Page 74 of Riding the Curve

His arousal presses against my lower back, letting me know it’s affecting him just as much. The sharp bite of my teeth nicks my bottom lip, muffling the moan his touch tears out of me. “I’ll show you exactly how skilled they can be.”

His lips skim the shell of my ear with a ghost of a kiss. Then he pulls away to continue prepping the grilled cheese. I’m left hot and bothered, just like the soup that’s now boiling in front of me.

I gasp, quickly shutting off the flame and setting the pot aside to cool down. Finally taking a breath, I attempt to do the same.

Somehow, we make it through finishing dinner, and we finally sit down to eat. Emerson dunks the edge of his sandwich in the tomato bisque and takes a ginormous bite. Gooey, melted cheese stretches from his mouth to the bread.

“Oomph, my goph,” he groans in delight, words muffled by the food. His eyes roll backward as he dips the sandwich again, prepping for bite two. A grin tugs at my lips as I watch him smile and bring it up to his mouth. “You weren’t kidding about this being mind-blowing.”

Giggling, I begin to eat my own. He devours the sandwich in what feels like seconds. When I see him eyeing my uneaten half, I snort into my glass of water. Lifting my bowl of soup off the plate, I slide him the rest of my sandwich.

“No, that’s all yours. You need to eat it all,” he says gruffly, sliding it back in front of me.

“It’s really okay. I don’t mind at all,” I say, sliding it back toward him, but he grabs my wrist. He swipes the plate and places it back in front of me.

“Eat, Hen.”

His eyes stare with such intensity, I can tell he’s not going to budge. So I pick up the other half and begin to eat it.

“Good girl.”

His praise causes me to have a coughing spasm so hard that I chug the rest of my water just to make it stop. Emerson’s head falls forward, and I can see his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Jerk,” I grumble, nudging him playfully on the shoulder before stealing his glass of whiskey and taking a sip. Cinnamon whiskey burns a delicious path down my throat, causing a small hum to rumble in my chest.

“When did you start drinking cinnamon whiskey?” I ask, raising the glass between us.

His palm envelops mine, pulling the glass toward his lips. “Since that night. Just one taste of you left me with quite an addiction, Hen.”

My lips part. Bright blue eyes trap mine as he takes a long draw from the glass then releases my trembling hand so I can place it back on the counter. He licks a drop of whiskey from his bottom lip, and I find myself entranced.

Wanting another taste.

The wicked grin that spreads across his lips sends my blood pulsing.

He leans forward, cupping my cheek and tugging me until I meet his lips. His soft bottom lip flutters over mine and tastes like hints of butter and cinnamon. Just as I begin to soften in his hold, he breaks the kiss and stands up.

“Thanks for the amazing dinner.” He smiles while bending down to take my dishes and then gives me a quick peck on the lips. “And dessert.”

He winks before walking away, and my cheeks are aflame.

I take a minute to collect myself before rounding the counter to help him. As I step beside him, my shoulder brushes against his, alerting him to my presence.

Setting down the soapy pot, he shakes his head. “Nope. My kitchen, my dishes, Trouble. I’ve got this, get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work to do to get this ranch ready for a wedding.”

“I’m not going to leave you with all this mess. Just let me help,” I say, reaching across him to grab one of the pans. He swats my hand away and slides me between him and the sink. Damp hands pinch my chin as the rest of his body keeps me pinned in place.

“No more arguing.” His forceful tone causes my breath to hitch. He leans in closer, his gaze never leaving mine as he does. Releasing his hold, his hand trails down to lightly grip the back of my neck. As his thumb grazes back and forth over the side of my throat, I squeeze my thighs together.

“Let me do this. I know you’re hurting. Get some rest, Trouble.”

I swallow deeply, not knowing how to reply.

When Carson and I were together, I did everything. The cooking, the cleaning, the shopping, everything. My love language has always been doing things for other people. So for a while, it didn’t bother me. But then he started to complain.

Once we got into an argument because I had been exhausted from work and fell asleep on the couch. When he came home, he had brought a co-worker and was appalled that I had left a plate and a cup in the sink.

Another time, he had the audacity to complain that our dinner was too ‘plain.’ He told me that since I was a chef, I should be able to make quality dishes at home, too. When I threw it back on him and told him he could help me out occasionally, he shamed me. The memory of his words still makes my stomach churn to this day.