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He watches me as I transfer more hot cookies to the now empty cooling rack.
“Show me.”
The air is sucked out of the room.
“What?”
“Show me how you remember it.” His eyes turn stormy, it’s a look of pure sex, and I want to drown myself in it. That was the best sex of my life. I try to remember why this is a bad idea, but I can’t remember anything. All I see is a rugged jawline and those dark intense eyes staring me down. He steps into my space, crowding me against the kitchen island.
Fuck it.
“You walked up to me.”
“Like this?” he asks.
I nod.
“You held my hand.”
He follows along. “Like this?”
When he weaves our fingers together, I wonder if he feels the same spark I do.
“Like this?”
“Yeah,” I respond in a whisper. “A-And then you kissed me.”
“Like this?”
My pulse races as he leans down. It starts with a brush. His lips are soft yet commanding. His mouth moves over mine and causes my pulse to race. The pent-up feelings are finally being released and it takes over until our kiss builds into something heavy and potent. It’s different from the one at the hotel. When my breath hitches, he releases my hand and drives his fingers into my hair, deepening the kiss.
One hand lowers to the base of my neck, and the rough pad of his thumb strokes my collarbone. A spatula clatters to the floor when he grabs my waist and sets me on the counter, closer to eye level. His hands settle on my knees, pushing them open to stand between my thighs. The muscles in my core contract.
I fist the sides of his shirt but resist pulling him close enough to bring friction to my peaked nipples. Kissing him is like the first rain after a drought. It’s something you’ve wanted for so long, and when it comes, you hope it floods. I bite back a moan when he parts my lips and traces them with his tongue as he did before. His palms drop to my hips, and he pulls me to the edge, kneading the flesh. Just before I wrap my legs around his waist, the oven timer buzzes and I jump. Our lips pull apart, leaving us panting, but our foreheads connect while we catch our breath.
“No,” I answer his earlier question, “this kiss was nothing like that.”
“Fuck...” He snickers. “No. It wasn’t.”
The timer on the oven goes off again, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to place my arm on his chest and gently push him back. I’m lightheaded when I hop off the counter, but I turn off the oven, take out the cookies, and slide in a new batch.
I feel him watching me. Then he laughs, and it causes me to join in. We’re punch-drunk off the kiss we shared.
“Wow, I need to get started on dinner.” I giggle, attempting to fill the dead air. I’m very self-conscious of my movements around him after that. It’s obvious, at the point, that he gets a rise out of seeing me embarrassed.
“So... what are we eating tonight?”
Are you looking for volunteers?
“Grilled chicken and vegetables, pasta, and some crusty bread I picked up from this cute little bakery nearby.”
“I know that place. They have great cinnamon bread too.” There’s a lull.
“Can I help you chop veggies?”
“Sure.” We stand in silence; the only sound is our knives hitting the cutting boards. I’m a lot faster at this than he is, and I cut all my carrots and cauliflower before he finishes the two sweet potatoes I’ve tasked him with.
Dinner is delicious, he makes a few appreciative grunts that cause me to bite my lip. I love how verbal he is. I can tell his thoughts are impure when he leans back in his chair, ripping off pieces of bread and flashing that straight white smile of his. It’s mischievous. He’s daring me to guess what he’s thinking about, but I’m not taking the bait.
