Shimmy Bang Sparkle(42)
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I ground out between clenched teeth. She was everything I never knew I needed. I knew then that I didn’t own her body, hell no. That perfect pussy of hers, it owned me.
Into my ear she growled, “Keep going. Never stop. Ever.”
I sat up with her on top of me and planted my knees to get her on her back, her head nearly off the edge of the bed, her hair spilling nearly to the carpet. On top of her, I doubled down to push myself into back-to-back orgasms; the first one was barely over when the second one started. She felt that good, and I needed her that bad. The first load had felt great, but the second felt even better. In the mirror I saw myself, powering into her with every ounce of brutal passion I had. Every ounce belonged to her, and I didn’t stop until I felt my own cum dripping out of the condom onto my balls.
When I finally collapsed on top of her, her legs hooked together around my hips and she ran her fingers lightly through my hair. She put small, tender kisses all over my cheeks. I’d finally found it. Total bliss.
But the flurry of kisses tapered off. She turned her face slightly, and her chest rose and fell, shallowly and rapidly. Like a pant, but quicker. Her breasts compressed against my chest. “Ummm . . . Nick?”
Jesus. I didn’t even know if I could talk. I was so breathless and so spent . . . but I did manage to answer, with a deep, “Yeah, gorgeous.”
“Did you actually turn off the oven, or . . .” she asked, followed by a few sniffs.
As I pulled my face out of her silky dark hair, I smelled it. I smelled it past the warmth of her perfume and past the crazy-making scent of her pussy still on my face. What I smelled wasn’t a Stella smell. It wasn’t a heaven-sent smell. It was more of . . .
A burning smell.
Suddenly, a piercing squeal filled the air—one of those insane, mind-bending, hundred-decibel alarms that make your brain freeze. Stella jammed her fingers into her ears and said, “Smoke alarm!”
In that instant, I realized what I’d done. “Holy shit, don’t tell me I left the oven on.”
And she dissolved into helpless, overpowering, full-body laughter in my arms, nodding against my chest.
21
STELLA
My famous lasagna looked like a pan full of asphalt roofing shingles. Meanwhile, Nick stood naked in the middle of the kitchen like he’d just caused a ten-car pileup. In one hand, he held the nine-volt battery he’d pried from the smoke alarm. The other hand was pressed to his forehead. “I’ll buy you a new pan.”
Using my oven mitts, I placed the smoking pan in the sink. The glass hissed against the droplets of water on the metal basin. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him, briefly considering the possibility of dousing the whole shebang in water, but reconsidering because God only knew what happened when a Pyrex pan cooled off too fast. Kaboom! Trying to reassure him, I said, “That oven is very confusing.” It actually wasn’t confusing at all. It had three buttons, one of which was a great big red “Off.” The only other button he could have hit to create what really did resemble a piece of tire on the side of the highway was the up arrow. Way up. “You were pretty distracted.”
“I’m just . . .” He stared at the smoking pan. “Are those ashes?”
Yeppers. No doubt about it. “It’s fine,” I said, pressing on his rock-solid arm with my oven-mitted hand. “It’s totally fine. And listen, I have plans to make you as much lasagna as your heart desires.”
He shifted his attention away from the hazmat situation in the sink and back to me. The hand that had been on his forehead slid down to cover his mouth. I took the battery from him and set it on the counter.
He eyed me over his hand and asked, “Really?” like he didn’t quite believe me.
Really. I nodded. “Lasagna. Manicotti. Maybe even . . .” I tapped his heart with my mitt. “Calzones.”
Of all the noises I’d heard him make—the primal growls, the savage roars, the naughty Yeah, fuck yeahs—this one might’ve been my favorite. It was an actual whimper. A whimper in the name of homemade Italian food.
He raised a finger to tell me to hang on, and reemerged from my bedroom wearing only his boxers and cradling his phone between his shoulder and his ear.
“No need to call the fire department. I’ve got this,” I said.
“No, I’ve got this.” He gave me that mischievous, sexy smile that I was starting to adore so much. “Mitts, please.” He made pinching moves with his hands, and I handed them over. They were much too tight for him, but he did look super cute. Lobster-claw mitts and navy-blue boxers was a delicious combo.
Picking up the blackened rectangle from the sink, he headed for the door, which I opened before he got there. Moving his chin away from the receiver, he told me, “Seriously. Definitely buying you a new pan,” and stepped outside. He made his way down the sidewalk to the fenced-in dumpsters. He pitched the whole pan into the one on the right, then headed back to my apartment.
When he came inside, he was saying into the receiver, “That’ll be delivery.” He looked me up and down, like he was measuring me for a dress. “Orange chicken, I’d say.”
He had me all figured out, from El Dorado to House of Chow. “And eggrolls,” I said. “Lots and lots of eggrolls.”
“I already ordered a dozen. But I can definitely order more,” he said, and gave my tush a lobster-mitted pinch.