8. Chapter 8 #2
I want to rip the towel off. I want to put my hand around her throat and hear the sound she makes when I push inside her.
I force myself to step back; it feels like tearing myself away from Velcro.
“Go put some fucking clothes on.”
She holds her ground a heartbeat longer. Then she backs away, a triumphant little smile tugging at her lips.
She walks down the hallway, hips swaying. I watch her go, cock throbbing, pulse hammering in my throat.
She disappears out of sight, and the second she’s gone, I drag a hand through my hair.
A nails-on-glass voice pipes through the phone. “Mr. Moreal? Should we continue?”
I work out until I can’t see straight. Anything to get the image of Jessica walking around my house in a towel out of my skull. It’s pointless. Every rep, every drop of sweat, every grunt just brings her back clearer.
I finish my workout pissed off, exhausted, and still hard enough to dent a fucking car. My body’s begging for release—sexual, violent, doesn’t matter—and it pisses me off even more.
This is day one.
Day. One.
What the hell is she going to do to me by day ten? Day thirty? Go skinny dipping in my pool?
I scrub my face with a towel, roll my neck, and head to the kitchen because she said she’d like to cook for me as a thank-you for welcoming her.
Which already has my blood pressure spiking all over again.
I step into the kitchen and stop dead.
“What the fuck,” I whisper.
Because somehow she’s managed to make my kitchen look like a Category 5 hurricane ran through it .
Flour on the counter, sauce splattered on the stove, pots bubbling over. Cutting boards, open spice jars, shredded basil, and olive oil smeared everywhere—and her in the middle of it all.
She’s barefoot, hair half-up, shorts way too short.
And my island is covered in sheets of paper.
She looks up the moment she notices me; her gaze lingers before she turns back to the pots, her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Dinner’s almost done,” she chirps.
I almost can’t form words.
“You done wrecking my kitchen?” I ask slowly.
She glances around as if she’s only now noticing the carnage. “It’s just a little mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“Most people clean as they go.” I step closer.
She whips around and plants both hands on her hips. “I only wanted to do something nice.”
She turns back to the stove, shifting her hips, stirring the sauce, her T-shirt riding up to show a hint of skin.
I close my eyes for a moment, willing my blood to stay where it is and not go south .
I step closer, bracing one hand on the island where paper is scattered everywhere. “What the hell are these?” I ask, picking up a sheet.
She turns; her face lights up. “They’re mine!” she practically bounces over. “I was working on them while the sauce cooks.”
“Yours?”
“My designs.” She sweeps her hand over them proudly. “Some sketches for what I want to make next. And a redesign for a suit.”
She holds one up like I’m a judge on Project Runway.
I take the paper and look. Her drawings are good. Really, really good.
“You drew these?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t trace them?”
“Trace?” she repeats. “No!”
“They’re nice,” I lie.
They’re not nice. They’re incredible.
“This one is a clean-line suit with raised seams. I want gold stitching here.” She taps the lapel. “And this one is a modernized bias-cut dress; the fabric will drape right here. See?”
Passion pours out of her—pure, unfiltered, unapologetic. This girl has fire. Not the polished, fake kind I see at sponsor galas.
It’s intoxicating. My chest warms watching her bring designs to life, her excitement tangible.
She taps another sketch, leaning closer, eyes shining. “And the hem here—I want it to move. When the model walks, it’ll float instead of swish.”
So she’s not only beautiful and smart.
Not only hot enough to derail my life, not only mouthy and able to get under my skin—she’s also incredibly talented and passionate.
“Has anyone seen your designs?”
The question catches her off guard. “I mean, yeah. I post them online, and I wear them—”
“I meant someone in the industry. Have you shown your stuff to someone in the industry?” I clarify, and she looks at the drawings on the counter.
“Well, no… but they will. I already have some names written down. ”
I know someone who could actually launch a career like hers. This deserves more than a few thousand views. It deserves a runway with her name on it.
I don’t want her reading that on my face, so I force something flat. She looks at me, waiting for validation.
“Yeah, well, nice doodles.”
Her face falls immediately.
Fuck.
I wasn’t ready for how awful it feels to see her dim like that. It hits somewhere I don’t like.
“Yeah, thanks.” She turns back to the stove, quiet now, trying to swallow the disappointment.
