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“T-shirt, no panties.” He points at the Diggy Graves shirt laid out on the end of the bed.
“How’s the pain?” he asks as he opens a kitchen cabinet. He grabs a box of pills and turns around, leaning against the beige counter.
“I don’t need pain meds,” I answer, sitting at the table. “The bruises are ugly, but I feel fine.”
He licks his lips, smiling. “You do?”
I nod, avoiding his gaze. Does his have to be so fucking tempting? Fucker.
Turning to the stove, he prepares an omelet in no time. The brothers have lived on their own for so long, they learned to do everything around the house efficiently a while ago.
I don’t say anything. I bring my feet flat on the chair, my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around my shins, resting the side of my face on the top of my knees as I watch him work. He’s still shirtless. His shoulders are wide, his back strong. Every little muscle moves when he works the pan. Unlike Ethan, who has multiple tattoos covering his chest and abs, Elliot opted for a huge one on his back. A dark angel cloaked and without a face covers him from shoulders to lower back. Its wings spread across his shoulders and all the way to his elbows.
I remember when he got it, it took four days at the tattoo shop all the Kings go to.
He’s got other ones peppered on his arms, mainly the Kings’ crown on his right forearm, but the angel is the one you really can’t miss.
Running a hand through his hair, he pushes back wild, blond strands. They look like he spent too long at the beach, surfing salty waves and lying in the sand. That kind of mix of bright and sandy blond. My fingertips prickle. I want to feel them too. I want to pull at them.
Apart from that tattoo, everything about Elliot makes him so approachable. So warm. His hair, his words, his smiles. The mask he puts on.
Warm everything, cold heart. Surely, that’s valid.
He cuts the omelet in half and splits it between two plates.
“Jade, my love.” His enchanting voice resonates without him even turning back to me. He’s grabbing cutlery now.
“Mhm?” I hum with closed lips, my eyes slowly blinking.
I feel like I’ve been watching a film. Elliot feels surreal. How can such a gigantic man cook so gracefully? He’s forced to keep his head down to not hit the overhead extractor fan, and yet he’s been moving around the kitchen like a chef. Or maybe that’s just me being enchanted by anything Elliot Pearson does.
“Bend over the table and lift your t-shirt to your hips.”
My head snaps up, my lips parting. He’s still not watching me, grabbing some napkins.
"What?”
“You heard me. We have a deal, and I’ve let you rest for almost a week. Now don’t make me wait.”
Without controlling my body, I’m up, pushing the chair away.
Why? How embarrassing is it going to be when he walks to me and realizes I’ve been wet from watching the guycook?
How humiliating that it’s just doubled from the order he gave me?
I bend over the table, my cheek burning against the wood imitation plastic wrap covering it.
It’s with a tilted vision that I watch him turn around. Two plates in his hands. He puts one next to my face, and one out of view. I think it’s by my hip. I hear a chair being drawn and feel him sit down.
Dying to know what he’s doing, I lift my head, looking back to see him sitting right where I’m bending over, his plate next to me, and his gaze on what I’m guessing is a great view of my wet pussy.
“Elliot—” My own shriek cuts me off. He slapped my ass with something.
“Lay back down, cheek on the table.”
I do so, not before seeing the exact utensil he slapped my ass cheek with. A fucking plastic spatula.
“Asshole,” I mumble.
