Chapter 23
Reese
I'm still dripping wet when I hit the bottom of the stairs, towel wrapped around my hair like a turban, oversized t-shirt clinging to damp patches of my skin. The hot shower washed away the sweat and soreness from dancing, but not the hunger that's gnawing at my insides like a rabid animal.
"Jesus, I'm fucking starving," I announce to no one in particular, but the smell of food hits me before my feet touch the last step.
Ramsey's in the kitchen, his back to me as he methodically unpacks takeout containers across the island counter. The muscles in his shoulders flex under his thin t-shirt with each movement, and I find myself staring at the way his dark gray sweatpants hang low on his hips.
"Sit," he commands without turning around. "Eat."
"Bossy much?" I mutter, but my stomach growls so loudly it practically drowns out my own voice. I slide onto one of the barstools, leaning forward to peek inside the containers he's arranging.
My mouth waters instantly. Grilled salmon, still steaming. Brown rice with veggies. Some kind of leafy green salad that actually looks fucking delicious instead of sad. And—holy shit—sweet potato fries dusted with something that smells like cinnamon and cayenne.
"Balanced macros," Ramsey says, sliding a plate toward me. "Protein, complex carbs, healthy fats."
"Where'd you get all this?" I ask, already stabbing a piece of salmon with my fork.
"New place opened up like five blocks from campus, so some of the guys have been going there. Protein Palace, and honestly smart ass marketing decision."
The salmon is fucking incredible—flaky and tender with some kind of herb crust that's making my taste buds have an orgasm.
"Holy shit," I groan around a mouthful. "This is amazing."
I devour half my plate before I realize Ramsey hasn't touched his food. He's just standing there, watching me eat with this intense look on his face, like he's cataloging every bite I take.
"Aren't you going to eat?" I ask, gesturing to his untouched plate with my fork.
That's when his expression shifts. His lips curl into that cocky smirk I know so well, the one that makes heat pool between my legs instantly. His blue eyes darken as they track over my face, lingering on my mouth.
"God, I fucking hope so."
The fork I'm holding freezes halfway to my mouth. The double meaning isn't lost on me, especially with the way his eyes are practically devouring me instead of his food.
"You should eat," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless. "Before it gets cold."
Ramsey finally picks up his fork, but the way he does it—slow, deliberate, like he's got all the fucking time in the world—makes my thighs clench together under the counter.
He spears a piece of salmon, bringing it to his mouth with excruciating slowness. His lips part, and I watch, transfixed, as he slides the food into his mouth. Then he closes his eyes and fucking moans.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, squirming on my barstool.
His eyes snap open, catching me staring. "Problem?"
"Nope. No problem." I stuff a sweet potato fry into my mouth, nearly choking on it in my haste.
Ramsey takes another bite, this time dragging his fork slowly out between his lips, his tongue darting out to catch a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, his throat working as he swallows.
"Fuck, that's good," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower.
I press my thighs tighter together; the pressure does absolutely nothing to relieve the ache building between them. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
He takes a sip of water next, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. A drop escapes, sliding down his neck, and I find myself tracking it with my eyes, wanting to lick it off his skin.
"You're staring," he points out, that cocky smirk growing wider.
"You're being weird," I shoot back, stabbing another piece of salmon with more force than necessary.
Ramsey just shrugs, then proceeds to eat a forkful of rice in a way that should be fucking illegal. He actually licks his lips afterward, his tongue moving in a slow, deliberate circle.
"Do you always eat like you're auditioning for food porn?" I ask, my voice higher than usual.
He raises an eyebrow. "Do you always watch people eat like you want to climb them like a tree?"
Heat rushes to my face. "I don't—that's not—fuck you."
"Is that an offer?" he asks mildly, spearing another piece of salmon.
This time when he brings it to his mouth, he closes his eyes again, letting out a deep, satisfied groan that sounds way too much like sex. His tongue darts out to lick the tines of his fork clean, and I swear to god my pussy clenches in response.
"Can you not?" I blurt out, shifting uncomfortably on my seat.
His eyes open, feigning innocence even as his lips twitch with amusement. "Not what?"
