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He comes over to where I’m perched on one of his black kitchen stools at his island counter, grabbing my face with his hands and brushing his lips over mine.
His breath is warm and sweet like vanilla.
I let out a surprised grunt before surrendering to his touch. The pressing of our lips together is rough and coarse, but the feeling of his tongue moving against mine is soft.
He pulls back and rests his forehead against mine, “I’ve been scattered. Today’s menu was a last-minute decision, I’m afraid,” he smiles apologetically. “And it won’t be ready at the time I planned it to be ready.”
I couldn’t care less about the food though. The tingling feeling between my legs caused by his proximity is growing more intense by the second.
“Don’t worry. I have all night,” I tell him, hoping that my answer communicates how little I’m interested in the food right now.
I’m glad to be here.
He starts by filling up a pot of water and setting it on the stove. I watch as he sets a box of fettuccini next to it, cluing me in that he’s making some sort of pasta.
As I watch him cook, I remember one of the things he said to me as he was rambling on.
“So, you talked to my dad today?” I ask before thinking about how silly the question sounded and continuing, “Well, I imagine that isn’t uncommon, but you said he came into your office.”
He puts a deep pan on the stove, throwing some butter and what looks to be minced garlic into it.
“He wanted to know how volunteering is going. And I told him the truth. It’s going amazing,” he explains, throwing an easy smile over his shoulder.
It’s sweet that my dad is interested in the work. He always asks about the classroom whenever we talk, so it’s no surprise that he’d go to a new informant when it comes to the goings-on of my career.
“You didn’t mention tonight, did you?” I ask, even though we already covered keeping this a secret from my dad for now.
But I also know my dad’s nature can make it hard for one to keep secrets from him.
“No, I made sure to omit that,” he explains, working on peeling shrimp as he tosses them into the pan to sear. “In fact, he did ask if I’m keeping my hands off. And I, of course, told him I was.”
That’s good to hear. Despite the uneasiness I feel at keeping a secret from my dad, I know I would feel worse if I had to fess up to what’s really going on.
“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” I ask, though my seat provides the perfect view of Tyler’s very strong, very well-built back.
“No, you stay there and be beautiful. It helps me cook,” he tells me as he walks over to his fridge to pull out heavy whipping cream.
Watching him work from a distance is its own type of torture. A man who takes care of a woman in this way is sexy. Seeing him focused on perfecting a meal for me and looking this good while doing it makes me squeeze my thighs together.
Being teased by the little sliver of his stomach I can see does nothing to help.
“Okay, the sauce is simmering, and I just put the noodles in and have set a timer for twelve minutes,” he tells me, turning around with an accomplished smile.
Maybe it’s the way I’m biting my lip, maybe he sees something in my eyes, or maybe he spots how I am squirming in my seat. Whatever it is, it makes his eyes darken.
“What do you think we can accomplish in twelve minutes?” his husky voice rings out, as he stalks toward me.
“I don’t know,” I stutter, though, I know exactly what I want to do.
His hand silently reaches out to grab mine, and I don’t question it as he pulls me from my stool, leading me over to his living room. He sits down on his couch.
I stand there, staring at his sitting form, my eyes entranced at the growing bulge in his jeans.
“Turn around,” he orders, and I follow his directions as if in a trance.
When my back is facing him, his hands reach up to grab my waist, pulling me back until I unceremoniously fall into his lap.
“I really like this dress you have on,” Tyler comments on the cotton light blue dress, pulling down one of the thin straps to press a kiss to my shoulder.