I want to punch something. I want to punch myself. She showed me something she clearly cares about, and I stomped on it.
My chest squeezes.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I reach out and grab one of the sketches. She doesn’t turn; she already accepted my stupid lie.
I look at the paper. It’s a men’s suit with sharp shoulders, a tapered waist, gold thread tracing each muscle. It shouldn’t work, but it’s brilliant.
“What’s this one? ”
She pauses and slowly turns. I hold the sketch up. Suspicion mixes with surprise on her face.
“That’s a… suit.”
“How did you come up with the gold stitching?”
“The gold stitching?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Explain it to me.”
She hesitates, as if unsure I’m actually interested. Then her spark returns.
“Well, the gold stitching,” she says, pointing, “frames the body without being flashy. The shoulder seam is raised slightly to give more shape. I wanted the cut to accent muscle without being suffocating.”
My chest warms.
“Why gold?”
“Because gold catches light differently. It photographs well. It looks good on any skin tone.”
I nod, lips twitching despite myself.
“It’s really good work.”
“You… think so?”
“I do. Show me the others.”
She beams and whips around to look for more designs. She’s glowing .
“This one,” she says, “is a dress—the big thing is the back. It fits like a glove from the front, but from behind it’s sculptural. See this curve? That’s where the stitching highlights.”
She talks with her hands, dreams pouring out of her. I watch her passion, brilliance, joy.
She’s so beautiful when she’s like this—not the towel, not the legs, not the lips—this.
I want her to talk like this every day. I want to know everything she cares about.
I swallow the emotion and offer a small smile. “I like it.”
The hiss of sauce spilling over makes us both turn.
“Shit!” she runs to kill the heat and save the sauce.
I glance back at the sketches and do something I never expected: I pick up my phone and start taking pictures, one by one, storing them without her knowing. When she glances back, I pretend I’m checking emails.
“Do you… have any of these actually made?” I ask, keeping my voice indifferent.
She pauses mid-stir. “I can’t believe you’re interested. ”
I shrug. “If we’re living together, we need shit to talk about.”
She squints. “You’re very weird.”
“Answer the question. Do you have any finished?”
“Yeah… tons. I have an atelier I rent. I’m working on new pieces, but I have a lot already finished.”
Good. If someone’s going to look at these, she’ll need pieces ready.
I glance at the black suit with gold stitching. I’d look good in that. No. I’d look fucking insane in that.
“I’ll… keep that in mind,” I say.
“For what?”
“Conversation.”
“Alright, Captain.” She turns, lifts the wooden spoon. “Taste.”
I stare at the spoon. “No.”
“Why not?” She raises a brow. “Scared I’ll poison you?”
I’m scared I’ll like being spoon-fed too much.
“Would you?”
“Not on my first day.” She brings the spoon to her lips, slow and deliberate. My focus locks in .
She draws the spoon back, a smear of sauce on her mouth, and smiles—like she knows exactly what she did.
“No poison.” She licks her lower lip, missing a spot. A streak of red sauce sits at the corner of her mouth.
“You know what? Whatever. I’m sure some other guy will appreciate my cooking.”
Everything narrows. My blood temperature spikes.
Some other guy? Fuck no.
The thought is intolerable, like pain.
Before the thought fully forms, I move. Two steps and my palm hits the counter beside her hip.
Her eyes go wide.“What are you doing?”
I don’t know.
All I know is there won’t be any other guy.
I lean in, caught somewhere between the panic and anticipation flickering in her eyes. Our breaths tangle. The air feels too tight, too charged. And before my brain can catch up to what I’m doing, my tongue drags across the corner of her mouth, stealing the last trace of sauce there.
Her lips part on a soft gasp .
Her hand shoots to my forearm, fingers curling tight as her whole body stills beneath me.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Really look at her.
What the hell did I just do?
I licked her.
I don’t do impulsive. I certainly don’t put my mouth on a woman unless I plan to fuck her senseless. A laugh almost bubbles out—dark, self-loathing, hungry.
What the fuck is happening to me?
She’s silent, but her eyes say everything.
I step closer, chest brushing her breasts, lowering my mouth to her ear. “Clean up your mess, Jessica,” I murmur, voice a deep rumble. “Before I make a bigger one.”