Chapter 5
THE MAN HAD DOUBLED DOWN on the orgasms and now he was in my kitchen, preparing food.
I didn’t know how to feel about any of this.
I didn’t know if he’d actually find anything he could cook.
I had a grocery service deliver staples every week, but cooking wasn’t something that really happened in my kitchen.
Was I supposed to offer to help? I could have told him not to bother, but he seemed determined and after all the orgasms, I was kind of hungry.
And in no condition to argue. The man turned me into a fucking puddle.
Literally and figuratively. I loved oral sex.
If you’d asked me before I met Ford, I’d have said it was my favorite thing.
It still was, but the man took it to a new level.
I’d climaxed so hard the second time, funky things happened to my vision.
I’d read about that but I’d always assumed it was the author’s artistic license and not a real, honest-to-goodness thing.
Ford proved me wrong and left me a melted, softened shell of my former self.
I could have kissed him good-bye and ordered in, but the only place that delivered this time of night was hit or miss at the best times.
If I was being honest with myself—which I promised I would be—I wanted a chance to give him back some of the pleasure he’d given me.
Standard one-night stand protocol usually meant both parties looked after their own orgasms. If you were decent people, which should be the minimal requirement, each participant put in enough effort to make sure the other person got there, but that didn’t usually involve chasing the other person to get them off.
Especially when that other person was the dude.
In my experience, even relatively attentive lovers were a little too lackadaisical in the orgasm department.
The worst ones didn’t pay attention beyond the occasional glancing clit touch or halfhearted attempt at oral before they flipped things to the hand on top of your head, get on down there insistent push.
They were the same ones who had the nerve to get offended if you took matters into your own hands.
Never mind that their orgasms were guaranteed.
Ford didn’t fit either category, at least not that I’d seen yet.
It made me curious, which made me want to figure things out.
Which meant I wasn’t done with him. Not until I had a chance to reciprocate on the orgasm count.
Maybe not even then, but I wasn’t willing to think that far ahead.
First I needed to wrap my head around the idea of there being a man in my kitchen. Cooking.
I couldn’t just lay there and wait in my post-orgasmic bliss like he’d told me to.
Point me to your kitchen, he said. I’ll make us something to eat.
No, cher, don’t get up. I’m not done with you yet.
That last bit somehow managed to wake up my blissed-out clitoris, proving Ford might know more than I did about how many times I could come.
Not that I had any intention of sharing that information.
The let me cook thing might have been some kind of elaborate escape plan.
Except the man hadn’t had an orgasm, and he was pretty much guaranteed one if he stayed for another ten minutes.
Five, if he issued a challenge. If there was one thing I excelled at, it was exceeding expectations.
I wasn’t about to change simply because he’d decided to stretch things out.
I pulled on a robe, giving a longing glance at my heels lying beside the bed.
The orgasm imbalance and implied disparity of power already made me feel vulnerable.
Padding out to my kitchen barefoot would make it worse.
But strutting out in my robe and heels felt too hookerish for comfort.
Not that there was anything wrong with a woman doing whatever the hell she wanted with her body.
It just didn’t happen to be my thing. I weighed my options for a moment and decided I’d hate being barefoot less.
That was an unexpected one-night stand twist: picking the thing that I hated less. Or maybe it wasn’t unexpected at all. This way was just up front and more honest.
Shoving the thought aside to look at later—or never; I was becoming a pro at that—I made my way down the hall to the kitchen, my curiosity growing with each step.
I’d watched the care Ford took when he mixed my cocktail, the attention he paid to every ingredient.
But that was when he had everything prepped for him.
God only knows what he’d found to work with in my Spartan pantry.
The only thing I was sure I had was grapefruit seltzer, a jar of peanut butter, and, if I was very lucky, bread not too far past its sell-by date.
I stood in the doorway to the room I mostly used to make coffee and watched as Ford moved from stove to refrigerator and back again with ease.
He hummed what I was pretty sure was “Not While I’m Around” from Sweeny Todd, and I added show tune lover to the list of unexpected things about Ford.
