I only let up when we’re both gasping for breath, and she’s trembling in my arms. My cock is so hard it hurts.
“Tonight,” I growl, tearing myself away before those dazed eyes and swollen lips convince me not to go at all.
“Tonight,” she breathes.
I practically fling myself out the door, her sweet voice chasing me.
“Bye, Flint.”
This is going to be the longest fucking day of my life.
FIVE
SAOIRSE
I’m still sittingat the island long after Flint leaves for the ranch, staring at his coffee cup, wondering if I’m dreaming. My own mug is empty. My brain is not. My brain is a snow globe of utter chaos.
I’m pretty sure I just agreed to be his “dessert” tonight. My face is still hot from his tongue stroking mine, his hands in my hair,and his words thrumming in my bloodstream. It’s not even nine a.m., and I feel like someone flipped my world upside-down and gave it a firm shake just to see what would fall out.
The house is too quiet without him. Or maybe I’m just too noisy in my own head, thinking about what it means that I’m here, living in his space, cooking in his kitchen, using his fancy shower. A girl could get used to this. If she wasn’t careful, a girl could get her heart broken, too.
I snap myself out of it by rinsing my mug and Flint’s and setting them in the dishwasher. The kitchen’s so pristine it makes my teeth ache. No drips, no crumbs, no evidence that a full-grown man lives here. Even the fridge is intimidating—stainless steel, four times the size of the one in my apartment, fully stocked with everything you could possibly need. I’m half afraid to touch anything.
There’s no way I’m going to let him cook tonight after working all day long, so I get to work.
I stalk the perimeter of the kitchen, searching for inspiration. I’m formulating plans for dinner when I spot a door tucked around the corner from the refrigerator.
I open it, expecting maybe a laundry room or a broom closet, but instead, I find myself in a huge, four-car garage. The floor is polished concrete, so shiny that I can see my reflection, and every wall is lined with all kinds of tools and storage units. A mechanic’s wet dream.
There’s a gleaming red Mustang parked in the last stall. No dust, no fingerprints, nothing to suggest it’s ever been driven. I stand and stare for a long moment. Man, that's a beautiful car.
Along the front wall of the garage is a massive chest freezer. It looks like the kind of thing a serial killer would use to store trophies, but when I open it, all I find are tidy, labeled bundles of beef, pork, chicken, and lamb, each one wrapped in white butcher paper and marked with black Sharpie. Darn. There’s enough meat in here to survive the apocalypse.
I fish out a package of stew meat, slam the lid shut, and jog back to the kitchen, arms full and a grin plastered on my face. I can work with this.
First, I raid the butler’s pantry for reinforcements. I’m expecting a few half-used spice jars, maybe some old cans of green beans, but what I find is next-level. There’s a whole wall of shelves filled with every imaginable seasoning. There are onions and garlic hanging from braided strings, vegetables in open bins, and a basket of potatoes.
I stand in the center of the room and just stare as an idea takes root. I know I saw a delicious-looking recipe on TikTok recently. I pull out my phone and scroll through my saved videos until I find the right one.
I stand my phone up against the bowl of fresh fruit on the counter and get to work.
The stew meat is still frozen solid, so I defrost it in the microwave for a few minutes. While it’s doing its thing, I chop onions like a ninja on a caffeine bender. My eyes water, but I refuse to break. Not when I’ve got chef goals and a cowboy to impress.
I peel and cut up the carrots and potatoes, then toss all the veggies in a bowl. The second the meat is defrosted, I brown it in a skillet. The recipe calls for a slow cooker, so I head back intothe large pantry and search around. Sure enough, I find a brand-new-looking crockpot.
I combine all the ingredients and set the slow cooker for six hours. Now, I need to get myself ready.
I dig through my overnight bag, and my heart sinks. I don’t have anything remotely decent. I sit down on the edge of the guest bed and weigh my options. The stew is cooking slowly, and I have hours to waste before Flint gets home, so I have plenty of time to run and grab more clothes from my apartment.
My heart pounds as I fish my phone from the pocket of my yoga pants to shoot Flint a text.
Me
Hey. Would it be okay if I borrow your Mustang to go grab a few things from my apartment? I’ll be super careful.
Three little dots almost instantly dance across the screen, and I hold my breath, waiting for his reply. It takes less than ten seconds.
Flint
