His smile falls. Not in an “I’m irritated” sort of way. More like an “it should be obvious, but I know why it isn’t” way.
“You’re the only one I’ll be sleeping with, Loren.”
Not that either of us have gotten much sleep since this thing between us started. Elliott is a sex machine, and I’m a big old ball of lust. I can’t even be in the same room as him without wanting some part of me plastered up against some part of him.
Case in point: we’re both sitting on the same cushion on the couch. There are two more cushions there, but I’d rather be wrapped around him.
“You hungry?” he asks with another kiss.
“Kinda.” That salad I had for dinner didn’t really fill me up.
“What do you want?”
“Pancakes?” It might be eight o’clock at night, but pancakes transcend time and they also happen to be the only food Elliott knows how to cook.
“Pancakes it is.” He kisses me once more, then stands and straightens the top of his sweatpants on his way into the kitchen. That ass of his is something else.
Instead of staying on the couch, I follow him into the kitchen.
Turns out I’m part lost puppy. Who knew?
If it wasn’t way too soon and it wouldn’t terrify the poor man, I’d say I loved him. He is quite literally everything I have ever wanted in a guy. If you would have asked me five years ago to describe my dream man, he would have been Elliott Grant.
This feels too good to be true. And like that one time I bought “Birkenstocks” for $20 online, I’m worried it might be.
I lean a hip against the counter, watching him swing open the fridge door, illuminating the dark room in blue-white light. “What’s wrong with you?”
He takes out the eggs and buttermilk and sets them beside the tin of flour before glancing over his shoulder at me, his brows coming together. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me something awful about yourself.”
Out comes the mixing bowl from the middle cabinet. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you kick puppies or you’re a secret peeping Tom.” I scoot the pepper and salt shakers to the side so I can sit on the counter and watch him work. Elliott is a damn good pancake chef. Even the first pancake always comesout perfectly golden and fluffy, which isnotan easy feat to accomplish.
He picks up the shakers and moves them back on his way to the utensil drawer where we keep the whisk.Interesting. “I hate to disappoint, but I love puppies and prefer any woman I look at to know I’m there.”
I nudge the shakers when he isn’t looking, then smile innocently when he does. His brow furrows as he pushes them back into place.
I think I’ve found Elliott’s flaw. Little neat freak. I’m so relieved, I could kiss him.
You know what? Now that we’re dating, I’mgoingto kiss him.
I catch his shirt and twist. He stumbles forward, knocking his hip against the edge of the counter. When I press my lips to his, my heart leaps and my stomach flutters and my lady parts sing.
“What was that for?” The heat of his whispered words dances across my lips.
“You’re not perfect.”
“No one is perfect.”
True. But for a while there it was too close for comfort.
I only let him go because, as much as I want him, I want pancakes too. He cracks the eggs, but before he can add the other ingredients, I suddenly remember: “We don’t have any syrup.”
I meant to pick some up yesterday, but then work ran late and I wanted to get home before Elliott had to leave for the bar and it completely slipped my mind.
I slide off the counter. Now to find my purse. “You bake, and I’ll go to the store.” The pancakes won’t be nearly as good by the time I get back, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make since it was my turn to do the grocery shopping.
