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As she starts to remove the second batch, I head over to her cabinet and grab two plates and some silverware. I can’t help but wonder how I remembered where everything was located, when before last night, I was never much of a details person. Hell, I never really cared to help set a table before – mostly because, before I helped her make her dishes last night – I’d never really eaten with another person. Nick, sure, but that was grilled shit. But I’ve never had a woman over for dinner. I’ve never woken up the next morning and made breakfast, and I sure as shit didn’t hang around while she made me food in the morning. Once daylight hit, I was gone.
I’m silent as I set the table, retrieving butter and syrup from the fridge. Only when I open the fridge, I don’t see any syrup. “Uhh, Marissa?” How the hell does she expect me to eat pancakes without syrup? Especially when she did nothing but brag about her fresh maple syrup from some syrup farm down the road?
Without saying a word, she walks over and grabs the glass bottle from the sink. It’s wet from sitting in warm water, obviously warming it up so that it isn’t cold straight from the fridge, and after running a towel over the container, she hands it to me. Our fingers touch. My blood boils. My cock throbs.
All because of syrup.
No, not syrup.
Because of Marissa.
When the third and final batch of pancakes is done, she shuts off the griddle and joins me at the table. My mouth waters and my stomach growls angrily as I take a quick sip of the freshly squeezed orange juice I found in her refrigerator. I’ve died and gone to heaven…and I haven’t even eaten any of the food yet.
“Dig in,” she says, placing a stack of three flapjacks on my plate and one on her own. I waste no time dousing them in syrup, choosing to forego the butter, and add a few strips of bacon on the side.
My first bite? Orgasmic. Explosions of deliciousness hit my tongue and I groan. Loudly. I do it again with my second bite, and then my third. I’ve never had something so amazing as zesty lemon blueberry pancakes in all my life.
When I finally look up, her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, and her breathing a little labored. Yes, I’m enjoying the hell out of my food, but what draws my attention now is the look in her eyes. She looks like she wants to eat me alive, instead of her breakfast, and for the sake of complete disclosure, I’d be one-hundred-percent in favor of this.
Suddenly, breakfast has a whole new meaning.
She drops her eyes quickly and takes a small bite of her food. I watch as she closes her eyes, savoring the taste of the many flavors, and slowly chews. I’ve never watched a woman eat before. Not like this. This is…erotic. All I can think about is drizzling that damn syrup over her naked body and licking it off.
We eat, but it’s tense. Somewhere along the way, we picked up a third diner: sexual tension. It’s raw and thick and makes me think with the wrong head. If I’m not careful, I’m liable to let him make all of my decisions, which no doubt, would include throwing her on the table and feasting on her body.
Every time she looks at me, I feel like there’s something hanging, something she wants to say, but doesn’t. At first, I think I’m just imagining it, but now, as she pushes her empty plate away from her, I can tell she has something on her mind. She’s almost nervous, but I’m not sure why. It could be about our pending sailing excursion, but I have a feeling there’s more to it.
“Say it,” I instruct, finishing off my last piece of bacon.
She looks up, shocked and a little confused. “What?”
“You have something on your mind, I can tell. So, say it.”
Marissa clears her throat and glances away. “I’m not sure I can.”
Pushing my own plate away, I reach for her hand. She’s wringing them both together, a nervous habit that she probably doesn’t even know she has. When I hold them both between mine, I don’t miss the slight tremble. “You can say anything to me. Anything. In fact, I want you to. Even if you don’t think I’ll like what you’re about to say.”
Again, she clears her throat. It takes her a few long seconds, but I sense the moment she finds her resolve. “I was thinking…”
“About?”
“Something my sister said.”
Glancing down, I notice my thumb stroking over her smooth knuckles. For some reason, I really like it. “What did Harper say?”
“That…maybe we…you and I should…oh, God,” she grumbles, dropping her chin to her chest and averting her eyes.
“You and I should what?” I ask, my heart pounding in my chest as I wait.
She looks up, her eyes wide, and says the words I never thought I’d hear come from her sweet lips. “That we should sleep together while you’re here.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I die.
