Thanks. Is seven okay, or is that too late?
Seven would be perfect.
* * *
Kyle has a towel around his waist and is drying his hair when he lets me into his flat. “Sorry. I’d meant to be dressed by the time you got here.”
“I’m early.” Only by three minutes, but that’s not the point.
I flick my gaze over him. Damn, he’s sexy. Yes, I saw him naked on Saturday and on Sunday, but I don’t think I’m ever going to get over how broad and ripped his chest is or how big his arm muscles are. And his thighs. I go weak in the knees, thinking about how big his thighs are, even though the towel is hiding them. He’d be strong enough to lift me up and—I’m here to bring him food. Emphasis on the friend part tonight, not the benefits part.
I lift the glass box I’m carrying. “I hope you like cottage pie.”
“I love it.”
“Can I heat it up in your oven? Or the microwave will be faster if you have one.”
“I don’t.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s healthier to cook from scratch, so I never bought one. I do bulk cook, though. My freezer is full of single-portion meals ready to heat up after a long day.”
I pout. “Oh. So you didn’t need me to bring food around.”
He puts his hand on my waist and pulls me to him for a soft, slow kiss. “No, but I wanted you to.”
My knees sag enough to be noticeable.
“You look beautiful today,” he says.
I’m in casual clothes that are light and a little baggy. My hair is straight. I only tussle it when I’m going out. My knees decide to go on strike altogether, but Kyle holds me up.
“So gorgeous.” He kisses me.
I yield to him, letting him explore my mouth with his tongue for as long as he wants.
He’s panting when he eventually pulls away. “I’d better get dressed.”
“Speaking of clothes, I brought yours back. Thank you.” I hand him a bag and then gesture to the glass box. “I’ll warm this up for you.”
“Thank you, sweet thing.”
Does he normally use so many terms of endearment with boyfriends, or is he doing it to heap praise on me? Not that we’re boyfriends. We’re friends with benefits. Why do I keep reminding myself of that?
I stay where I am until he’s gone into his bedroom and then wander to the kitchen area to figure out how to use his oven. I can’t get over the fact he doesn’t have a microwave. Once the oven has warmed up, I put the cottage pie in and set a timer on my phone for twenty minutes. What’s taking Kyle so long? Surely, all he had to do was throw some clothes on.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
I jerk my head up. Kyle is leaning against his bedroom doorframe, his fingers grazing against the top of it. I’m too short to reach that high unless I stand on tiptoes, but he does it with ease, even with his arm bent. Jealous? Me? No. I like being short. Most of the time. It makes it easier to find someone taller to—I need to get my mind out of the gutter. What is wrong with me tonight?
I pout.
“Why are you pouting?” Kyle asks.
“You covered your abs.”
He tugs at his polo shirt. It’s baggier than the one he wore on Saturday night. It leaves everything to the imagination. “You don’t like my shirt?”
