Beneath This Man(31)

'In the spare room.' I say, recovering from my flight.

He makes a point of demonstrating his disgust with an audible grumble before he stalks out of the room and returns moments later with all of my stuff spread between his good hand, under his arms and in his mouth. He dumps it all on the bed. 'There.'

I reach into my bag and retrieve some clean knickers and my oversized, black sweatshirt, but my comfortable cotton knickers are soon snatched out of my hand. I frown as I watch him riffle through my bag and pull out a pair of lace replacements.

He hands them to me. 'Always in lace.' He nods in approval to his own demand, and I comply without hesitation or complaint, putting the lace knickers on, and then my oversized jumper. I watch as Jesse ditches the wet shorts and swaps them for a blue jersey pair. I can see new definition in his back and arms as his muscles roll and flex when he pulls them up. I sit and admire from my position on the bed before he picks me up again and carries me down to the kitchen.

First, I turn the music off on a little shudder, then I stand in front of the fridge scanning the shelves. 'What do you want?' Maybe some eggs, he could probably use the protein.

'I don't mind, I'll have what you're having.' He comes up from behind and reaches past me to grab a jar of peanut butter, dropping his lips to my neck.

'Put that back!' I make a grab for the jar, but he evades me and beats a hasty retreat to the barstool, shoves the jar under his arm to unscrew the cap before dipping his finger in to scoop a dollop out. He smirks at me as he slides his finger into his mouth and forms an O with his lips as he pulls it out.

'You're a child.' I settle on chicken fillets, grabbing them from the fridge. I've already eaten, but I'm going to have to tuck some more away if it means he will eat with me.

'I'm a child because I like peanut butter?' he asks over his finger.

'No, you're a child because of the way you eat peanut butter. No one over the age of ten should finger dip jars and as I'm being kept in the dark over your age, I assume that you are over ten.' I fire a disgusted look at him as I find the tinfoil and wrap the chicken up with some Parma ham, then put them in an oven dish.

'Don't knock it until you've tried it. Here.' He thrusts his peanut butter covered finger over the island and into my line of vision. I screw my face up. I detest peanut butter.

'Pass.' I say, putting the chicken in the oven. He shrugs and then licks it off himself.

I get some sugar snap peas and new potatoes from the fridge and load them into the built in steamer, then fiddle with a few knobs before it kicks into action.

Lifting myself up on to the worktop, I watch him on a small smile. 'Enjoying that?'

He pauses mid-scoop and looks up at me. 'I can eat the stuff until I feel sick.' Another finger goes in.

'Do you feel sick?'

'No, not yet.'

'Do you want to stop now before you do and save some room for the well-balanced meal I'm making you?' I fight to prevent a grin.

He doesn't. He smirks and slowly screws the lid back on. 'Why, baby, are you nagging me?'

'No, I'm asking you a question.' I correct him. I don't ever want to be a nag.

He starts chewing his bottom lip, watching me carefully, his eyes dancing. I shiver from top to toe. I know that look. 'I like your sweatshirt,' he says quietly, running his eyes down my front to my bare legs. It's oversized and it covers my bum. It's hardly sexy. 'I like black on you.' he adds.

'You do?'

'I do.' he asserts quietly. He's going to distract me again. I need to get some proper food in him and we need to discuss the fact that it is Monday tomorrow and I'm going to have to go home and to work. After his sly stunt of depositing a stupidly over-the-top advance payment into Rococo Union's bank account, I'm concerned that he'll maintain his previous unreasonable request to have me working at The Manor all day everyday.

'It's Monday tomorrow.' I say positively. I don't know why I choose that tone. Positive as opposed to what?

'And?' He folds his arms over his chest.

What do I say? Would it be too much to ask him to be reasonable about my requirement to tend to other clients? He has openly admitted he doesn't like sharing me, socially or professionally.

I drum my fingers on the worktop next to me. 'And nothing, I was just wondering what you might have planned?'

I see a fleeting look of panic sweeps over his stubbled face, and I'm instantly worried that tomorrow is going to be a trauma. 'What have you got planned?' he asks.