Chapter 16 #2
“Sure you did.”
That earns me a look. Fiery. A challenge. The kind of look that says she might be sweet, but she likes this back and forth as much as I do. Likes the tug-of-war.
I lace our fingers together and guide her toward the kitchen.
The scent of garlic and red wine hits us as we round the corner, the sauce bubbling on low heat on the stove.
The overhead lights cast everything in a warm glow, domestic as fuck, which feels absurd considering how charged the air was thirty seconds ago.
She slows when she sees it all laid out, head on a swivel. Pasta waiting to be dropped. Bread sliced. Wine breathing on the counter.
I pull out one of the counter stools and pat it. “Sit.”
Drop another kiss below her ear.
I turn back to the stove before I do something reckless like drag her off that seat and forget the entire concept of dinner.
“Try this,” I say, dipping a wooden spoon into the sauce.
She leans forward automatically, mouth parting.
I pause. “Careful. It’s hot.”
“So are you,” she shoots back, then her eyes widen like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Are you flirting with me, Juliette Kennedy?”
“I’m complimenting your cooking.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
She rolls her eyes but leans in again, waiting for me to lift the spoon to her lips. She blows on it, then licks the sauce with her tongue, closing her lips around the edge carefully.
My gaze drops to her mouth, causing more twitching in my lower half.
She hums. “Delicious. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” I grin, turning back toward the stove to drop the pasta in the boiling water, set the timer, and go about pouring us each a small glass of red wine.
“You’re very comfortable in here,” she says.
“It’s my kitchen.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I glance over at her. “I know.”
She rests her chin in her palm, studying me like I’m the one on display now. And maybe I am. Shirt sleeves pushed up. Hands moving with purpose. I’m always focused when I have a goal.
An endgame.
Domestic competence is a weapon, and I wield it when I have to; all of my ex-girlfriends would agree.
I can cook.
I can fix things.
She accepts the glass when I hand it to her, fingers brushing mine. “So, this is your move?”
“My move?”
“The whole ‘look how put together I am’ routine.”
I take a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass. “You think this is a routine?”
“It’s very deliberate.”
“Everything I do is deliberate.” Including you.
Her eyebrows lift at that.
My chuckle is low. “You prefer men who don’t know what they’re doing?”
Her trim shoulders rise and fall. “I prefer men who don’t strategize every move.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I mean, it is, but she doesn’t know that… “This isn’t strategy.”
“No?”
“No.” I tilt my head toward the stove. “If it were strategy, I’d be making something easier. This took hours.”
She looks surprised by that. “You’ve been cooking all afternoon?”
“Since before I called to invite you over.” Because like I said, deliberate.
Her eyes narrow at me above the rim of her wine glass. “You decided you were inviting me before you even asked?”
I shrug, reaching for the colander. “I had a feeling you’d say yes.”
Pouring the noodles back into the pot, I add a ladle of sauce, tossing it carefully, coating everything in deep red ragù. Juliette watches my hands the entire time, and I’m hyper-aware of it. The way her gaze slides over my wrists. My fingers. The flex of muscle when I stir…
“Hesitation wastes time.”
I plate the pasta, deliberately slow now, letting the sauce fall in thick ribbons.
Juliette sips. “Or it builds anticipation.”
I glance up at that.
She’s smiling into her wine glass.
“You enjoying this?” I ask.
“Watching you?” She tips her head. “Very much.”
I set the plates down but don’t hand hers over yet. Instead, I move toward her; lean my forearms on the counter, caging her in, causing the air to shift.
“You like a man in his element,” I say, nuzzling her neck and causing her to sigh.
“I like a man who knows what he’s doing.”
“Like me.”
She laughs quietly. “That’s what worries me.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because. Men who know exactly what they’re doing usually know the plan and how to get there.”
“And?”
“And they don’t always share it with you.”
Well, shit.
Ding, ding, ding!
She hit the nail on the head. I do know what I want, I know exactly how I’m going to get there, and I haven’t once shared the plan with her.
Instead of blinking at her, I hold her gaze. “Do you want me to tell you what my plan is?”
Her pretty doe eyes stare up at me. “Depends. Is your plan going to make me nervous?”
Yes.
My plan is going to fuck your brother up. He’s going to hate me for the rest of his life. It’s reckless. Borderline cruel. The first move has already been made, though—and I’ve never been the kind of man who retreats once I’ve chosen a direction.
But none of that reaches my face.
“My plan,” I murmur into her neck, letting my mouth brush the sensitive skin beneath her ear, “was to cook you dinner.”
Her neck tilts, giving me more access. “And then?”
“And then.” I breathe, keeping my hands braced on the counter, only touching her with my mouth, “I was going to kiss you again for dessert.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my lips. “You think so?”
I brush my nose against hers, teasing. “I think you like that I know what I’m doing.”
Her lips part.
“You like that I take control.”
A soft inhale of excitement.
“And you like that I’m telling you exactly what’s about to happen.”
Her hand tightens on me. “And what’s about to happen?”
I let the silence stretch long enough to make her ache for my reply.
“I’m going to finish plating this food,” I murmur against her mouth. “And then I’m going to sit right here next to you and be a good little Boy Scout and I’m going to behave.”
She blinks. “Behave?”
“Mm-hmm.”
The disappointment that flickers across her face is almost comical.
Oh, if only her brother could see her now: flushed, breathless, leaning into me like she’s forgotten her own name, creaming in her lace panties… He’d lose his motherfucking mind.
This is almost too easy.