23. Not the Ideal
Chapter Twenty-Three
Not the Ideal
Grant
“Will you show me how to make the tostones?” Neve asks casually.
I’m grinning like a maniac as I slide the beef off the heat for now, turning to the plantains. “Yeah? All right. Come here.”
She pads over, leaning her hip against the counter. As she tips her head, every gold facet in her eyes sparks with curiosity.
I grab a plantain and set it on the cutting board.
“First, ends off. Then, you score the skin. Don’t try to peel it like a banana, you’ll lose your mind.
See? Shallow cuts, just through the skin.
” She watches my hands, so focused that a shiver runs down my spine.
I’m not used to being the object of this much attention.
It makes my body feel bigger, my hands clumsier.
I carefully hand her the knife. “Your turn.”
She bites the inside of her cheek. “Are you sure you want to let me loose with this? I have a history of kitchen accidents.”
I smirk. “I’m right here, angel.”
She lines up her cut, tongue poked out at the corner of her mouth, and drags the blade down the length of the plantain with surprising finesse. She peels the section off, glancing up for approval.
“Perfect.” Just like you, I don’t say. I take the knife back to slice thick rounds. “About an inch thick. You fry them once, then press them. They need to be chunky, or they’ll end up too thin.”
She holds out her hand, looking at the slick of plantain left there, then sticks a finger in her mouth to taste, smirking up at me. “Starchy, but… good. Like a potato but… not?”
I nod and try not to think about what her mouth would look like wrapped around my fingers (or something else) instead. “They’re nothing special by themselves, but when they’re fried and smashed and fried again, it’s something else.”
She hums, pleased.
I set the skillet on the stove, pour in the oil, and watch her watch me. I dip the end of a wooden spoon to test the temperature, and when it bubbles, I nod.
“Ready?” I ask.
She bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet. “Hell yes. Put me in, coach.”
I snort a laugh. “Stand in front of me.”
Neve slides obediently between me and the stove, her back to my chest. I bracket her with my arms, bringing the cutting board of plantain to the side of the stove, then hand her the tongs.
“Just pop them in carefully,” I murmur, my mouth at her neck. I’m not trying to distract her, but I can’t help dropping a kiss to her throat. She shivers, then does as she asks. The first one goes in perfectly, starting to sizzle. “Good girl.”
Neve shivers, lining up another chunk of plantain with the tongs. It hits the oil, then spits—a single bead of gold flicking up to catch the inside of her wrist. She yelps, jerks back, and nearly takes the whole skillet with her.
Fuck.
I grab her fast, one hand catching her wrist, the other reaching around her to kill the stove. There’s already a red welt forming. I want to punch myself in the face.
“Are you okay?” I step backward, dragging her with me, steering her to the sink with a hand tight at her waist. She’s laughing a little, but I want to throw up.
“Grant,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “It’s—”
I crank the faucet, ice cold, and shove her wrist under it so she hisses, cutting herself off.
“I should have been more careful. You’re not used to this stove. I shouldn’t have let you stand so close. I should have done it myself. I’m sorry.” The words are a stream, unfiltered with panic.
Neve breathes a soft laugh, almost delighted, even as water beads her skin and the red welt grows angrier and angrier.
“Grant. Hey, hey, baby.” She turns to look at me, hair slipping loose from her witchy little clip.
Her free hand slides up my chest, flat and warm.
She palms my jaw and turns my face to hers, framing it between her hands.
“I’m all right,” she whispers. “It’s not a big deal, I promise.
I’ve had way worse. This? This is nothing. ” Her thumb sweeps my cheekbone, slow.
I want to argue. I’m supposed to be a protector. Instead, I just stand there, letting her touch me. She leans in. Her lips brush mine, light at first, then firmer. She kisses me like she’s already forgiven every fuckup I’ve ever made or will make.
She kisses me again, and this time, she smiles against my mouth. “See?” she whispers. “Not a disaster. I’d let you burn me a hundred times if it meant I get to stand this close to you. Okay, baby?”
She’s going to kill me, calling me ‘baby’ like that, but I want to hear it every time. It makes me feel like I’m hers. I want to be hers.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay,” she echoes, stealing another kiss. “Do you want to cook the rest of the tostones while I watch from a safe distance?”
I huff a broken laugh. “I’m not letting you back near that pan.”
