62. Nell
With a hiss and a theatrical wince, I yank my hand back from the stove, cradling a burn that now has its own pulse and a personal vendetta.
One pan is frothing like it’s auditioning for a volcano documentary, another sizzles ominously like it’s plotting something, and the smoke alarm... well, it's having a complete meltdown. Honestly, if it gets any louder, I'm expecting the neighbours to form a rescue party.
This hob needs an exorcism.
Cam has been strictly exiled. No exceptions. I’ve barricaded him outside the kitchen like I’m protecting state secrets. He protested date night—loudly, petulantly, dramatically but he’s still getting it. Whether it’s edible or not is frankly beside the point.
Boomerang sits on the island, eyes fixed, tail twitching like a disappointed sous-chef. The judgement radiating off him could season a stew. But we both know, the moment anything hits the floor, he’ll transform into a furry vacuum cleaner with zero moral conflict.
“Do you need help?”
Cam’s voice filters through the door, calm-ish, but with a rising edge of panic.
“Nope! All fine! Do not open that door!”
I yell, elbow-deep in a dubious sauce that just curdled at me.
He’s probably pacing, muttering to himself, calculating how fast he can stage a culinary coup once I give up.
The romantic three-course dream? Yeah, it’s now a tragic comedy. Garlic bread; burnt to oblivion, possibly sentient. Profiteroles; frozen solid, doubling as blunt weapons. Vegetables; floppy, confused, possibly reconsidering their life choices.
And then, of course, Boomerang launches himself at the counter like he’s in an action movie—intercepting a rogue meatball mid-air while Cam bursts in wielding oven mitts and terror.
Wine sloshes, pans crash, the smoke alarm hits soprano, and somewhere under the chaos, I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
Spaghetti and meatballs might not survive, but this date night will definitely be one for the history books.
The tomato sauce explodes like culinary shrapnel, splattering across the cabinets, dripping down the fridge, pooling on the floor—and decorating both of us like we’ve survived a tomato-based warzone. What was once a functioning kitchen now looks like a crime scene… and I’m pretty sure I’m the prime suspect.
I stand here, jaw dangling in disbelief. Cam is frozen in place, eye twitching like he’s trying to mentally Ctrl+Z the whole situation. Meanwhile, Boomerang sits with smug satisfaction, licking his lips like the furry little goblin he is. Probably thinking this is the best episode of ‘Dinner with Drama’ he’s ever seen.
“Shall I order some food?”
Cam offers, voice stripped of hope, surveying the carnage like he’s searching for survivors.
I respond with the only move that makes sense—a long, unapologetic gulp of wine.
“We could just eat off the floor, au naturel style,”
I suggest, gesturing to the sauce-slick tiles.
“I hear my cooking really shines on a ceramic base.”
I brace for Cam’s signature cleaning frenzy—the one where he scrubs grout like it insulted his mother—but instead his jaw tightens, eyes flutter shut, and… nothing. No lecture. No mop. Just quiet despair.
I think I broke him.
Then, without a word, he kneels into the steaming puddle of sauce, dips a finger, and when he rises, he trails it onto the tip of my nose.
Oh. It’s on.
He forgets I’m chaos incarnate. Food fight? I’ll take him down in heels.
“I hope you’re ready to lose,”
I growl, striding over with purpose, grabbing a meatball off the counter, and shoving it straight into his mouth—sauce, smirk and all. My hand lingers, deliberately smearing his lips.
He chews, one brow raised in silent defiance… until the grimace kicks in.
I mean, fair.
My cooking tonight is more hazardous than haute cuisine. But he tried, bless him.
“Definitely getting takeaway,”
he mutters through laughter, closing in as I back away, already plotting my next edible weapon.
Spaghetti—cooling in the sieve like it’s resigned to fate. I grab a fistful with villainous intent, but Cam lunges first.
Problem is, the entire kitchen floor now doubles as a slippery sauce rink. We skid, flail, and collapse in a tangled mess of limbs, pasta, and poor life choices.
Boomerang observes from his perch, tail flicking, unimpressed. Still licking his lips.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, sauce, and questionable decision-making. Cam groans beneath me—not from pain, but from the sheer absurdity of our spaghetti-strewn collapse. I’m straddling his thighs, one hand planted in a puddle of sauce, the other gripping spaghetti like a gladiator’s whip.
Boomerang watches like this is dinner and a show. He’s not wrong.
“Nice tackle,”
I murmur, breath hitching as Cam looks up at me—sauce smeared across his jaw, eyes molten and locked on mine. There’s laughter lingering in his expression, but something else too. Something hungry.
His hands slide up to my hips, deliberately slow, smearing tomato trails along my shirt as he pulls me closer.
“You’re covered in food,”
he murmurs, voice low and delicious.
“You started it,”
I whisper back, letting the spaghetti slip from my fingers as I lean in, chest flush against his. My heartbeat drums against my ribs erratically.
Cam grins, then tilts his head and presses a kiss to the tip of my nose, licking away the last of the sauce he smeared there earlier.
“Technically, Boomerang started it,”
he says, but his voice is rough now, teasing turning into tension.
His hands slide up my back, gripping harder, anchoring me.
“You do realise,”
I breathe against his lips.
“this is the worst date night ever.”
He smirks, brushing sauce-sticky fingers down my jaw.
“Disaster’s kind of our foreplay.”
And then he kisses me—slow at first, soft and savoury, like he’s savouring both me and the madness we’ve just created. I melt into him, gripping his shirt with sticky fingers, not caring about the mess. The kitchen fades around us, replaced by heat and taste and want.
