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“I feel blessed, Layla. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a proper home-cooked meal and from a professional, too.”
She rolls her eyes as the veggies sizzle.
“I’m not quite a professional yet,” she says, “but thank you.”
“It smells delicious,” I reply.
She carries the chopping board to the sink, placing it beside the other dishes.
“Would you like a drink or anything?” she asks.
“Let me sort that. You’ve already done so much for me.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll take water.”
“I’ll set the table, too.”
These tasks give me an excuse to create some space between us. As I busy myself in the dining room, I breathe slowly, ordering my body to stop with the never-ending signals. My balls feel full, flooded with seed. My hunger won’t wane.
When I return, she’s at the stove, tossing the stir-fry. She works with practiced skills. The best part is the look of concentration on her face, how she bites her bottom lip, and the care she applies to the task.
“You love your work,” I say.
She looks at me over her shoulder. The lust in me tries to take control, imagining her looking this same way when she’s bent over, her beautiful big ass on display, ready for me to guide my member to her hole, to slip inside, push deep so there’s no space between us at all.
Pushing those thoughts away, or at least to the edges of my mind, I focus on her response.
“You can tell that just from watching me toss a stir-fry?”
“Your passion is obvious, and I’m no expert, but this food smells delicious.”
I could spend the rest of my life complimenting this woman, being rewarded by her flushed cheeks and the conflicted pride and embarrassment on her face. Is it becauseI’mcomplimenting her? Is that where the embarrassment comes in? Or is it a general feeling?
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” she says softly.
There are lots of things I haven’t tasted, my sweet Layla. Her nipples in my mouth, and then I’d kiss down her belly, over the place that will one day hold our child, and further, until I’m kissing her legs and getting ready to indulge in her young, sopping core.
“It’s almost ready. I just have to dish up.”
I watch as she transfers the steaming food to plates, my mouth watering, not just for the food.
“Shall we?” she says.
I take a plate, careful not to touch her hand when she passes it to me. If I touch her, resisting will become even more difficult, which would be impossible since I’m already on the edge. One touch—hell, onelook—could push me over.
We go into the dining room together. She stands at the head of the table, frowning.
After a moment, I realize why. I set our cutlery out so we’ll be sitting right next to each other, close enough to touch. I’ve got no clue how she feels about the kiss.
Reading desire into her expression is too easy, but she probably regrets it.
Her step-uncle kissed her, then ghosted her, and now we’re not mentioning it or hinting that it happened. As far as elephants in the room go, this is huge, an undeniable distraction we’re both pretending to ignore.
I sit at the head of the table with Layla right next to me. If I shuffled forward, our legs might touch.
I focus on the food instead, forking chicken and vegetables. The meat is perfectly cooked, with just the right texture and moisture, and the sauce is perfect. When the taste hits me, I close my eyes, savoring it.
“Good?” she asks when I’ve swallowed and opened my eyes.
