My lips part for his and his tongue plunges into my mouth, owning me.
Far too soon, he draws back, leaving me panting and staring up at him.
His gaze narrows as he stares at me, like he’s expecting someth—
Oh, right.
Bag in the bedroom.
I scramble to do it.
As I snag thebag’s strap and hurry out with it, behind me I hear the regularsnickof the knife against the cutting board once more and Christopher’s low, throaty chuckle.
I feel that pleasant clench in my guts again.
Damn, I missed that.
When I reach my bedroom, I first set his bag on my unmade bed. That’s what makes mereallylook around at my bedroom.
Unlike the rest of my house, this room isn’t exactlycompany-ready.
I scurry around, making the bed and gathering up dirty clothes, tidying it so it’s not embarrassing despite knowing, logically, that Christopher will not give a single fuck, flying or otherwise, over what my bedroom looks like so long as I don’t have roaches or rats or rotting garbage strewn around.
He’s here for one thing—forme.
Guilt fills me again that I never contacted himafter that amazing week we spent together. That I choked.
That I was too afraid.
I know nothing about him now, other than he’s a Secret Service special agent.
And probably warming the senator’s bed.
That fills me with…
Yeah, jealousy. Not that I have any right to feel that way. Hell, I was married, for all the good it did me.
I brush my teeth and splash water on my face. Staring into themirror reveals how low I’ve truly sunk. Heavy stubble coats my cheeks, and dark hollows shadow my eyes.
I’m sure some of my former colleagues would gleefully giggle to get a look at me like this.
Especially whichever douchebag finally ends up with my former time slot.
Although, if this really pans out the way the senator believes it will, maybe I’ll have the last laugh.
I return to the kitchenwhere it’s already smelling damned good. He’s simmering broccoli, chicken, carrots, and garlic in one pan, and a large pot of water on another burner turned on high. In a third pot, he’s preparing a creamy sauce.
Holy shit, the man cancook.
He’s discarded the jacket, leaving him in that T-shirt, which looks like it’s painted on his torso.
That lucky goddamned shirt.
Damn, the man is a littlebeefier than I remember, and it looks good on him.
I stand there like an idiot—because I am—until I find my voice. “Is there anything I can do, Sir?”
Yes, Idelightin how that word feels in my mouth.
