For the tenth? Twentieth? Fiftieth? time today, I send a silent message to my dick to stand down. The poor guy has been jumping to attention whenever Yara does something remotely sexy, though I’m sure she has no idea she’s doing it.
That’s something else I like about Yara. She doesn’t tryto be sexy, like a lot of the women I’ve hooked up with in the past. She just is.
Like now, as she stands at the counter, her lower lip drawn between her teeth while she concentrates on chopping vegetables. Her freshly washed hair hangs long and loose down her back, save for one tendril that keeps falling over her forehead and into her face.
For the third time now, she blows a small puff of air at the rogue hair, but it only moves an inch or so before falling into her face again. Her nose wrinkles in exasperation, and shit, it just might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Some people might stop what they’re doing to fix their hair, but not Yara. She just keeps chopping, pushing the diced tomatoes to the side and moving on to the onions. She pauses briefly to use her forearm to push her hair back, which has the added bonus of exposing a sliver of bare stomach when her shirt lifts.
And oh, shit. Was that a tattoo I spotted? A small one just above her hip?
Is that the only one? Or does she have more? I know she doesn’t have any visible tattoos, or at least, nothing I’ve seen when she’s wearing an evening gown or a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. But there are plenty of other spots a tattoo could be hiding. Spots I’d like to examine while Yara is naked.
And there he goes again. My dick, which has apparently reverted to his rambunctious, teenaged self.
I’m here as a friend,I remind myself for the umpteenth time. Afriend. And friends definitely do not fantasize about finding hidden tattoos and seeing each other naked. They definitely don’t think about how it would feel to be inside her, her body hot and slick and ready for me.
Would she want me to be on top? Or would she prefer to be the one in control? I wouldn’t mind having Yara sitting astride me, her bare breasts bouncing as she moves and her head thrown back in ecstasy. My hands would come to her hips, helping lift her up and down. I’d reach between us, finding her exposed bud and working it until she’s mindless with need. And then?—
A soft sniffle jerks me back to reality.
My gaze jumps to Yara’s face—Stop looking at her breasts,I scold myself,some fucking friend you are—and I’m horrified to see her blinking back tears.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m such an asshole, fantasizing about having sex with Yara while she’s crying.
Crying.
I slam the pepper shaker I’m holding down and rush around to Yara’s side of the island. Then I take the knife from her hand and set it aside before turning her to face me. The sight of her pink and watering eyes is a kick to the gut, and without thinking, I brush the dampness from her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask urgently. “Did you hurt yourself? Was it a memory? Did something trigger?—”
“What?” Her brows pinch in confusion. “Why would something be wrong?”
I stroke her satiny soft skin, torn between loving the feel of her skin against mine and hating the fact that she’s crying. “You’re crying. What’s wrong?”
Yara puffs at her hair again. A beat later, her lips twitch. “It’s just the onions, Ace. I’m not upset about anything.”
Onions. Which I know damn well make people cry when they cut them.
“Oh,” I reply for lack of anything better to say. Or rather, nothing I’d admit to, like the very idea of Yara crying makes me feel protective as all fuck and ready to slay whatever enemy dared to upset her.
A momentary image flashes through my mind—me wielding dual sabers while slashing hundreds of onions and bellowing,“This is what you get for making Yara cry!”
Ridiculous? Yes.
But damn those onions. Haven’t scientists come up with a way to make them tear-free or something by now?
Before I can stop myself, I tuck her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t think about the onions,” I add by way of explanation. “Which is pretty dumb, considering.”
Yara’s gaze holds mine. “You thought I was really upset?”
“Well, I looked over and you were crying. I didn’t think about why.” Gently nudging her aside, I pick up the knife to take over chopping. “Anyway. I can do this.”
“Ace.” Her eyebrows arch up. “I’m capable of cutting some onions.”
“I know.” But shit, I don’t want to see her crying again, even if the cause is harmless. “But maybe you could grab the lettuce, instead.”
