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“Duncan is our IT guy. His office is the pool house.”
“I live there too.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I’m Matty. It’s nice to meet you.” I wipe my oniony hand on my apron and extend it for him to shake.
“Nice to meet you too. So, what’s cooking?” he asks, stepping closer to the stove.
“Pasta sauce to start with and a couple loaves of fresh Italian bread in the oven.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Any chance I could get some when it’s ready?”
“Oh, sure. There’s going to be loads left.”
He sits down next to Cash and three of us talk for hours.
I’m standing at the stove stirring when he comes up next to me. He starts telling me stupid sci-fi jokes. I can’t help laughing, especially when he tells one about a hand droid. My hyena laugh pops out and I can’t stop.
“Oh my God. Stop. Please. I can’t. It’s too much,” I say, holding my side with one hand and pushing Duncan away with the other hand.
“What’s funny about that?” Cash asks. Confused.
“The hand droid does the masterb… uh, nevermind,” I say, stopping myself when I remember that she’s only seventeen.
“What are you doing?” Dorian asks, coming into the kitchen. I jerk my hand away from Duncan so fucking fast. Duncan takes a step back. My eyes land on Dorian and he looks murderous. I definitely don’t answer him. We just stare at each other.
There’s a split second where the air in the room is charged with sexual energy. Then he moves toward me and grabs my arm and pulls me out of the room.
“Cash, stir the sauce and pull the bread out in six minutes, please.”
“You got it, bestie,” she says, giggling.
“Thank you. Slow down, Dorian.”
“No.”
Inside our bedroom, he shuts the door and locks it.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Why do you insist on touching other men?”
“What? I don’t do that.”
“I’ve let these go, but yesterday you touched Cooper. The day before that it was the gardener.”
“You’re crazy,” I tell him.
“You drive me crazy,” he says, dragging his hands through his hair.
“I don’t mean to.”
“Yes, you do. You know you do.” I smile and bite my lip. He comes closer to me and pulls me to him by the string on my apron. “Strip,” he demands.
“Why? I don’t want you to eat my pussy.”
