Bang(59)

“What about you?” he asks me. “Do you like cooking?”

“I never learned.”

“Your mum never taught you?” he questions.

I shake my head, knowing the truth of never having a mom, but Declan only knows of the lies I’ve told him about my family, so I tell him, “No. She worked a lot and wasn’t around much. I do like to watch Clara cook when she comes over to prepare meals. Every now and then she lets me help out, but not often. I pretty much do what your mom allowed you to do on that chair. I only stir things and sniff around.”

I watch the creases deepen at the corners of Declan’s eyes when he looks at me and laughs.

“I’ve asked Bennett to cut back on her schedule, that I’d like to do more around the house, but he refuses. Clara has worked for him for a long time, and he likes knowing she’s there.”

Declan looks at me for a few moments when I stop talking, and then finally breaks the silence when he says, “Come here,” and motions for me to join him.

“Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“Because I’m going to teach you how to cook, darling.”

I smile, hop off the barstool, and walk over to join him. He reaches over and grabs a head of garlic, setting it on top of the chopping block, and then hands me a knife.

“I roasted that earlier. Garlic is always better when you roast it beforehand,” he explains as I look at him and nod. “Peel off two cloves and then lay the knife flat on top.”

I do as he says, plucking off a couple cloves. Declan stands behind me and holds his hands over mine, laying the knife flat on top of one of the cloves, and then grabbing the wrist of my other arm.

“Now, make a fist and slam it on top of the knife to mash the garlic,” he instructs.

With his hand on my wrist, I make a fist and bang it down on the knife, smashing the garlic beneath.

“Perfect,” he murmurs over my ear. “Do the same thing with the other clove.”

He keeps his hands on mine as I repeat the process. He then helps me prepare the sauce for the chicken, toasting the almonds and chopping up the shallots and mushrooms. Once I’ve poured in the champagne, he helps me line the dish with the chicken and pour the sauce over top.

“Would you turn the oven on? It’ll automatically set at 350, so just put it on bake.”

“Okay,” I say as I walk over to the oven and turn it on.

I watch Declan finish up, and when the oven beeps, he slides in the dish and sets the timer for thirty minutes.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks as he steps in front of me.

“You.”

“Why’s that?”

Reaching out to wrap my arms around his waist, I tell him, “I like you like this,” my words coming from a place of honesty.

“Like what?” he questions as he steps even closer, running his hands through my hair and tilting my head up to him.

“Just like this. You, laid back in your jeans and t-shirt, teaching me to do something new. I like sweet Declan,” I say softly as I peer up into his emerald eyes.

“You’re saying I’m not always sweet?”

I begin to laugh and then respond, “Most of the time you’re an *.”

His head falls back in a burst of laughter, and the sound causes me to laugh harder. His smile is wide when he looks back down, giving my words back to me, admitting, “I like you like this too.”

“I’m afraid to even ask,” I tease.

“Don’t ever be afraid,” he says before adding, “You’re soft. You don’t show it often, but when you do, I like it.”

His words immediately straighten my face as he runs his hand down my cheek, telling me, “I like it when you’re soft with me.”

“It’s not easy for me.”

“I know, but I want that from you.”

He’s oblivious to the fact that I intend on using his words to create the perfect venom to bite him with. So with a gentle nod of understanding, I slip my arms around his neck as he dips his head to kiss me. His hands grip my ass and he pulls me off the floor and into his arms. Looping my legs around him, he takes me over to the couch and sits us down with me on top of him. We continue to kiss, his taste of need spilling into my mouth. Hard, fast, soft, slow, licking, biting, sucking, it’s all there in the heat of him as time falters in the moment. But we both snap our heads back when the fire alarm sets off and the smell of burning food takes center stage.

“Fuck,” Declan breathes in mild amusement as he looks over my shoulder, and when I turn to see the smoke-filled kitchen, I jump off his lap and rush over to find pillowed clouds of smoke billowing from the oven.

“Shit!” I squeak out and immediately open the oven door, only to be blinded by the rushing mound of smoke.

Declan moves next to me and reaches in with oven mitts to pull out the black, charred chicken. My look of mortification for somehow ruining dinner is contrasted by his laughter, which ticks me off. He tosses the dish on top of the stove and then runs over to open a few of the sliding glass doors to air the place out and then goes to shut off the screeching smoke alarm.

“What did I do wrong?” I ask when he returns to the kitchen, and when I see he’s still laughing, I snap, “Cut the shit and stop laughing at me.”

He leans over the stove, looking at the oven setting. “Shit, Nina,” he chuckles.