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“So…” he says as he steps toward the stove, where the lasagna sits fresh out of the oven, the smell of the bubbling cheese wafting into the space. “What is the occasion?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never invited me over.”
“Not true, you’ve been over here dozens of times.” I wave my hand in dismissal.
“Yeah…with Sage.Youhave never requested I be here…”
“Oh,” I mouth with little bravado.
The weight of my asking him to come over hasn’t hit me until now, but as he steps into me again, I feel it melt down my back.
“It’s not a bad thing that you want me here, Hannah.” Liam pushes my hair behind my ear as his eyes meet mine. “What’s going on?”
“Shit day.” I’m typically rather forthcoming, but something feels uncomfortably intimate about the way he’s looking at me right now.
I’m thankful he doesn’t pry or try to push me to open up; he just steps toward the cabinet that houses the dinnerware and pulls out two dishes. I would question why he knows his way around here so well, but then I remember his friendship with Sage.
I don’t know why I’ve never really felt jealous of them.They’re together a lot, but I know it’s not an issue. Whether it’s due to Sage’s insistence in shutting him down in those early months of knowing each other or her not-so-thinly veiled crush on his best friend Gabe, I’ve never questioned if she’s something to worry about.
Not to say I should be worried about him being interested in another woman. He’s a free man, after all.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks as he turns back to me, his eyes pinning me with a knowing look.
I hate that he can do that. His ability to read me like an open book terrifies me, but it also hurts when I remember that there have been so many times he’s intentionally disregarded my feelings.
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a grin, but it dies the moment I look up at him. “I was rejected for a show I really wanted earlier. Just put me in a funk.”
This seems to quell his interest as his shoulders deflate. “You’ll book something soon.”
I don’t miss the warmth that blooms in my stomach as he reassures me; it has way more weight coming from him than when Jackson says it.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“You’re welcome. Now, no more of this.” He points to my frown before placing a tentative kiss on my lips. “Let’s eat.”
The lasagna is passable, but nothing to write home about. There is no unique flavor or pizzazz, just a basic frozen lasagna. Liam seems to enjoy it though, as he has already eaten two pieces. He wipes his mouth with a paper towel and cleans away the rest of the sauce, causing my gaze to linger a moment too long.
“Eyes up here, princess.” He winks as the realization dawns on me that I have been staring.
“Shut up,” I scoff before taking the last bite of my food.
The moment the plates land in the sink, Liam is on me like a fly on honey, his lips grazing the shell of my ear as I attempt to wash the dishes.
“Liam,” I sigh. I intend it to be a reprimand, but it comes out more akin to an invitation.
“Yes?” he murmurs, the rough rasp of his voice vibrating off of my pebbled skin. As his tongue circles that sensitive place below my ear, I feel myself lean back into him. His breath tickles me and he doesn’t yield as he stands firmly, allowing my weight against him.
Butterflies swarm my stomach. Their fluttering wings and rapid motions churn my insides like a living, breathing entity. As his tongue grazes my wet, sensitive skin, I let out a soft moan. The sponge squelches in my hand as I squeeze it tight, the residual moisture and soap slipping between my fingers and dripping back into the sink.
“But…” I gasp, my voice barely audible, “I bought pie.”
Liam pauses before reaching onto the counter to grab a paper towel and pat my hands dry. “Okay, pie.” His words linger in the air far longer than they justify.
As I pull the packaged chocolate pie from the fridge, Liam grabs it from me and sets it on the counter. “Whipped cream?”
“Wha—” The innocent question dies on my tongue as he swipes the edge of the pie with his finger and brings it to his lips. He licks the rich mousse off his finger at a snail’s pace, the languid movement shooting a bolt of electricity straight to my core.
