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So, instead of pushing Declan for more info, I help him with breakfast. With the way he keeps touching me while moving around the kitchen, one would think we live in an apartment the size of a shoebox instead of a mansion. I try to ignore the way a thousand sparks shoot off my skin whenever his body brushes against mine. Every time I sharply inhale, his lips seem to curve at the edges. I swear he does it all on purpose.
I can barely concentrate on cooking, which results in a half-burnt omelet. Sure, it might not look like the most appetizing meal, but it should get the job done. Calories are calories, am I right?
“Do you mind?” I snap when his chest brushes against my back.
“Your technique could use some work.” He assesses my breakfast with a scowl.
“Fine, Mr. Food Network. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
“Did it hurt to swallow your pride?”
“Ehh. I’ve swallowed worse.”
His nostrils flare.
Iris: 1. Declan: 0.
I smile as I take a step backward and hold out the spatula, expecting him to take it. The breath is knocked out of my lungs as he crowds me against the stove, clutching onto my hand holding the spatula.
“I prefer a more hands-on learning approach.” His hips press against my ass.
“Says the same man who used to tell me tofigure it out or find a new jobwhenever I needed help.”
He replies by nipping at the skin of my neck.
My next sentence comes out ragged. “What are you doing?”
“Helping my wife.”
My throat bobs. “You’re growing a bit too comfortable with that nickname for my liking.”
“I use it to remind you of your place.”
“And what’s that?”
“Mine.”
My cheeks burn, along with the area below my waist. He ignores my sudden shyness as he pours the mixture with his free hand, trapping me in place between both of his arms.
“Your first mistake was pouring too much in the pan at once.” His hot breath hits my neck, eliciting goosebumps across my body.
The eggs sizzle, matching the way my insides feel as his chest brushes against my back. I never thought cooking could be considered an erotic experience—at least not until Declan. The man makes cooking eggs seem like a kind of foreplay.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “What’s next?”
He carries my hand gripping onto the spatula toward the hot stove. “You let the eggs cook.”
It’s a simple task, yet he holds my hand hostage as we gently push the eggs over and over until the top surface of the eggs has thickened. Each minute feels like an eternity with the way he holds onto me. He seems to be drawn toward the curve of my neck, and he kisses me twice before dictating the next set of directions.
“Now you fill one side with your toppings.”
“Not both?”
His deep chuckle rattles my bones. “Greedy as always.”
“More like famished.”
“That makes two of us,” he replies huskily as he presses his hips into my ass.
