Rogue (Real #4)(49)
“You’re going to like it even more when you realize I plan to feed you dessert myself,” I whisper. His dirty mind seems to get the best of him, for he looks instantly ravenous. Laughing, I urge him down on one of the two stools at the end of the kitchen island. “It’s not what you think, it’s actual food!”
“Are you taking this off for me?” He tugs the sash of my apron.
“Maybe if you finish your food like a good boy.”
He chuckles, a rich, full sound, his grin devastating, taking over my brain. “You like it better when I’m bad,” he points out.
Biting back my grin, I pull out the pasta dish with a glove, aware of him noticing that I’m only wearing a short dress under my apron—maybe he can even see I’m wearing no panties. The thought sends a tingle through me.
There’s a silence and a creak of the stool as he leans back, kicks off his shoes, and there’s a confused, almost amused tone to his husky voice when he speaks to me, rubbing his jaw as he watches me wind around the kitchen. “I keep wondering what you’re doing all the time.” He pauses, then, his voice lower and thicker than ever, “You miss me?”
“What kind of question is that?”
He gives me a roguish grin. “One I want to know the answer to.”
I return the grin with one of my own as I serve us both, and when I set down his salad and pasta, he clamps his bare hand around my wrist. “Do you?”
Our eyes meet, and he gently stokes a growing fire in me as he rubs his thumb along the inside of my wrist.
“Do you?” he asks, softly.
“Yes,” I whisper. I trail my free hand across his jaw and impulsively lean over to kiss his cheek. Adding, near his ear, “A lot.”
He watches me like a predator as I go take my seat on the stool across the island.
We smile at each other, those smiles that seem to spread our lips simultaneously; from the moment we met it’s always been like that. I notice, at last, that he’s brought wine, and I watch as he pops open the bottle, searches my cabinet for glasses, and comes back to pour a glass for me, and another for him.
We clink glasses, smiling, and before he drinks, he murmurs, “To you, princess.”
“No, to you,” I counter, taking a sip.
“You like going against me, don’t you,” he purrs, still swirling and sniffing his own glass.
I laugh and suddenly I feel like the sexiest thing in existence as I start to eat. As if my every move is meant to entice him, excite and exhilarate him.
Not even my breaths escape his notice.
I feel him look at my fingers, my bare arms, my bare shoulders, my lips. I fork some salad and watch him tear off a piece of bread and stick it into his mouth. We sip quietly, watching each other, savoring each other’s company. The look of each other. The energy of each other. I’m a decorator who believes in feng shui. I believe in yin and yang. I have never felt such a yang to my yin. Ever.
“Do you like the meal?” I ask him.
“Am I the first man you’ve cooked for?”
I narrow my eyes, sipping a bit of red wine for courage, but there’s no cure for the nervous spinning in my stomach. “Truth? Yes. You are. So think very well about your answer,” I warn.
“Every spoonful was as delicious as you.”
I smile. “Really?” Feeling insecure, I check his plates and notice he’s wiped them both clean.
He edges back, and his gaze drops from my eyes to my shoulders to my breasts. “I’m ready for dessert.”
“Wait, mister, I’m not finished. I have some actual dessert that’s not me, you know!” I twirl some pasta onto my fork a little faster and ram it into my mouth, licking some pesto off the corner of my lips.
Greyson watches me intently, and he looks so big, dark, and sexy in my apartment, I’m not accustomed to the deep little pangs of longing springing up inside my chest.
“How was your week?” he asks.
A flash of feelings stabs me when I remember all the nights I’ve lain in bed, more frightened than I want to be, and more lonely than I’ve ever felt in my life. Maybe it’s because I know who I want to be with right now. Maybe it’s because I feel vulnerable and scared.
“Actually, good,” I lie. “I wanted to ask you. I got an offer for my car.”
“You’re selling your car?”
I gaze at him in despair and notice the sudden grim set to his mouth. “Yes, I’m selling it.” I get up and go get his empty plates as I tell him how much I was offered. “Do you think it’s a fair price?”
He’s silent as I carry his plates to the sink, tracking me with his gaze as he asks me, “Why do you need to sell it?”
I can’t help but notice he looks more than a little curious. He seems determined.
So I try going for lighthearted, including adding a casual shrug to my explanation. “Just have my eye on something else.”
One dark eyebrow goes up, followed by another, and then an achingly slow, clearly smart question. “Another car?”
He’s not buying it.
I wrack my brain for something to say that will be as far away from the truth as I can, until he speaks, sighing as though I wear him out, “They’re low-balling you. Don’t sell your f*cking car, princess, not for that, not for anything.”