Not like this.
“Hmm. Never show me those again, please.”
Her smile falls and she clicks the phone off, flipping it over. He lets out a soft laugh. Folding her arms over her chest, she leans against the island. The clock reads that it’s just past midnight. He knows he should send her off, thank her for watching Lucy, walk her out to her car, tell her goodnight, but?—
She’s in his kitchen, and he wants to keep her there.
“What am I smelling?” he asks, trying to distract himself.
She sniffs, turning her nose up. “Cinnamon rolls.”
His stomach growls then, and she laughs slipping on his mitts. He watches, in a daze, as she pulls out the tray from the oven.
“They’re done. I just put them back in there to keep them warm.”
Snapping out of his stupor, he shakes his head. “Wait, why did you make cinnamon rolls?”
She shrugs, placing the mitts back in the drawer with the takeout menus.
She knows his kitchen.
“I used to make them with my cousin, Teryn, when we were kids, after my parents divorced. It’s my comfort food. But, I’m not sure you deserve any,” she says, nudging her head toward her phone. “Since you had so much to say about one of your favorite pastimes.”
Reaching forward, he pulls one from the sheet, and bites into it.
“Holy shit.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Good?”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my life,” he says, tipping his head back as he swallows before meeting her gaze.
She rolls her eyes, grabbing her own. He watches her chew through it. She tilts her head, seeming to analyze the baked goods as she swallows.
“It’s okay,” she says, chewing thoroughly. “It’s missing something.”
He grabs a second one. “What’s in this?” he asks, his mouth tasting of sugar and dough and cinnamon. Of her creation.
Her eyes flash to him. “Not telling,” she says with a teasing shake of her head.
“Come on, tell me.” He pushes away from the counter. “You owe me,” he adds with narrow eyes.
She gives a defiant shake, and he steps closer as she swallows the last piece of her bite, some icing lingering.
Roman swallows, gesturing to his lip. “You have some here.”
Her hand flies to her face. “What? Is it gone?” She wipes frantically.
“Here.” Roman’s left hand slides behind her neck, tilting her head back while his right thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. He drags it down, brushing her bottom lip in the process. Her skin is smooth. Her lip, slightly damp. His finger lingers longer than necessary, and he hopes that she’s okay with it, but also can’t bring himself to care if she isn’t. Their eyes lock and he wants nothing more than to take this a step further. He wants to know what else she would allow him to do. He wants to push himself against her, to make her feel what she’s doing to him. He wants to know if this is just an itch or a full-blown rash. He wants?—
“Got it?” she says, but it sounds raspy. Her hand lightly grips the one against the back of her neck.
“Got it.”
He releases his hold on her, stepping back, his stomach clenching.
“Jahlani—”
“I should go,” she says. “It’s late.” He watches her fly around his kitchen island. A blur of movements.