Neve grins, then mock pouts. I’m powerless to resist leaning in and kissing her. She melts against me, and I slide an arm around her waist. When I tilt my head, she opens for me, sighing against my mouth as my tongue rolls over hers.
Kissing her is like heaven.
I’m dying to know what she tastes like… elsewhere.
I pull back, trying to keep the thread of the evening. I’m supposed to be cooking for her, wining and dining her. I want this to be a good date, not just a fuck. It’s supposed to make up for the print room.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Neve says softly, her hand coming up to shape my jaw.
My lips part, and I blink down at her. “What?”
“I can see there’s something running over in your head, so just… relax.” She pops up on her toes, kissing me again. “I’m here because I want to be, Grant. I promise, you’re not going to scare me off.”
I frown, then huff a laugh, but I still keep her away from the pan while I fry up the tostones.
Neve tortures me the entire time we eat dinner, running her foot up and down my leg, moaning with almost every bite she takes, telling me it tastes “better than sex.”
I make it about two seconds after finishing my food before I’m hauling her into my lap. She lets out a little squeak, but goes willingly, until she’s straddling me with her thick thighs on either side of my hips.
I grip her ass, holding her steady as her nose brushes mine. “Hey,” she whispers, giving a musical little giggle.
“Hey, baby girl.” I lean in and catch her mouth with mine, hungry, and she opens easily, moaning for me. “Fuck. You make such pretty sounds.”
She hums, hands roaming, but as soon as they move to my stomach, I flinch.
Neve wasn’t exactly shy in the print room—she made it abundantly fucking clear that she finds me physically attractive, and she explicitly stated that she isn’t into me despite my body—but unfortunately, it doesn’t undo decades of self-consciousness and the inadvertent impact of society’s standards.
My body is not “the ideal.” I’d come to terms with that.
Objectively, neither is hers—and it’s still fucking perfect to me. But I can’t seem to apply the same rules to myself. Nobody sees themselves accurately, I know that. It’s just… a lot to unpack.
“Hey,” she murmurs against my mouth, nipping at my lower lip. “Will you let me touch you, baby? I want to.”
I sough out a breath. “I know. I just—”
She waits for me to continue after I choke off the words, but when it becomes apparent that I’m not going to, she leans in and kisses me again. “Can I show you?”
I blink up at her. Her eyes are like molten gold in the dim light. “Show me what?”
“How sexy I think you are.” She grinds her hips down, a little mean, and my cock thickens in my jeans underneath her. I let out a grunt. “All of you.”
I give a soft, nervous laugh. “How do you plan to show me?”
Her smile is a slow-blooming thing, sly and radiant. “I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.”
I blink. “Right here?”
“I could drag you into the bedroom.” Neve’s mouth quirks. “But I don’t want to wait that long.”
The logical part of my brain knows this is supposed to be a compliment.
Still, I feel myself shrink a little, not in the literal sense—I could never be small with her hands on me—but in the old, familiar way.
The way that tries to prepare for disappointment, for disgust, for the casual recoil, even though I know she won’t, because she’s seen me before.
But my brain takes that as a single data point—and that has to compete with all the data points that came before it. That’s statistically significant evidence.
Marie always wanted the lights off.
I’m bracing for that even as Neve’s hands roam up under the hem of my shirt, slow, greedy, reverent.
Her palms are hot, fingers spreading wide as if she’s trying to measure me, commit every square inch to memory.
She nudges the hem higher, and I could argue—I’m good at arguing—but she looks hungry enough to eat me alive, so I let her.
Neve’s nails scrape lightly over my stomach, and instinctively, I tense.
My abdomen is soft, nothing like the hard-cut abs guys are supposed to have if they want women to look at them like this.
I could go to the gym five days a week for a year, and this body would still be what it is.
Not the “ideal.” Just… me. The shape I’ve pretty much always been.
I’m strong, but I’m not carved, and I’ve got the evidence around my middle of a lot of indulgent meals like the one I just ate.
She kisses my chin, then my throat, pushing back on her knees as her mouth trails lower. Her hands slide my shirt up as I obediently slip the buttons free to help her, then I drop my arms so she can push it off my shoulders.
There’s a second where I expect her to say something.
Or worse, say nothing. I wait for the hesitation, knowing it’ll feel like a shotgun discharge, but Neve lets out a low, throaty sound, and then she’s on me.
She presses her mouth to my chest, kisses down, slow, open-mouthed, following the dark hair that runs from my sternum to my navel.
She bites, just enough to make me flinch.