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Wiping my hand down my sweaty face, I pad over to where she’s throwing her little temper tantrum in the kitchen. “What now?”
“There is something wrong with everything in this fucking kitchen.” Lacy chucks a wooden spoon into the sink, tiny flecks of bright orange sauce splattering the backsplash. “Did it all fall off the back of a truck or something? First, the chicken I tried baking the other day didn’t even get warm, then it burnt on top while the middle was still raw—”
“—You didn’t turn the oven on, then when you did, you set it to broil—”
“—Then the blender exploded—”
“—You didn’t put the lid on—”
“Now the fucking stove burnt my gluten-free macaroni and cheese.” Another stomp. Another thigh slap. And the thing that has my dick rearing to life behind my zipper, her lower lip plumps out as she simultaneously pouts and bites her upper lip.
It shouldn’t be sexy. But it really fucking is. So is the crinkle between her eyebrows as she scowls at the now ruined pan still sitting on the burner. The still turned to high burner.
“How long did you let it boil for?” Gently, I pull her back from the appliance before she can injure herself, and then I turn the thing off.
“Not long. I put the noodles in exactly like the box said, with two cups of water. Then I went and soaked my feet in the tub.” Lacy shoots a glare at me, and yeah, a drop of precum soaks into my boxer briefs. “Seriously, these concrete floors are not doing my pedicure any favors. And when I came back, it was like this.” She waves her hand around in the black smoke rising from her latest culinary disaster.
It takes incredible strength to not laugh. But I manage it because as I’d discovered after the chicken fiasco, Lacy does not like to be laughed at.
The heated lust which appears in her eyes for a moment as they trace down my shirtless chest to my low-hanging jeanshelps to keep the humor at bay. Just for a second, then she reigns the lust back in.
My Beauty hasn’t learned the art of ogling in your peripheral vision. I have. From the corner of my eye, I take her in: golden hair in a messy knot on top of her head. Jean shorts she cut herself from an old pair of mine during my early touring days when I’d been much thinner sit low on her hips. And another Malfeesance shirt she’s cut and tied into a sexy little halter top leaves almost nothing to the imagination. The sides of her perky tits are visible, and if she leans forward, I’m pretty sure it would gape down enough to reveal her entire chest.
The prospect shouldn’t excite me. I’ve already seen her naked. But that was different. I’d been watching over her for signs of concussion. Of course, I noticed how gorgeous she is, but it was secondary to my concern.
“None of the appliances are broken or stolen.” She might not realize it, but this kitchen is restaurant quality. When I’m not eating shit out of a paper bag in the back of a tour bus, I like to cook my own meals. I go into health-nut mode between tours. On tour, I can eat whatever I want, because performing heavy metal on stage for two hours burns a shit load of calories. Off tour, I have to work out like a maniac and eat smart to keep my body the way I prefer it. Apparently, the way she prefers it as well. “Step back. I’ll make you dinner.”
Lacy rolls her eyes. I fucking live for this woman rolling her eyes at me. It makes me want to spank her and fuck her and hug her all at once.
“Ugh, fine. Just none of that shit you made last night.” Lacy flicks her hand at me as she passes by.
My teeth ache from clamping them shut to keep from giving her hell. My dick aches to give her something else to do with that mouth of hers besides whine and throw tantrums.
“If by shit I made last night you mean the recipe for tamales that has been passed down through my family for generations and takes literally all day to make, then okay, I won’t make that shit again.” I cross to the fridge and pull out a package of turkey bacon, a tomato, and some lettuce. As I go about making our lunch, I refrain from mentioning the three servings she ate of “that shit.” But my cock hasn’t forgotten the noises she made while eating the meal. I love that fucking recipe, it transports me right back to Aunt Rosa’s kitchen with my mom and her sister’s all fighting that they weren’t doing something in the process right. For some reason, I wanted to make the one thing that makes me feel like I’m home for Lacy. I knew she would never appreciate the gesture, but I still wanted to do it.
“Thank god.” Lacy has her feet propped up on the coffee table, and she is once again flipping through the iPad she’s commandeered as her own. Thankfully, nothing is on there about the band. I have no idea what she’s been reading, but I have a feeling at least some of it is about her Dad, whom she refuses to discuss with me.
Something primal inside me has woken up since I found Lacy in that alley. Desires like protect, provide, and yeah, occasionally punish, are thrumming deep in my bones. It’s part of the reason I’ve stepped up work on renovations to the place. I want to make her comfortable. Want her to enjoy being here as much as I enjoy having her bratty ass here. And I still want to find a way to fix the situation she’s found herself in.
“Is that bacon?” Lacy is leaning over the arm of the couch now, her pert little nose in the air.
“Yeah.”
“I told you not to give me any more bacon. My ass is going to be bigger than Staten Island by the time I get my life back.” She twists around and looks at her ass, then shakes her head. “Make me something else.”
“You’re going to eat what I give you, or you can eat the burnt crap from the bottom of the sink. Besides, your ass could use a little more meat to it.”
Lacy gasps and stands from her spot on the couch. “Take it back. My ass is fucking perfection. I don’t spend every day in the gym for my body to be anything less.”
“Maybe you should spend a little less time in the gym and a little more on your personality.” I know I’m being an asshole. There is literally nothing I would change about this woman. But her face when she’s angry is just about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I keep picking fights and prodding at her just to see the fire in her eyes. When we aren’t fighting, she looks sad or worried. I hate it. But when we’re antagonizing each other, the sadness fades from her eyes. That fire in her spirit brightens the dark shadows her father left. So, until I can figure out a fix for the situation, I’ll pick fights.
“Oh really? And what personality would you prefer? You’re probably one of those guys who likes a doormat. You probably bring home women who would never tell you what they want. They’ll just lay there while you jackrabbit away inside them until they half-heartedly fake an orgasm, so you can finish and be done with it.
“You just want a girl to eat your fatty food, suck your limp dick, and leave you alone.” Lacy stabs her finger into my chest. When did she get so close? I’d been so mesmerized by the beauty of her passion and the pure bullshit coming out of her mouth, I hadn’t even realized she stood right in front of me. “Fuck. That. I like what I like, and I want what I want. Why should I roll over and accept anything else? To make life easier on the poor, fragile men of the world?”
I take a step toward her, forcing her back toward the living room. “There is a difference between having standards and not lowering them and being a brat. You, Beauty, are a brat.You have no respect for anyone outside yourself. You have no concept of what it means to be polite. I am going to make you fucking bacon, because I know you like it and it makes you moan like a fucking porn star. And you are going to eat it. Then you’re going to thank me and help me clean up like a decent human being.”
We’ve made it back to where she started, right next to the couch. The backs of her knees hit the arm, and she almost topples over onto the cushions, but I grab her arms to hold her steady. Those beautiful brown eyes are equal parts anger, annoyance, lust, and insecurity. I hate myself for putting the last bit there.
