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No skipping bra. I make a note to myself.
We fall into comfortable silence. The air, thick with our unmistakable chemistry. Every once in a while, our arms will brush as we move around each other. My breathing would quicken whenever he presses against my back in a disguised move to grab small things, cornering me between his wide chest and the cold marble of the kitchen island..
The familiar feel of his body takes me back to Paris when he bent me over the bed, held me immobile, and fucked my ass until I came all over him. With a shaky breath and an inner curse, I stand at the opposite end.
His tiny and innocent little actions are confusing my head and driving my libido insane. Our close proximity is a twisted game of foreplay. And it’s made it harder to resist him now that I know what’s waiting after his cold control snaps. Endless pleasure.
The dirty, gritty, savage kind.
It’s when we finally take a seat at the dining table, opposite each other, that I manage to get my insatiable body under control. Steam billows out when he uncovers the pan with precision. My nostrils are hit with the delicious aroma of perfectly cooked rice mixed in a rich dressing.
It’s going to be yummy, of that I have no doubt.
Everything this man does is nothing less than amazing, like failure just isn’t an option for him. It feeds the curious part of me that finds him fascinating. That little glimpse he bared has arisen an addict that craves another hit.
His slightly curly hair falls onto his forehead, highlighting the slope of his Roman nose and pronounced cheekbones as he pours us both wine. My fingers itch to push it back so his eyes—which are my favorite part of him—aren’t hidden.
I shove the urge down because it’s what a girlfriend would do.
We’re not together.
He’s my soon-to-be fake husband.
It’s all pretend.
A sham.
Despite the facts—or should I saywarnings—circling my brain, my lips have a mind of their own and I curiously ask, “Who taught you to cook?”
His hands don’t pause as he fills my plate with food and his head tilts an inch, indicating he heard my question. He doesn’t answer immediately and lifts his eyes to mine. Sliding the plate across the table toward me, he replies in a melancholic voice, “Rani Aunty.” Filling his own plate with twice the amount compared to mine, he elaborates, “She was one of my nannies when I was twelve and the only one whose name I remember. Mostly because she was the first one who made an effort to get to know me. I was determined to keep her at arm’s length, never talking because, what was the point, they all left eventually, or I did. Except, my stubbornness had nothing on hers.”
There’s softness and a boyish smile on his usually broody face as he continues, and I raptly listen and hang on to his words.
“I would usually lock myself in my room but one day, I decided to hang out in the living room, giving her the perfect opportunity. She came and sat with me, then randomly began telling me stories about her own kids. It was a one-sided conversation where she didn’t push me to participate. To her, my listening was victory enough. The love in her voice for her family struck me hard because it sounded like a world I thought of as a myth. For weeks, we continued our odd ritual where she regaled me with stories and I listened until one day, I couldn’t help but reply with a sarcastic remark.”
His lips tilt, a faraway look crossing his eyes as though he’s living the memory. Entranced, I watch him. “I can’t recall the exact words I said but the happiness on her face is imprinted in my mind. I began spending more time with her and since cooking was her hobby, most of it was spent in the kitchen. So, she forced me into helping and then taught me a few recipes. Days later, I found her husband had taken another job that required her family to uproot and she wanted me to have something to remember her by. She was with me the shortest yet I was close to her.”
I can just imagine a young Dash feeling abandoned once again and it causes a sharp pain in my chest. A flash of that same hurt flickers, darkening his features before it vanishes. He doesn’t have to say it for me to know she felt like a mother to the lost and lonely boy in him.
He drinks a long sip of the wine and returns his attention to the food but doesn’t eat while I seem to have forgotten about mine.
“Eat, kitten,” he says, lightening the mood. His voice, however, is tense.
I take a bite and an involuntary moan escapes my lips. His gaze heats momentarily as we stare into each other’s eyes.
“You didn’t stay in touch with her after she left?” I ask cautiously, hoping it doesn’t end in a sad way.
He chews another bite, swallows before nodding. “I did. She called me every month. She felt more like family than my own father ever did.”
“So you still talk to her?” Hopefulness lingers in my tone. “She must be so proud of you.”
“She passed away six years ago.”
The spoon clatters on the plate as it drops from my grip.
Again, no trace of emotion. His voice is frigidly impassive whenever he talks about someone close to him dying tragically. Always so matter-of-fact, it’s frightening.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