His black boxer briefs hugged his perfect ass.
He hadn’t bothered with a shirt and the muscles of his back were clearly defined, probably from hauling bar stuff.
I wanted to trace them with my tongue. Scratch the wanting; I was going to trace them with my tongue and then I was going to bite his ass, work my way around to the front of him and wrap my lips around the rock-hard cock I’d felt straining against me earlier.
I leaned against the doorjamb for support as I compiled a mental to-do list. I’d just added trail my hair over his abs and cock when Ford glanced over his shoulder at me as if my filthy thoughts called to him.
“I told you to stay in bed. Conserve your strength.”
His cocky grin softened the impact of his words but there was that edge of command again. The one that made me want to listen and obey. What the fuck was that about?
“The curiosity was killing me,” I said, brushing aside the pesky introspection. “What did you find in my kitchen to cook?”
“Precious little, cher, but you had eggs, so we’re having an omelet.” He grabbed the handle of a frying pan I was pretty sure I’d never used before and flipped a perfectly formed omelet onto a plate.
Opening a jar of salsa, he peered inside and sniffed the contents before spooning some on top of the eggs.
I could have told him it was okay. It was left over from a tortilla chip reading binge after I’d locked up the Anderson negotiations.
The opposing counselor folded spectacularly when I’d provided photo evidence of his client’s infidelity.
The resulting settlement had been more than my client dreamed.
I’d celebrated with a glorious night at home and a brother’s best friend romance.
The salsa was good. I might not cook, but I cleaned like a fiend, and I couldn’t stand to have moldy things in my refrigerator.
If it was in there, it was edible. Which was one of the reasons it rarely held anything beyond a few staples.
Ford slid open the silverware drawer and grabbed two forks.
He filled two glasses with ice and topped them with seltzer, dropping a sugar cube I’d forgotten I’d had in each.
The bubbles fizzed furiously, releasing the light scent of grapefruit and adding another layer to everything he’d done.
The care he took with even simple things like serving canned seltzer elevated it to something special.
“I’m going to put together a bar care package for you. I couldn’t even find a cocktail shaker.”
In addition to judgment at my kitchen provisions, his words implied we’d be seeing each other again.
The thought made my stomach tighten, either in anticipation or a fight-or-flight response.
I wasn’t sure which bothered me more—my culinary inadequacies, his assumption that this was more than a one-off, or the thought that more time didn’t make me cringe.
I could learn to cook. I should learn to cook.
Maybe. Probably. I could at least take that off the list, and deliberately ignore the rest.
“Come on, cher.” Ford handed me a glass and motioned with his head toward my bedroom. “Back to bed.”
I took my drink and padded down the hallway ahead of him as if breakfast in bed mid-coitus was something I did all the time.
Keeping my robe on—eating eggs naked felt like a step too far—I climbed onto the bed and took the plate he offered me.
Ford apparently had no naked egg compulsion.
He climbed onto the bed next to me, pressing a kiss to my forehead before picking up the other fork.
He paused for a moment, watching as I took a forkful of eggs and popped it in my mouth.
There was cheese from God knows where, herbs, and some kind of vegetables.
It was delicious and completely unexpected.
“You’re a magician. This is some kind of voodoo loaves and fishes thing you did.”
His laughter was warm, and his eyes lit with pleasure and the smirk I was getting used to. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Ignoring the promise of his words, I rolled my eyes. It wouldn’t do me any good to let him know the effect he had on me.
“You’ve proven yourself in my kitchen. The eggs bow before you.” I slid just enough opposing counsel into my voice to make it clear that eggs were a low bar.
Instead of rising to the challenge—or worse, getting offended—his grin grew wider. He carved off a sizable bite of omelet, popping it into his mouth and chewing before responding.
“Damn straight.” He watched as I took another bite of his creation.
I tried and failed to school my face. For reasons I saw no need to look closer at, I didn’t want to hide with Ford. Just for the night, I wanted to give him—give both of us—the truth.