He casts a wary eye, but dunks his sandwich and takes a bite. The moment his teeth sink into the crispy bread, the pretense of culinary discernment drops away. His eyes flutter closed, a glob of melted cheese dripping down the corner of his mouth.
And he moans out loud. Multiple times.
“Mmmm. Oh my… oooooh,yes. That’s it, right there. Rightfuckingthere. So, so good.Mmmm…”
My thighs clench in response to the obscenely sexy soundtrack, to the way his tongue darts out to lick the runaway cheese from the corner of his mouth, and something buried inside me—deep,deepinside me—thrums back to life.
Is it my primal magic? An unbreakable bond to my ancestors, calling out across the veil? The ancient witchcraft singing through my blood and bones?
Nope. It’s…
Hey girl! This is your vagina speaking, what is UP? Sorry I’ve been out of touch for the past twelve to thirteen months… I was off looking into early retirement options—I mean, after the whole Brandt debacle, Ireallythought we were closing down for good this time. But then along comes Mr. Hot, Broody, and British, going at that sandwich like tonguing is an Olympic event, and hell-oooo! I’m baaaack! Pretty sure I speak for both of us when I say it’s high time we climb aboard that D-train and ride it all the way to Pound Town, round-trip on the daily and twice on Sundays, let’s gooo!
“Violet?”
“Hmm?”
“I asked what your secret is?”
The one about your orgasmic reaction to my comfort food bringing my vagina out of hibernation and turning her into my own personal Downtown Pep Squad?
I cross my legs. Ignore the throb. Send that bitch back into hyper-sleep and smile through the pain. “Smoked gouda. A smear of roasted red pepper hummus. Two grinds of black pepper and a dash of Himalayan sea salt to tie it all together. Oh, and butter. Copious amounts, all sides of the bread. You can never have too much butter.”
“Indeed.” He blots his mouth with the napkin in a way that has me wishing I was born a napkin. “Would it be too much trouble to ask for another? I’ve still got quite a bit of soup left, and it seems a shame to let the opportunity go to waste.”
Are you going to make those sounds again? Because if you are, I might need to excuse myself for about ten to fourteen minutes to… um…
“No trouble at all!” I say brightly, picking up his plate and carrying it back toward the griddle. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Enjoying myself? Mushroom, this meal is downright orgasmic.”
I drop the plate into the sink with a clatter. Then I crack up, because what the hell else can I do at this point? The Devil is at my kitchen table, eating grilled cheese in a way that ought to be X-rated, maybe even illegal—definitely a health code violation of some sort, considering what’s going on between my thighs right now—and all I can say is, “Second orgasms, coming right up!”
“Iknewyou were a fan of multiples. It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
Fuck the grilled cheese sandwiches!Cries the Downtown Pep Squad.Girl, it’s high time this man buttersourbread and stuffs us full of his hot, melty—
“Water?” I choke out. “I mean, would you like some more? For the grilled cheese. You know, because it’s… really cheesy.”
Devlin smiles, eyes twinkling, the raised brow locked and loaded like a weapon about to go off and obliterate me. “If by water you mean wine, absolutely. But you just focus on the griddle. I’ll get the bottle.”
Somehow, despite his close proximity in my tiny kitchen, not to mention the sultriness of the rain pattering against the windows, I don’t burn the sandwiches. Which is more than I can say for my panties.
Goddess, why does he have to smell so good? Smoky, sweet, and spicy all at the same time—a deadly combination that’s making me even hungrier than the sizzle of butter on the griddle.
Dinner, round two, is another smash hit, and by the time we’re finished, the rain has turned into a deluge and my mind has devolved into a hardcore porno starring the naked bad-boy Devil and his naked grilled-cheese-flipping witch (in fact that’s the title of the film, could anything be more perfect), cheese melted over various lickable places, spatula getting up to all sorts of shenanigans, and all I can say is thank the underworldgodsDevlin offers to do the dishes, because I’m pretty sure I need to have that lie-down.
Oblivious to the plight of my perfectly innocent, perfectly ruined panties, Devlin sends me off to the living room to quote-unquote “relax” and “do whatever it is you do on a random evening.”
So, while he’s washing and drying with his sleeves rolled up—yes, still with the white dress shirt—and I’m trying desperately not to think about those forearms flexing as they pin me down on the mattress, I settle into an approximation of my usual routine, curling up on the couch with my latest book obsession. Sunshine bounds over immediately, Grumpy making me wait for it, and eventually my two familiars are both snuggled up on my lap, eager to hear what’s next for our favorite storybook couple.
I snap my fingers to dim the lights and ignite the candles, the scent of my cinnamon simmer pot floating on the air, the rain sluicing down the windows in a thousand tiny rivulets.
Perfect romance-reading vibes?Engaged.
“Now. Where were we?” I scan the page and clear my throat, then begin, right where we left off. “Lennox couldn’t bear to know he hurt Savannah so grievously. She was his soul mate, his better half, the woman who’d picked up his broken pieces and glued them back together. Her love made him a better man, and now that she was back in his arms—”
“I beg your pardon,” Devlin says, and I yelp, startling both cats. I didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly he’s right behind the couch, looking down from high above like the dark, brooding god of hotness he is. “But are you reading a romance novel aloud?”
