Chapter 16
Sixteen
Faye
The raspy words have my mouth falling open.
Which he takes full advantage of, dropping his head and closing the final couple of inches between us.
His lips hit mine and…he kisses me.
He. Kisses. Me.
It’s gentle but not hesitant, something that has my pulse skittering and my knees threatening to buckle…
and then actually buckling when gentle disappears with his rough groan and he deepens the kiss, plunging his hand into my hair, tilting my head back, his other arm banding around me, keeping me on my feet.
At the same time, he moves into me, pinning me back against the kitchen island.
He tastes of chocolate and salted caramel, sweet and salty and male and—
Mine.
God, I’d love for this man to be mine.
He’s mine right now.
Mine in this moment.
Mine for as long as his arms are around me and his tongue is in my mouth and—
I moan.
And the result is…fabulous.
He growls, the sound vibrating along his tongue, from his chest through mine, sensitizing my nipples, sending heat down in a bolt of sensation between my legs.
Pleasure.
Need.
Mine.
His lips release mine, dragging along my jaw, down my throat, burying his face there and inhaling deeply.
I shudder, my hands diving into his hair this time, holding him to me, loving the roughness of the stubble on his cheeks against my skin, the hot, sleek dart of his tongue on my flesh, the soft yet firm press of his lips on my neck.
Then really not loving when he stills, curses softly, and lifts his head.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes not meeting mine.
Then, worse, he backs away and I lose the heat and strength of his body, the spice of his scent, the feel of his lips.
I pick up my cookie—which thankfully landed on the counter and not the floor—and take a huge bite.
All the better to stifle the words bubbling in my throat.
The apology that wants to follow his.
The embarrassment that has me wanting to sprint out the front door.
But where will I go?
No car. No phone. No credit cards.
The loneliness washes through me and I bite the inside of my cheek, willing it away, blinking back the tears that burn my eyes.
I shove another bite of cookie in my mouth, chew and swallow, but I’m not tasting the delicious salted caramel or the melty milk chocolate, not enjoying the crumble, the gentle crunch, the soft, ooey, gooey center.
No.
It’s like I’m chewing sawdust.
“I’ll rest up tonight,” I manage to push out. “Get out of your hair tomorrow.”
That done, I exhale and lift the cookie, intending on forcing myself to finish each and every bite, but I don’t get the chance.
Because Gray snatches it from my hand, tosses it on the counter.
“No.”
I blink. “No, what?”
“No, you don’t get to think whatever it is that has your face looking like that.”
I blink again, still reeling from the kiss, from his withdrawal, from that damned apology, and feel the edges of my temper begin to fray. “Now you’re telling me what to think?”
“Yes,” he mutters, cupping my jaw and tilting my head up at the same time he bends and takes my lips in a searing kiss that has my knees wobbling again. “Because I was apologizing, not expecting you to.”
I frown, knowing I’m letting him take over, but unable to stop myself, especially when his hand shifts, thumb tracing over my jaw, my cheek, the sensitive spot behind my ear, and his voice goes gentle and teasing.
“You’re tired and you need food and I shouldn’t be kissing you.
” He grins. “Even if your lips are far too tempting.”
My mouth falls open.
He groans.
And suddenly he’s kissing me again—hot and wet and not pulling back until my lungs scream for air.
“See?” he murmurs.
Then he snags the cookie, shoves it back into my hand, but before I can take a bite or verbalize that I’m really freaking confused, he’s scooping me up and settling me on the counter. “Eat,” he orders. “I’ll make us both something to eat and get you settled before I have to leave for the rink.”
It takes me a bit to recover, but eventually I do, and I find I’m intrigued by the confident and capable way he moves, picking up the ingredients and bringing them over to the stove, getting out a cutting board and knife and spices with practiced hands.
Though the ingredients are a confusing mix.
Peanut butter and chicken breasts? Strawberry jelly and red pepper slivers? And garlic. And red pepper flakes.
My tastebuds are already protesting.
“Eat your cookie,” he says and I lift my gaze from the cutting board and chicken that’s being efficiently sliced and seasoned to find him staring at me.
More of my temper frays. “You really like giving orders, don’t you?”
“I like to see a woman I care about eating.”
My nose wrinkles. “You don’t even know me.”
He sets down the knife, dumps some oil into the pan and turns on the burner with a click. “You know more about me than almost any other person on this planet.”
I freeze.
“Gray,” I whisper.
“Which means I’m going to feed you, going to set you up in my guest room—where you’re going to stay in until you’re settled and ready to go back home.” He fixes me with a stern look. “And not because you feel like you’re imposing so need to run out of here.”
“Gray,” I say, irritation blooming anew.
“Yes, that’s another order,” he replies without the least bit of remorse. “Argue with me about it later.” He turns back, dumps the chicken in the pan then moves to the sink.
I nibble at the inside of my cheek as I mentally count to ten.
When that settles my temper—somewhat—I consider my options…
And know that they’ll likely have me ending up right in his guest room.
By this time, he’s washed the cutting board and knife and is snagging the loaf of bread and peanut butter and jelly.
“What exactly are you going to cook for us?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of my temper.
“My pregame meal.” He starts slapping peanut butter and jelly onto two slices.
“Which is what exactly?” My eyes flick to the chicken on the stove. The pan is sizzling intensely and I start to hop down.
“Don’t move,” he—yup—orders, pointing the jelly-covered knife in my direction.
“The chicken—”
“Will be fine for the next thirty seconds.” He tosses the knife in the sink, slaps another slice of bread onto each of the other two and turns back to me, shoving a sandwich into my free hand. His eyes flick to the one still holding my cookie. “Thought I told you to eat that.”
I glare at him. “You’re really trying to make me mad, aren’t you?”
He grabs the second sandwich from the counter then takes a huge bite.
“Better mad than sad as far as I’m concerned.
” And as I’m still reeling from that, he adds, “And my game day meal is the perfect blend of nutrition—PB&J and chicken and veg. Protein. Carbs. Fiber. It’s the right mix to succeed on the ice. ”
“This meal did not come up in my research for my hockey series.”
I take a bite of the cookie—sweet and delicious and more than a little sinful…
Just like Gray.
Especially when he glances over his shoulder at me, beautiful lips turned up into a smile. “What exactly did you research, Red?”