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“And is it by your earbecauseof all the listenin’ to your brother?”
Another nod is delivered at the same speed.
“Huh,” the man beside me thoughtfully hums, “that’s uh…that’s wild.”
“What?”
“That after all these years, there’s still so much to learn about you. For instance, I know you like tatts because you find the buzz of the gun calmin’, but I didn’t realize thateverydesign on you tells its own tale.”
“I know what you mean.” My beam lingers. Keeps the situation bright. “I’m still learning about you too, Cowboy.”
“How good I am with my tongue between your legs doesn’t really count.”
There’s no stopping the squeak of shock his comment conjures.
“I was tryin’ to be serious here, Angel Cake,” Slater states in an overdramatic fashion, blue lettering giving away the same thing his grin is. “I was tryin’ to have a real Hallmark moment with ya.”
“Hallmark this,” I sassily state and snatch up the nearby dishtowel to whip against the side of his leg.
The challenging expression I’m instantaneously met by after the fabric makes contact with his jeans doesn’t surprise me. “You really wanna do this?” He cockily tilts his head to the side. “Did you learnnothingduring the Siege of Pillowsburg?”
More laughter escapes during my retreating steps. “Bring it on, Cowboy.”
One last skeptical look is all the warning I’m given before he advances. Knowing that speed and agility are both on his side is what leads me to taking other measures of defense such as tossing the freshly washed raspberries in his direction. Slater easily ducks and dodges, barely being slowed down at all as we work our way round and round and round the island. He eventually manages to catch the end of the towel I’m swinging around yet instead of playing tug-a-war with it, I do the unexpected.
I let go.
Grab my perfectly measured cup of cake flour.
Show him the impish gleam in my gaze and then throw the contents at him.
“Sonofabitch!” comes out in a chuckling nature informing he’s amused, not mad.
However, rather than using the opportunity to put more distance between us, I do something unwise.
I gloat.
Hard.
I do a little dance of victory timed to the country music swirling around the kitchen only to have him chuck a handful of the ingredient at my chest. “Sonofabitch!”
“Ha!” Slater mirthfully barks. “How do you like-”
Whip cream lands smack dab in the middle of his face prompting me to toss my spoon free hand up in victory. “Bullseye!”
Slowly – almost terrifyingly slow – my fake boyfriend turned kitchen enemy wipes away the contents off his nose and onto his tongue. The hum that reverberates around the room is attached to a pleased expression. “Sometimes I forget how much better your homemade shit tastes than that shit out of the tub.” He doesn’t leave a chance for me to comment. “Doubt I’ll ever forget again after I lick it off of you.”
Letting my jaw fall to my feet leaves me vulnerable for the attack like he’s counting on.
In what feels like a blink, Slater equips himself with the powdered sugar I left out from our Belgian waffle breakfast with Blu, throws a fistful of it at me like a smoke grenade, and takes protection behind the island counter.
Sweet flavors invade all of my senses like a hostile takeover, pushing me to mimic his combat choice of grabbing my weapon and looking for cover. Positioning myself on the exact opposite end doesn’t seem like the smartest option but a wise one the instant additional white powder falls from the sky. I scoop up a spoonful, lean to analyze both sides for the best angle, and then wait for Slater to peek his head around one corner. As soon as he does, I launch more whip cream, although this shot is a bit short. Back and forth the two of us attack. Laugh. Attack again and laugh louder. Music seamlessly shifts itself in a fun pattern of songs we separately like with ones we have a mutual love for in between, and singing along a little too passionately to the latter is how I miss the ambush. While checking to the right, Slater sneaks around on my left and snags the bowl from my loose grip. A tiny squeak barely manages to break free due to having my legs yanked forward and my torso gently pushed backward.
Sticky fingertips inch themselves upward for the waistband of my sleep shorts encouraging me to lift my hips.
Offer myself up like I’m the dessert he can’t wait to taste.
“For your act of treason,” Slater begins, words dark in color but steady in flow, “you will be forced to surrender an orgasm.”
