Flawless Surrender (The Surrender Trilogy, #2)(30)

Walking through the front door of the ranch house Friday night, she was assaulted by the scent of garlic and Italian seasonings. Her mouth watered as much as her brain bounced. Every night this week she had come back to the Triple T to cook dinner while the three men worked the ranch. She had been surprised how quickly Clint and Dalton slipped back into their cowboy boots, but they seemed to be enjoying it. The four of them ate dinner and chatted comfortably, although the flirting had continued, it hadn’t intensified, and none of the guys had pushed her. After dinner, most of the time she would join one or more of them in the living room to watch TV for an hour or so before she went to bed and masturbated herself to sleep.

Living with them left her perpetually horny. The scent of hay and male sweat was suddenly a powerful aphrodisiac that left her limp with need. If any of them knew the fantasies her brain spun up after she shut her bedroom door, she would be mortified. She attributed her crazy fixation on ménage sex to Rachel’s blissful happiness with her men, and it irritated her that she couldn’t get off on normal fantasies anymore. Her mind’s eye was always adding men to the scene until suddenly she was back to all three Keegan brothers worshipping her body. She was beginning to think she was insane.

To her shock, Clint had taken over the kitchen wearing a white apron that had orange smears of something on it. A large casserole dish sat on the stove and he was layering noodles, sauce, and cheese into it carefully.

“Hey, angel, how was work today?” His smile was wide and welcoming, and she found herself returning it without meaning too.

“Eh, it was work. What in the world are you doing?” she asked, dropping her purse on the counter and removing her earrings.

“Making lasagna. What’s it look like?”

She stared at his profile as he worked, enjoying watching the muscles of his forearms flex and roll. “I thought I was supposed to cook?”

He shrugged and winked, “You aren’t a servant, Zoey. I wanted you to have a night off, and I actually enjoy cooking.”

“Really? Did your mom teach you?” She stepped out of her high heels, scooping them up and hooking them over her purse strap before unbuttoning the top three buttons of her collar. When she glanced back up, Clint’s eyes were focused on the exposed skin of her collarbone, and they both swallowed hard.

“Uh, no, actually. I didn’t learn until I was in California. I worked as a sous chef for about four years in an Italian restaurant before it went belly up.” Zoey watched as he gently pressed noodles into sauce, with the fine precision of a surgeon, and she tingled as she wondered what it would be like to have those same gentle fingers pressing into her skin.

“Thank you. It smells fantastic. Is there anything I can do to help?” She stepped closer and inhaled deeply.

“I’ll let you make the bread if you’re nice.” Clint grinned at her, and then swiped a finger in the sauce and held it to her lips. She hesitated before accepting the challenge in his light brown eyes. They were the color of peanut brittle, and they sparkled when her lips closed over his digit. She ran her tongue over the tip of his finger teasingly before pulling away with a pop.

“fu-ck a duck,” he groaned, still standing with his finger out as if he couldn’t handle pulling it away.

“Tastes delicious,” she said softly. “I better go change clothes. I’ll help with the garlic bread when I get back.”

Turning away, she collected her stuff and left him staring after her. Her step was lighter on her way to the bedroom than when she first came home, and she was fighting to hold in a laugh. How long had it been since someone had done something nice for her, just because? Probably her birthday last spring, when Rachel took her in to Austin for a girl’s day of shopping and lunch at her favorite steakhouse. That day turned into a day long shopping spree for Juliet’s nursery instead of for Zoey, but it was fun.

Her laundry was piled pretty high, and she grimaced as she realized the only clean lounge clothes she had left was a pair of very short workout shorts, and a slightly too snug t-shirt that showed her belly if she stretched her arms. There really wasn’t another option unless she wanted to wear dirty clothes or work clothes all evening. Nixing that option because no woman should have to wear pantyhose more than eight hours a day, she changed and swung her long hair up into a ponytail.

She couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes, but by the time she reentered the kitchen, Dalton was spreading butter on the French bread, and Clint was topping the lasagna with cheese. They both glanced at her as she came into the room, and froze.

“I like this look,” Clint said, eyeing her like a fashion critic, he made a circular motion with his finger so she would spin around and she laughed. The moment her back was too them, she heard them both groan.

“What? Do they look that bad?” She twisted to try to see her own backside, only succeeding in hiking the t-shirt up to show off a band of skin at her midsection.

Dalton put down the butter knife and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead, “Nothing could look bad on you, pretty lady.”

A blush stole up her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes. “Thank you, I think. I feel a little useless with the two of you doing the cooking tonight. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Nope, just take a seat and let us handle it. Dinner will be ready in about a half an hour,” Clint answered with a smile.