Somewhere, Boomerang sneezes.
We’re tangled on the kitchen floor, bodies slick with sauce and laughter, heat crackling in the air like a low flame refusing to die down. Cam’s beneath me, his breath hot against my cheek, fingers digging gently into my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold me right here—mess and all.
The moment stretches out, soft and charged. His dilated eyes search mine, lips parted like he’s halfway between saying something tender and doing something reckless.
I press my hands to his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat—steady, hungry, mine.
“You good down there?”
I whisper, teasing, my voice a husky taunt.
His grin is wicked.
“Depends. You staying up there?”
I shift my weight, deliberately slow, grinding just enough to make his jaw tighten. His hands slide up, fingers trailing the curve of my waist, slipping beneath my shirt to trace skin with the gentlest brush of his calloused palms. I inhale sharply, back arching instinctively.
“Oh, you’ve got sauce everywhere,”
he murmurs, dragging a thumb along my stomach, smearing a trail of tomato and teasing heat.
“So, clean it up,”
I challenge, eyes locked, daring him.
He lifts himself, mouth brushing against my collarbone, teeth grazing as he follows a sticky path up toward my jaw.
Every kiss is deliberate, hot and slow, like he’s trying to taste the chaos we just survived.
My fingers wind into his hair, tugging as he mouths my neck—and just as I think I’ve got control, he flips us, pinning me beneath him with a sauce-slick smile that’s pure trouble.
“I warned you,”
he whispers.
“Disaster’s foreplay.”
I wrap my legs around him, heart racing, lips hungry.
Boomerang decides this is no longer family-friendly viewing and leaps off the counter with a huff.
Good. This part’s not for spectators.
Cam’s lips brush against mine again, slower this time, hands exploring with sauce-slick intent. The tension between us pulls taut—delicious, loaded, seconds from breaking.
But this is my date night, and he’s playing by my rules. I flip us back, not that he fights me, and grind against his cock through our clothes like my life depends on it.
And then.
The door bursts open.
Kyla.
Of course she had to wedge herself into the night like an unwanted garnish. I’d forewarned her this was happening, even went as far as negotiating peace terms—cook early, stay out of our way, let us have one quiet evening. But I should’ve known. Kyla doesn’t do quiet. She does sabotage with a smile.
She’s still trying to claw Cam back. Still bitter. Still baffled that he chose me.
Her voice slithers into the room, lacquered with fake surprise so thick it curdles my wine.
“Oh! I didn’t realise you two were… umm…”
I don’t turn. My back stays to her, legs tangled with Cam’s, sauce drying on my shirt like a badge of honour.
Cam shifts underneath me, awkward as hell. But I’m not moving—not for her, not tonight.
“Well,”
she says, eyeing the kitchen carnage like she’s appraising a battlefield.
“This is quite the… mess. Cam, do you want me to cook you something instead? I assume you won’t be eating… that. I could whip up your favourite—lasagne?”
Lasagne. Cute. That used to work, back when he thought pasta was love. But newsflash, Kyla—he’s moved on. You’re seasoning the wrong dish.
I bite back a scoff.
Cam lifts his chin, eyes flicking past me. I feel the way his hands retreat from my skin—not with rejection, but with polite caution. Damage control.
“No thanks,”
he says, voice cool and final.
“We’re ordering in.”
Then he grins—subtle, slow, and full of heat that’s just for me.
It spreads through me, curling low in my belly. And there it is. Proof.
She can stir her sauces and plate up pretty, but he’s already chosen. Every lasagne, every interruption, every flimsy excuse—none of it changes that.
Not while I’m here.
“Are you sure?”
Kyla presses, her syrupy voice tugging at a thread I’m no longer willing to entertain.
My patience shatters. I turn, still straddling Cam between my thighs, and meet her gaze with a stare sharp enough to draw blood.
“We’re sure.”
The weight of those two words—firm, final, and mine—sends her retreating for now. But she’ll try again. She always does. Like a ghost at the edge of our happiness, haunting with her misplaced hope. Still, for tonight, she’s gone. Back to whatever carefully curated cave she slithers out of when she thinks she has a chance.
The door shuts.
I turn back to Cam, my lips curled into a smirk, hips grinding into his lap, needing to feel how far that food fight unravelled him—how wrecked he is beneath all that control.
Who knew tomato sauce could double as foreplay?
“I don’t know about you,”
he murmurs, dragging his tongue along the trail of my collarbone.
“but I’m done with dinner. What I want... is you, naked and ready in the shower.”
“Keep talking like that and we won’t make it past the kitchen tiles,”
I whisper against his mouth, the taste of him already overwhelming everything else.
I’m finally happy—no chaos, no rescues, no strategy meetings or tragic headlines. Just us. Tangled and breathless.
Free.
“Get up,”
he growls, my fingers instinctively fisting his shirt in response.
“Because if I don’t get you upstairs, I’ll devour you right here.”
He answers with teeth grazing my lower lip, tugging, dragging me closer, and my breath fractures. His palm lands on my ass, a sharp sting followed by a possessive squeeze—his self-restraint slipping by the second.
“I love you,”
I snarl, letting my body grind into him with deliberate urgency, chasing sensation, testing limits.
“Stalker boy.”
He laughs, low and wrecked, eyes blazing.
“You’ve got no idea how much you’re going to love what I’m going to do to your pussy tonight.”
We may be sauce-stained and floor-bound, but everything between us is pure flame.
And tonight? Tonight, we burn slow—together.