I bit my lip. “Italian?”
“It happens to be my favorite.” He sucked on that sensitive spot behind my ear, and every vein in my body melted into a puddle at his feet.
“What about allergies? Do you have any?” I gasped, as he pressed his hard-on against my clit in a slow roll. “Well, besides affection, warmth, and sunshine?”
His chuckle was low and dark. “Keep it up, and you’ll be too sore to make me dinner.”
I hated that he could read me well enough to know I was excited to cook for him, while I still knew nothing about him.
“I should warn you, though, I don’t usually cook for men. It’s just too much of a risk they’ll fall in love with me.”
“I thought you were a gambler,” he drawled.
All I could respond with was a low moan, because his fingers slid inside of me and then he fucked me so hard I could still feel him hours later.
I had therapy at ten and felt guilty every time I had to evade the topic of Christian and this just sex relationship. I didn’t want anyone to pop this exciting, sex-crazed bubble I was in, least of all Dr. Rosamund. I wanted to enjoy this while it lasted because I knew it wouldn’t be forever. We were everything wrong for each other. He was going to realize nothing had changed eventually.
I just didn’t know at the time it would only take a few days.
I made dinner at my apartment because I was too afraid of leaving even a speck of flour on Christian’s sparkling countertops.
I stared at him intently from the other side of his kitchen island while he took the first bite. A half-smile pulled on his lips, but he otherwise ignored me and ate in silence.
My chest grew warm at his expression. “You love it, don’t you?”
A playful glint in his eye. “It’s all right.”
I grinned. “You love it.”
I walked around the island. “You’re not feeling light-headed when you look at me, are you? Or maybe warmer than usual?” I put the back of my hand to his forehead, as if I was checking for a fever. “What about your heart? Has it started beating?”
He was amused. “Actually, I have been feeling a bit different.”
My eyes widened in alarm.
Then, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against his hard-on.
I shook my head with a laugh, shoving him in the chest and turning to walk away, but he caught my wrist and pulled me closer to say in my ear, “It’s delicious, malyshka. Thank you for making it for me.”
His words settled like molten glass in my blood.
I didn’t sleep in my bed that night.
Not the next night.
Or the next.
I STOOD IN FRONT OF my closet, sawing my lip in nervous deliberation.
Why had I agreed to this?
Because he was annoyingly persuasive, that’s why.
The night before, I was sitting cross-legged on his couch watching one of my “trashy” TV shows, while Christian sat at the island and talked on the phone. As soon as he ended the call, he said, “I need you to go somewhere with me tomorrow, malyshka.”
“Where?” I asked absently. Chad was feeling up Rachel, while his wife was next door in the delivery room having his baby.
“A work dinner.”