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I turn my head to look at him. He must have kept his hair out of the spray since it’s just a little damp on the edges. He’s wearing a T-shirt and soft, thin black pajama pants that cling to his hips and legs in a tantalizing way.
He steps forward and reaches over my shoulder to wrap his hand around a bottle of Malbec. “This will go well with steak.”
“Okay. That sounds good to me.” I’m relieved by his taking care of the wine choice, but I’m also quite unsettled by his closeness. His body is brushing up against my back, and I really like how it feels.
He lingers longer than I would have expected, standing right behind me. It feels like he’s looking at me, but I’m too nervous to turn my head again to check.
Then he finally steps back, and I follow him out of the closet. I finish putting his plate together, breathing slowly and telling myself to relax and get it together.
He pours out two glasses of red wine and offers me one. “You don’t want anything to eat?”
“Nah, I had plenty earlier. But I’ll definitely try this wine.”
This decision evidently pleases him. He sits on one of the counter stools where I set up his plate, and I take the stool next to him.
I try not to watch him too closely as he cuts a piece of the steak and takes a bite.
He makes a low, guttural sound that’s clearly pleasure as he chews. “This is amazing. Thanks.”
“Sure. I had everything basically done, so it was easy.”
“Everything you make is really good. I appreciate you leaving me so many leftovers.”
I shrug, feeling my cheeks go pink as I focus steadily on my wineglass. “I like cooking, and it’s hard to cook for just one.”
“You’ve been cooking a lot lately. I didn’t realize you liked it since you’ve never done it much before.”
Shit. Yet another way I’ve changed Amber’s habits.
I use the same excuse I’ve used before. “It’s something new I’m trying. I’m not all that good at it.”
“I beg to differ,” he says before taking a big mouthful of roasted pepper and potato. “You’re great at it.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks.” I take a slow sip of wine and try to turn the conversation. “So tell me about work. What was so annoying today?”
He accepts the shift in topic and tells me about what he was trying to get done and how other people weren’t cooperating. He clearly recognizes that a lot of the problem was his own mood and not everyone else’s complete incompetence. He relaxes as he eats and talks. He still looks tired as he finishes his plate, but he doesn’t look nearly so battered.
It feels like a job well done. Like I’ve done something to help him. Take care of him. We keep chatting as we finish our wine, and then I suggest he come to bed early instead of going to his office to work some more.
To my surprise, he does exactly that.
I’m nervous again as he climbs into the bed beside me, smelling like soap and toothpaste and the slightest hint of red wine. He’s looking at me. Not lustfully or aggressively. But in a strangely focused way. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
What I want to do is drag him over on top of me, but I restrain the impulse. “We can watch a movie or something if you’re not ready to sleep yet.”
“Sure. That’s a good idea.” He doesn’t look disappointed, but he lets out a long breath, like he’s willing himself to let go of some sort of tension.
We find an old movie that both of us like and start playing it.
William is asleep before it’s halfway over, and I barely make it to the end.
* * *
I wake up a few hours later flushed and breathless and aroused.
At first I’m in that fuzzy blur on the edge of sleep, aware of little else than the needy throbbing of my body and a hot weight on my back.
It’s pressing into me, pushing me into the mattress, but it isn’t unpleasant or claustrophobic. I love the feeling. Need it. Want more of it.
