I leaned close. “I wasn’t talking about the food.”
He paused, looked at me, and let out the softest “damn” under his breath. Things escalated from there.
We danced in the kitchen between roux-checks. He played all types of music. I dropped it low in front of the stove while stirring. He poured shots of tequila. I licked a lime from his neck. He whispered something about dessert, and I told him I am dessert.
At one point, I squirted a little gumbo base on his chest “by accident,” and he said, “Cool, I like my skin seasoned.”
We were gone. Drunk on vibes, sugar, spice, and sexual tension.
Then I stopped mid-laugh, eyes wide. “Wait.”
He looked concerned. “What?”
“We not gone make it back to the hotel.”
He blinked. “That’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“We’re staying here tonight.”
I stared at him. “You planned this, huh?”
He grinned. “Every damn detail.”
I shook my head, lips curved. “Intentional-ass man. You better be glad I like that.”
He pulled me close. “I know.”
By the time the gumbo was actually done, it had been hours. And in between stirring and simmering, we were everywhere. Kitchen. Hallway. Living room floor. Bathroom counter. I mean, Maison didn’t let me stop moaning half the night. The gumbo was fire. But the foreplay while cooking the gumbo was legendary. And that post-gumbo sex with the smell of spices still on our skin was even better.
I couldn’t tell if I was full from the bowl or from the way he fed every part of me that night.
But either way… Chef’s kiss.
10
Lyrix
The next morning came. No alarms. No obligations. No applying makeup. Just tangled sheets, warm skin, and two very exhausted people who’d lived a whole relationship’s worth of chaos in less than a week. And somehow, it still wasn’t enough.
We stayed in bed all day. My cheek pressed against his chest, his fingers lazily drawing circles on my back. Jazz played low from the Bluetooth speaker, but neither of us had the energy to dance. Hell, we barely had the energy to move.
The truth was that the last few days had caught up to us. New Orleans had danced us, drank us, flipped us, fed us, and finessed us into needing a day off. And we were not fighting it.
So we did what real couples do after a long week: we got the remote, a blanket, and some good-ass snacks.
“You ever watchedInsecure?” I asked, curling into his side.
“Nah, but I heard Issa be in her bag with that mirror talk,” he smirked.
“Oh, she do. She is the bag,” I corrected. “You gon’ love it.”
Four episodes in, he was already hooked. Laughing at Molly’s chaos, annoyed at Lawrence, and fully invested in the mess.
“This Issa and Lawrence thing got me stressed and I don’t even know these people,” he said, biting into his sandwich.
“Right? That’s how I was. Screaming at the TV like it was my friend group.”
