I know what this is with him. It’s not like before. I’m not in my twenties with a fragile heart. Dice is an amazing adventure. The sex is off the hook. He’s fun. Smart. Kind. Sexy. We have history and a lot in common. This is fine. No reason to panic or start pulling back. I’ll be leaving soon anyway. In the meantime, I’m going to keep it chill.
I breeze into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around me. He’s still on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yep, just wrung out,” he says with a lazy grin. “You?”
“Yep. Never better.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dice
You don’t have to look so happy about it.
The house smells like coffee and bacon when I get back from my jog. The cold air, the calm of the waterfront, the pounding of my shoes on the boardwalk were still not enough to cool my head.
Last night was intense. Giving control to Lot had been more than just physical. It cracked something open in me. Something deep.
I kick off my runners and enter the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove in my faded Spider-Man tee and not a damn thing underneath it but those plump, bare legs and red-painted toes. Bacon sizzles in the pan while she whisks something in a bowl, the contents flying everywhere. Queenie’s posted up under her like a miniature Hoover, catching the drops.
I watch, grinning. A damn fool. But that’s how soft she’s got me. I see her and all my insides turn to liquid. I don’t know exactly what that feeling is. Or maybe I do, and I’m too fucking scared to name it.
“You’re just in time to learn how to make French toast,” she says, pulling me out of my head.
I step beside her. “You cookin’ or redecorating?”
“Ssskt.” She elbows me, and I grab a nice squeeze of her ass before washing my hands and letting her put me to work.
I drain the crispy bacon on a paper towel, snag a strip and feed a piece to her, then drop a corner bit to Queenie. She purrs up at me like I’m her new best friend.
Off to the side, the strawberries are already sliced, glistening like jewels. I stare at them, remembering every detail from last night. “Don’t think I’ll ever see a strawberry in the same way again.”
“You had me out there like some dessert platter.”
“What about you? Riding me until I forgot my own name.”
She glances at me, smirking. “Didn’t hear you complainin’.”
“Couldn’t. Your panties were in my mouth.”
“Damn, we nasty.” She laughs, and I’m already thinking about spreading her out on the table. But she grabs the sourdough loaf she had me pick up from the bakery the other day and pulls out a thick slice. “You dip it into the mixture, just long enough for it to get fully coated but not soggy.”
I follow her instructions, soaking the bread, then she presses it down with the spatula, getting those edges crispy while the center stays soft. Not unlike her.
When the slices are done, Lot tops them with strawberries and puts bacon on the side.
I bring the plates to the table. She grabs the syrup, and we dig in.
“This is really good,” I say, spearing my fork into another piece of toast.
“Since you’re off tomorrow night, I could show you how to cook an easy stir-fry. That way you’re not always ordering out or limited to boxed mac.”
“I was thinking we could go out for dinner. Maybe drive over to Lakehead. There’s an inn that’s supposed to make a mean steak. We could spend the night. I’m sure we can bring Queenie.”
Her eyes squint. “You mean, like a date?”
“What’s the difference if we eat and sleep together here or somewhere else?”
