22. Last-Meal-on-Earth Level #2
I sough out a soft laugh. “So impatient.” I slide a glance to her, and she just smirks, knowing I like it.
I do like it. I grab one of the forks I used to shred the meat, spearing a small piece from the pan as it sizzles.
Neve tilts her chin up as I offer it, and I watch the elegant column of her throat as I feed it to her.
Her lips wrap around the fork, and I try not to lose the thread of myself as my mind wanders to far dirtier places than this moment right here.
Neve’s eyes flutter. “Holy shit,” she says, voice low and reverent. “That’s so good.” She grabs my arm, half for balance, half out of pure excitement, and it does something to every nerve in my body.
“Yeah?” I ask, teasing because I need to do something with my hands that isn’t just memorizing her every move. “You sure you’re not just being polite?”
She grins harder. “No, this is divine. Like, last-meal-on-earth level. I mean, I’d want sex too, but this would be the food part.”
I bark a laugh. “High praise.”
She looks up at me through her lashes, wicked and soft at the same time. “You’d be the sex part too, you know.”
I feel my face flush, and it only serves to make her more amused, but I hardly mind it. I don’t know how to respond, so I just keep agitating the pan.
“Was that your plan?” Neve asks, staying close. “Seduce me with fried meat, stun me with the Maillard reaction?”
“It’s not Maillard without reducing sugars,” I correct before I can stop myself.
She snorts. “Nerd.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But you like it.” I shift the beef around the pan with the onions; they sizzle loudly, and she leans in to breathe it deep.
“So, this is your thing?” She takes another sip of wine. “Cooking for your dates, I mean.”
She’s standing so close, her arm slips around my waist, snug and easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anybody, but most people I’ve been with aren’t this touchy.
With Neve, it’s clearly not just flirting.
She’s not trying to get a rise out of me, not just working the physical angle.
It’s just how she is. Affection is a reflex, part of her dialogue.
It knocks something loose in my chest. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.
How much I want it. It’s kind of embarrassing, realizing how touch starved I’ve obviously been.
“I don’t do this often,” I say, voice gone rougher than I mean. “I mean… Yeah, I like to cook, but it’s mostly for myself. Because I like to eat good food.” I give a nervous laugh. Neve beams. “But, no, I haven’t dated since my ex.”
“I’m honored,” she whispers, and her hand glides up my back, tracing all the lines of me like she’s learning a map.
I leave the pan on the heat, reaching for my own wine. “You like to watch?” I murmur.
She leans her chin to my upper arm, her laugh a soft brush of heat through the cotton of my shirt. “I’m already obsessed with the way you move in the kitchen.”
I want to say something clever, maybe about my body language showing that I’m at ease in the kitchen, so that’s why I move the way I move in here—except that with her eyes on me, I think I probably move more like I’ve got sand in my joints.
“Can I kiss you?” she whispers. “I know it’s only been, like, half an hour, but I’ve been dying to kiss you since I got here. Please? I promise I won’t get fresh.”
I bark a laugh, and the air between us goes punch-drunk and sweet. “You promise no such thing, angel.”
She grins up at me, eyes gold and wicked. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t. But can I kiss you anyway?”
I lean in, helpless against the pull of her. “Yeah. I wish you would.”
Her hands flatten at the front of my shirt, sliding up, hot and light, and then she kisses me, straightforward and intent. Her mouth is soft, plush, the perfect combination of sweet and greedy. She tastes like red wine and the botched cocktail and the umami tang of the meat she just tried.
My hands bracket her waist, and I haul her closer.
She makes a sound, tongue flicking against mine.
I’m supposed to be in control here, but I don’t even want it.
Not when she’s like this. Not when her fingers slide into my hair, and the dress she’s wearing is so thin I can feel the heat of her body through the sinful, slippery fabric.
I want to tear it off. I want to see what color she’s wearing underneath.
I grip her ass, lifting her in one smooth motion, and set her on the kitchen island.
She laughs into my mouth, pleased, thighs spreading to bracket my hips.
I stand between her knees. We’re both breathing hard.
Her hands slide up, framing my jaw, thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
“There you are,” she whispers against my lips.
“Here I am,” I murmur, closing my mouth over hers again.
She tastes like wine and laughter and something only she could invent. I’m not sure how she does it, but Neve manages to be soft and hungry at the same time. Every single time her tongue glides over mine, it’s like she’s reeling me in, inch by inch. I’m not even trying to resist.
Her hands are in my hair, tugging just enough to make my breath stutter.
I palm her waist, dragging her forward on the counter until she’s flush with me.
The dress rides up, copper fabric shimmering as the slit opens and exposes more of her thigh.
Her skin is warm, and I can’t help but trace my palm over the bare line, like I’m making sure she’s real.
I really fucking hope so, because I’m falling for her.
“God, you’re trouble,” I rasp against her lips.
She laughs, low and delighted. “I think you like trouble, Grant.”
“I like you.” I kiss her harder, less careful, more like the man who wanted to melt her into the print room table earlier today, and less like the one who’s supposed to have any boundaries.
She moans, clutching at the shirt like she wants to rip it open.
I might let her, if she asked. I’d probably let her even if she didn’t ask.
Everything else falls away. I’m not thinking about anything but the way she breathes, the way she tastes, the way her body leans into mine.
She whimpers, grinding herself against me. Fuck, I could lose myself in this. In her.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging. “You’re going to make me ruin this dress,” she whispers, and I bite back a needy noise.
“Let me,” I murmur, hands flattening over her thighs, sliding under the hem of her dress. I want to see what she’s wearing underneath. I want to taste her, lift her, spread her out on the counter.
The oven timer blares, shrill and rude—the one I set to remind me to start the tostones—and it shatters the moment. I flinch, and Neve laughs. “Come on—you still have to finish making me dinner.”
I groan, which only makes her laugh meaner and brighter as I turn to stop the timer bleating.
“Hey, that’s your job—you’re supposed to look after your baby girl, Daddy.” When I spin around to glare at her, she just raises her shitty cocktail.
“You’re evil,” I say, but there’s no heat in it, only fondness.
Neve just grins, and I shake my head. I might ruin her dress tonight, but she’s going to ruin me.