The Lineup(63)

“Okay,” I say, cutting up the long dough snake into the signature shape of gnocchi. “Hey, if I forget to say this later, after all is said and done, thank you for teaching me this. You really didn’t have to.”

“And you really didn’t have to bring me here with you.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same without you.” I give him a curt smile and then start chopping the dough again, him helping with every piece . . . but from far away.





Dinner was amazing, some of the best pasta I’ve ever eaten. Jason complained about the pasta sauce, wishing he made his own, but I said it was tasty and was very pleased with it.

Making gnocchi wasn’t too hard. The tricky part was boiling the little pieces and then frying them right after. It took a lot of concentration and timing, but Jason was a huge help. And the garlic bread, there was no burning it. It came out a perfect golden brown and was crispy and buttery and so, so delicious. I may have had a few too many pieces.

After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and made Jason sit at the counter and talk to me while I did the dishes.

We talked about stupid things like our favorite places to eat in Chicago, who has the best deep-dish pizza, and what our favorite place to visit in the city is. We joked, teased each other, and we undoubtedly kept stealing glances. I would catch him looking at my butt and he would catch me scanning his chest and the way his muscles pulled against the fabric.

A thick air started to form between us, the desire in our eyes evident, or at least that’s what I thought. Once the dishes were done, Jason retired to the couch and started reading a book.

That’s where we are now, both on the couch, both with a book in our hand, but unlike him, who keeps flipping through his pages completely captivated by the Stephen King novel perched in his hands, I’ve read the same two sentences for the past thirty minutes. My concentration is shot and my nerves have unraveled.

Our legs are stretched out on the couch together, his in the front, mine in the back and the only light in the room is coming from the two side tables with tall lights on them. I have this pulsing itch to drop my book to the side and climb on top of his lap; it’s so bold and vibrant in my head I can’t think of anything else. All I can envision is the way he’d grab my hips and hold me still as I situated myself on top of him. I’d quickly remove my shirt with my bra following close behind. I’d show him with my hands how I like my tits to be played with, how I love for my nipples to be pinched. I’d encourage him to touch me, holding my breath the entire time . . .

“Mmm,” I moan, just in time for my eyes to widen and notice that I said that out loud.

I look past my book to where Jason lifts his head to take me in. “Are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm, yup. Just uh, thinking about that dinner again, it was really good.”

“It was.” He smiles and goes back to reading.

Jesus.

Get it together, Dottie.

Focus on this book. This . . .

What the hell am I reading?

Jason shifts on the couch, his leg brushing against mine, the friction heating me from the tips of my toes to my core as an aching sensation starts to build between my legs.

It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man, so long since I’ve had that sweet release only a talented guy can give.

Just looking at Jason, I know he’d be a good lover. Not just good, but exceptional. Probably world-altering. His caring demeanor would make him a giving lover, but the alpha side I’ve seen here and there persuades me that he wouldn’t be polite in the bedroom.

His toe brushes against mine and I peek over my book to look at him, but all I can see is the book in front of his face. Damn it.

But then his foot rubs against mine.

One stroke.

Two.

Oh fuck . . . three. Every last nerve ending in my body is starting to tingle from the thought that this could be it, this is the open invitation I’ve been looking for, the—

“Holy shit.” Jason sits straight up and lowers his book.

“What?” I ask, being knocked from my fantasies.

“This book, it’s fucking scary.”

“Oh.” I chuckle. “Do you need me to hold you?”

“Yeah, I fucking do.” He shifts on the couch so he leans against the back and he props his feet up on the coffee table in front of him, then he takes my arm and swings me around as well until I’m plastered against his side, his arm draped over my shoulder holding me tight. “There,” he says, while letting out a deep breath. “Are you comfortable?”

No.

I’m horny.

And being next to you, this close, taking in your cologne and being wrapped up by your beefy arm, it’s not helping my libido.

“Very comfortable, thanks.”

“Are you liking your book?”

“Sure, yup. It’s great,” I answer, not knowing one thing about it.

“Good.” He turns back to his book. The fire crackles in front of us, the mood set for romance, but there isn’t one ounce of romance stirring in this cabin. Just gnocchi-making, high-fiving friends.

What would he do if I stole his book away from him, tossed it to the side, and straddled his lap? Welcome me? Stick his hand up my shirt? Motorboat me?

God, I’d love a good motorboating. Scruff rubbing back and forth between my breasts, marring my skin with beard burn. What I wouldn’t give for that right now.