Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 87756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
"This supposed to mean something?"
"I think it means he's cooking me dinner? I don't keep food in my house and there's food on the counter in the drawing."
"Paine is gonna cook for you?" he asked like I implied Paine was going to paint my toenails while watching a Sex and the City marathon.
"He already made me pancakes."
"Shit," he said, shaking his head as he handed me my drawing back.
I carefully refolded it, knowing it was going right in my jewelry box once I got home. "What?"
"You're both fucked," he said with a shrug.
"Gee thanks for that," I said, shaking my head. "See you next time," I added, going toward the door.
I drove home with both a knot of uncertainty and a thrill of excitement spreading through my system. And, sure enough, Paine's Challenger was out front. I grabbed my purse and gym bag and hustled into my place, expecting to smell dinner cooking, but all I was met with was the sound of my TV playing some kind of game. Paine was reclined back on my couch, legs up but feet (and shoes) hanging off.
"Hey babygirl," he called, not looking up from the TV.
"I got your, ah, note."
"And you got a kitchen counter full of groceries."
I felt my brows draw together. "About that..."
"You're gonna cook me dinner."
"I'm sorry, I'm what?" I asked, completely thrown off.
"Cook me, well, both of us, dinner. After you get that fine ass over here and give me a kiss."
"Paine... I can't cook. At all."
"Sure you can. And you're going to. I'll help."
"Paine..."
"Baby, you take care of yourself in every other fucking way. Wouldn't it be nice to know you can throw some food together too?"
Well, he did sort of have a point.
"Okay."
"Good. Now what part of getting your fine ass over here to give me a kiss didn't make sense to you?" he asked, but there was humor in his voice.
"You have legs too, you know," I said, standing my ground. "And if you want me to cook dinner, I think getting near a couch and kissing might delay that for, say, the rest of the night."
At that, he knifed up, turning over his shoulder to give me a wicked smile. "Might have a point there," he agreed, standing and making his way toward me.
I threw my gym bag and purse, knowing that whatever kind of kiss he had in store for me was going to require my hands as well as my lips.
He stopped when his toes touched mine, slid one foot between my feet, slipped one arm around my lower back, then sank one hand into my hair at the base of my neck, curling and yanking it backward. The second my mouth opened on a gasp, his was on mine, tongue moving inside to claim mine. Claim. That was the only way to describe it. Every time Paine kissed me, it felt like he was marking me, branding me, making me his.
What's more, I wanted to be his.
My hips pressed into his as he bent me slightly backward, throwing me off balance, and if his hand wasn't around my hips, I'd have fallen over. Against me, he was hard and straining. Which wasn't helping the fact that I was already hopelessly wet and almost painfully aroused.
"Alright," he said against my lips, getting me back on my feet and releasing my mouth. "Gotta stop or I'm gonna fuck you right here."
I fought the urge to tell him I had no problem with that and nodded.
Then he led me into the kitchen, my body still humming with arousal, and pulled items out of the bags.
"Starting easy. It's hard to fuck up spaghetti," he said with a boyish smile. "Boil water, put in spaghetti, stir. Put a pan of sauce on, stir. Ten minutes later, dinner is done."
"Sounds pretty idiot-proof," I agreed, going toward my cabinet to get a pot.
"You cooking for a football team, baby?" he asked, making me turn.
"What?"
"Swear to fuck, you're so clueless about this that it's cute. That pot is too big. Something half that size for the pasta. Then something half the size of the pasta pot for the sauce."
"Right," I said, finding the right pots, filling one with water, filling one with sauce and putting them on the stove as instructed.
"Want wine with dinner?" he asked, moving toward the rack.
"Sure," I said, watching the pot.
While I waited for the pot to boil, he asked me about my day, handed me wine, found excuses to casually touch me. It was all so... normal. Casual. And I realized I could really get used to it.
But I told him I wouldn't do that.
The night before, I agreed to let things play out how they were going to play out, to not expect things.
So yeah, I watched the bubbles pop up in the water and tried to tamp down the warm and gushy feelings inside.