange intent look upon his face. Pride. That was what it was. He was proud of his work.
I ate up my honey pie without pause, devouring it until it was nothing more than a sticky paste on my fingers, buttery crumble on my lips. Moaning, I licked my skin clean like a cat might. I swore I felt claws prickling, aching to come out.
Because he had known, and I hadn't. Was it a joke to him? What had he said? The chef was temperamental. Oh, how he must have laughed on the inside at that.
With a growl, I washed my hands and headed for the door, half of me more turned on than I'd ever been in my life, the other half ready to tear into the most irritating man I'd ever met. "

― Kristen Callihan , Make It Sweet