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My heart is banging in my chest now and I say breathily, “For the third time, cliché.” Then, I add, “Although this one’s in the uber masculine-caveman genre.”
Amusement runs through his eyes and he murmurs, “Well, it’s a cliché for a reason, isn’t it?
“I —”
His eyes rove over my face. “Because if I’m ready to blow in my pants right now, you’re dripping onto the sheets.”
My core clenches. “I am not.”
“I can smell you.”
“You can’t smell me. That’s absurd.”
“But true.”
“You know what, you should go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. You’re getting late for your stupid workout.”
“That also gives you a mini-orgasm.”
I roll my eyes even though he’s right. “You really should leave now. The wood won’t chop itself if you stand here all day staring at me.”
Because that’s what he does: he chops wood and then he runs laps and laps on end around this place.
While I lounge around in bed, watching him through the window.
And yes, having mini-orgasms.
“No, it won’t,” he agrees.
“So then —”
“I think if I stand here staring at you all day, no power on this earth can chop this wood, let alone me.”
I nod sagely. “Exactly.” Then, confused, “What? What wood?”
His mouth pulls up in a smirk. “Why don’t you think on it while I do this?”
“Do wh —”
His hand shoots out and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. At which point, he kisses the breath out of me and when he’s finished, he straightens up and, grabbing a t-shirt, leaves.
He’s almost to the door when I gasp. “I just got it,” I say to his retreating back. “Your stupid, immature wood joke.”
Then before I can think about it, I grab a pillow from beside me and throw it at him, making him chuckle.
With a sigh, I settle back against the pillows and I do it smiling.
As always though I fall back to sleep after watching him wield the axe and his hypnotic, rhythmic movements. Only to wake up an hour or so later — which is still early for me — to start my day. Which usually includes prepping breakfast before he comes back, all sweaty and panting.
All delicious.
So I guess he was right; I do run around the kitchen, trying to get everything ready on time.
Whatever.
Anyway, where we eat that breakfast depends on what the weather’s like.
Sometimes when it’s sunshiny, we go out and have a picnic by the lake like I told him I wanted. We swim in the lake; we take walks and whatnot.
But sometimes when it’s cloudy and raining, we stay home and after finishing our breakfast, we hang out in the living room. Especially by the big window that overlooks the pretty rain and the woods. We usually end up on the cozy rug with me sitting propped up against the couch and him — believe it or not — with his head in my lap while I read him my favorite romance novels.
Which of course he makes fun of.
If he doesn’t fall asleep after a while.
Which I don’t mind at all because he looks so peaceful like that.
But sometimes he stays awake and that usually happens when the book is super angsty. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he is a big chicken when it comes to angst.
“What the fuck?”
I stop reading. “What?”
“They’re about to fuck in his office,” he states like I don’t know.
“Well, yeah. So?”
“So.” He frowns, the lines around his mouth pulled tight. “They’re going to get caught, aren’t they?”
I close the book and set it aside as I answer, “I’m not going to tell you that. I’m not going to spoil it for you.”
His jaw clenches. “I don’t care. We’re not reading that shit.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s bullshit,” he goes, that frown thickening between his brows. “Because they’re idiots. Because why the fuck would they take that risk, fucking in his goddamn office. And because if they’re going to fucking do that, be stupid like that, I’m not going to waste my time reading about it. Take your fucking pick.”
Just for context: I’m reading a particular favorite of mine where the hero’s a poetry professor and the heroine is his student who gets obsessed with him and stalks him. And I’ve hit the part where the hero and the heroine are about to do it in his office.
I purse my lips together lest I burst out laughing.
Although I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it because his frown thickens even more and he glares up at me.
Somehow I do get control of my amusement and say, running my fingers over his forehead, “You do know this is just fiction, right?”
“I don’t care.”
“And it’s romance. They are going to get together in the end, just so you know.”
“I don’t fucking care if they get together at the end. I’m still not wasting my time reading their dumb story.”
