Chapter Thirteen
Jesse
I glanced up—deer in the headlights. His face was incredibly expressive. His mouth curved into a sweet, meaningful smile. Now that I knew his taste and the sinful promise of his lips, my knees went rubbery. Was he asking me to eat food, or eat him?
The image of him naked, muscles rippling, his crotch covered in whipped cream popped into my mind.
My cheeks caught fire. Would it be that terrible to take a little taste?
On a scale of one to felony, how bad could it actually be to lap him up like a dairy cat at a fetish buffet?
No strings. Just purring, licking, and maybe a very inappropriate milk mustache.
It’s not like I was in love with him. He wasn’t about to break my heart.
As he’d said, we were both into casual relationships.
If we were attracted to each other, then casual sex wasn’t just normal—it was healthy.
Nikki would absolutely preach the gospel of dopamine and endorphins, citing studies and dropping facts.
She was the smartest of my friends, so following her advice was practically self-care.
“Okay.” I spoke quickly before I could change my mind. “That would be nice. I just need to shower and change first. I can’t really cook, but I’m a good assistant.”
He smiled. “It’s okay, this is a simple meal. It’ll practically cook itself. Take your time and come up when you’re ready.”
“Sure.” My restless fingers finally found my keys. “Thanks. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.” His tone was low and inviting.
I tried to quiet my churning stomach. This was just Sebastian, my neighbor. Okay, my mega hot neighbor, but there was no reason to go crazy about this. It was only dinner. If it led to something else, I’d worry about it then. No building scenarios in my head.
At home, I slid off my shoes and went into the bathroom. I stripped my sweaty clothes, removed my makeup, and stepped under the lukewarm jet. I shampooed twice to remove all traces of hair spray, in case Sebastian wanted to slide his fingers through my hair.
Then I gave myself a mental slap to stop my brain from building expectations. I was acting like a silly school girl getting ready for her first date. I took pride in not being that kind of girl, yet here I was, furiously brushing my teeth and obsessing about what to wear.
This wasn’t a date. It was dinner with a neighbor. Period.
I took a couple of minutes to blow-dry my hair—one of the many reasons why I loved it short. I decided against makeup. I didn’t want Sebastian to think I was trying to seduce him.
For clothes, I went full anti-Barbie: a white T-shirt with a sequined raccoon on it and a pair of paint-stained shorts. I glanced in the mirror. This was me—the authentic me. Sebastian either liked me or he didn’t.
I hated the small voice inside my head that whispered, ‘I hope he does.’
I headed up the stairs and knocked on Sebastian’s door, ignoring my hammering heart.
“Come in,” he shouted. “I’m in the kitchen.”
I stepped inside. The mouthwatering scent of baked potatoes and fresh veggies enveloped me. I followed it straight to the kitchen.
Apart from the time I’d barged in and found him gloriously naked, I hadn’t been inside Sebastian’s home before. Now, seeing it like this, I got a glimpse of the man behind the whipped cream.
The guy loved rugs. They were everywhere—Persian, from the look of them—with intricate patterns in deep reds, greens, and ivory.
The furniture was dark wood, all vintage curves and carved details.
The artwork matched: moody landscapes, abstract space-themed prints, and one framed blueprint of what looked like a rocket schematic.
When I reached the kitchen, I paused. “Oh wow, is that a vintage stove?”
He chuckled. “Yep. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a retro guy.”
“I can see that now.” I glanced toward the living room, where a massive bookshelf dominated half a wall. It was jam-packed—two rows deep, books stacked sideways on top of other books. “And an avid reader, too.”
“I love books.” He tossed a potato into a bowl with the others. “Haven’t had much time to read lately, but I like having options when I do.”
“Nice.”
I liked reading too, though it had been a while. My Kindle was full, but the man had actual printed books. I didn’t even want to pretend to talk books with him. Sebastian might not know how to use a screwdriver, but his brain was NASA-grade, and I couldn’t help but feel just a little outclassed.
“Oh, my God.”
I stopped in front of the generous aquarium, where colorful fish swam through crystal clear water in a slow, graceful ballet—each one a different jewel tone. I stepped closer, admiring the setup. The tank looked surprisingly well-maintained for a bachelor pad.
“Are these betta fish?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“But I thought they couldn’t stand each other.”