"Eat like that. Like you're...you know."
"Like I'm what, Reese?" he presses, his voice dropping an octave. "Use your words."
"Like you're fucking," I hiss, heat flooding my cheeks.
He laughs, the sound deep and rumbling as he deliberately runs his tongue along the length of his fork again, eyes locked on mine.
"Holy shit, I cannot take another minute of you fucking your fork," I explode, slamming my hands on the counter and standing up. "I'm just gonna go anywhere else but here."
Ramsey's laughter follows me as I stomp to the living room, my cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. I throw myself onto the couch, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest like it might somehow protect me from the throbbing between my legs.
"You know," his voice calls from the kitchen, "running away doesn't solve anything."
"Neither does food pornography at the dinner table. You’re such an asshole," I shout back, burying my face in the pillow.
I hear his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving toward me. The couch dips as he sits down at the opposite end, and I peek out to see him watching me with those intense blue eyes, the corner of his mouth still quirked up in amusement.
"You love it," he fires back, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I hear him cleaning up and then walking down toward his room before suddenly he’s sitting down beside me. Fucker moves like a damn shadow.
"You're a fucking menace," I mutter, clutching the pillow tighter.
"And you're easy to rile up," he counters, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. His fingers are just inches from my shoulder. "Always have been."
"I am not," I argue, even as I shift uncomfortably, too aware of how wet my panties are just from watching him eat.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, to where the t-shirt clings to my breasts. I'm not wearing a bra, and I know he can see my nipples hardening under his stare.
"You know what I was thinking about?" he asks, reaching out to tug gently at the towel still wrapped around my hair. It comes loose, falling away as my damp hair tumbles down around my shoulders. "The same thing I've been thinking about since."
"And what's that?" I challenge, dropping the pillow to the floor.
"How you taste," he says bluntly, "straight from the source and not from my fingers."
My breath hitches. The image of me straddling his face hits me like a fucking freight train.
"I remember what you said," I whisper, my voice coming out ragged. "At the studio."
His eyes darken as he leans closer, his fingers brushing my damp hair away from my face. "And what did I say?"
I swallow hard. "That I could do my little dance on your face."
Ramsey's lips curl into a wicked smile that makes my stomach flip. He settles back against the couch, a predatory look in his eyes making my pussy throb.
"I did say since you wanted to dance for me earlier, you can dance right on my face.
" His voice drops to a growl that I feel between my legs.
"I think it's time you do that, do you want to do that Reese?
Do you want me under you as you ride my face?
Do you want me to lick, suck, and eat that sweet cunt?
You gotta tell me baby cause I don't take what isn't freely given. "
Do I want it? Yes, I do but I’ve never done it before. What if I’m not good at it? He’s gotta have tons of experience, and I have literally zero, so like the better question is what do I even do?
Now it’s his turn to reach out and rub away the furrow between my eyebrows.
"You’re thinking awfully loud there, baby girl. Stop second guessing yourself. If you want it, say it. Everything else will fall into place."
"Yes," I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice. "I want that."
"Say it properly," he demands, his fingers trailing down my arm. "I need to hear you say exactly what you want."
I lick my lips, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I want to ride your face," I whisper, heat flooding my cheeks. "I want your mouth on me. I want you to make me come again."
Ramsey's eyes flash with approval. "Good girl," he murmurs, and those two words send a jolt straight to my clit. "Now come here."
He slides down to the floor, settling between the couch and coffee table, his back against the frame. He pats his thighs, beckoning me with those long fingers that already know how to make me fall apart.
I move, and my legs are shaky as I stand over him. His hands settle on my hips, guiding me to straddle his lap, my knees on either side of his thick thighs. I can feel his erection straining against his sweatpants, pressing against the thin cotton of my panties.
"Not quite where I want you yet," he says, his thumbs rubbing circles on my hipbones. "But first—"
He reaches up, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me down until our lips crash together.
His hands slide under my t-shirt, his fingers caressing my skin with a reverence that makes my breath catch. He kisses me deeply, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that has me grinding down against his hardness.
When he breaks the kiss, his eyes are midnight dark, pupils blown wide with desire.