“Females do.”
“Sensible, of course. So you have a harem of bettas. Fits.”
He laughed. “They’re surprisingly good company. And they don’t talk back.”
“I bet that’s what you like most about them,” I muttered.
The golden one swam up to the glass where my finger rested, curious but keeping her distance.
I watched Sebastian sprinkle spices from several mismatched jars into a small bowl. Then came a drizzle of olive oil and a thoughtful stir with a teaspoon. He’d changed into a plain white T-shirt and soft-looking shorts, barefoot and relaxed. The air conditioning was set to perfection.
I pursed my lips. “So, what can I do to help?”
“Nothing.” He shot me a grin. “Just sit there and look pretty.”
His brown eyes lingered a beat too long—and not on my face.
His gaze had landed on the sequined raccoon across my chest, and not because he appreciated woodland creatures.
In my haste to be authentic, I’d skipped a bra under the white cotton, and the sequins weren’t doing me any favors.
If anything, the raccoon looked like it had a couple of confused snouts where its eyes should be.
I fake-coughed and crossed my arms, hoping the fabric would shift. “Cute. But seriously, I want to help. What can I do?”
Sebastian blinked as though he was just snapping out of a trance and turned back to his spice bowl. He frowned a little, probably trying to remember what he’d just added.
“Do you like red or white wine?” he asked.
“I’m not much of a wine drinker, but I guess white.”
“There’s a bottle chilling in the fridge. Can you open it?”
“Sure.” I rushed to the fridge, grateful for the excuse to look away, and maybe cool off my entire upper body.
I found the bottle of wine and, with a few quick instructions from Sebastian, tracked down the corkscrew. I wasn’t exactly a sommelier, but it was basic physics. One twist, one pull, and pop—we had wine.
“Great, thanks,” he said, not looking up. “Glasses are in that cabinet. Can you reach them?”
I padded over to the elegant wooden cabinet and stretched up to open the paneled door.
“Which ones?”
No answer. I turned my head and caught him staring at my ass. Olive oil dribbled from the teaspoon in his hand and splattered onto the table. It took him a few seconds to notice.
His gaze snapped up. He cleared his throat, poorly. “Um... top shelf. Can you reach them?”
“Oh, I’ve got them.”
Feeling mischievous, I arched my back just a little more. My shorts obligingly rode up, the hem inching higher like a curtain before a very sexy play.
Sebastian swallowed so loudly I thought he might need the Heimlich.
I returned to the table, set the glasses down with saintlike composure, and watched him head to the fridge to retrieve the chicken breasts. As I poured the wine, he trickled his olive oil spice blend over the meat and began massaging it.
He wasn’t rushing it. He coated every inch with slow, circular strokes, turning the chicken over until each inch was glistening.
It was my turn to swallow. “Is that how you do it?”
“If you want to do it right, you’ve got to use your fingers.” His voice was gravelly.
Dear God. Was he talking about the chicken?
Because if not, I had some follow-up questions.
I wasn’t sure when raw chicken became foreplay, but the moment Sebastian’s hands started gliding over that meat, it officially crossed the line.
His forearms flexed with each motion, veins dancing their own choreography, and his fingers worked with a kind of reverence usually reserved for holy artifacts, or lovers.
Watching a man confidently own a kitchen did things to me. Unspeakable things. A different kind of hunger stirred low in my belly, tempting me to drop to my knees and offer thanks where thanks were due. This wasn’t just dinner. This was seduction.
While the chicken soaked in its fragrant oil spa and the potatoes baked in the oven, Sebastian invited me to look around. I gladly took the excuse to walk off the sheer lust fogging my brain.
The apartment was so perfectly him—retro with purpose, masculine without trying too hard.
I found myself grinning at the collection of vinyl records, running my fingers over the spines until I spotted a mint-condition Frank Sinatra.
I couldn’t help it. I slid it onto the turntable, dropped the needle, and let Old Blue Eyes croon us into timeless charm.
I passed by his bedroom. The lights were new, soft pod fixtures that cast a warm glow across the massive bed and wooden headboard. I lingered in the doorway just long enough to imagine that bed’s many potential uses, then forced myself to move on.
The apartment came with a generous dressing room, which Sebastian had turned into a compact little office. More books lined the walls, and a sleek gaming chair throned at the center of command.