I hook a finger under his chin so he has to meet my eyes. “I do.”
He sucks in a quick breath, eyes searching mine like he’s making sure I mean it. I let him see everything… no armor, no jokes.
“Okay,” he says, voice gone soft around the edges. “Yeah. I’ll come over.”
I cup the back of his head and pull him in for a kiss, slow and sure, not the kind that’s about heat—though we’ve got plenty ofthat—but the kind that says stay. He melts into it, hand fisting in my shirt.
When we break, he rests his forehead against mine. “You know,” he murmurs. “For a guy who doesn’t do relationships, you’re doing a suspiciously good job.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, thumb brushing his jaw. “I finally found someone worth doing it for.”
“One small truth… One small truth…” I can do that. I can totally do that. Just because I’ve realized that I’m madly in love with the man and it’s all I can think about does not mean I’m going to blurt out “I love you.” I can totally play this cool. I’msooooocool.
I do double finger guns as I stand in front of his door.
We speak of this to no one.
The door swings open and—oh. Looks like we are doing this tonight. Dom’s in a dark T-shirt that fits like it was stitched directly onto his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps, jeans slung low. My mouth goes dry.
I swallow. “F-fuck, you’re hot.”
His eyebrow lifts, slow and amused. “You okay there, little mouse?”
Well. Not anI love you, but still an overshare. My cheeks heat. “I meant to say… hi.”
He chuckles, low and pleased, like he keeps a private file of things that fluster Beckett. “Come in.”
The house smells like roasted garlic and rosemary andsomething buttery that makes my stomach purr. I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen.
“It smells amazing in here,” I say, trying not to sound impressed and failing.
“Potatoes are in the oven,” he says, turning toward the stove. “And I’m about to put the steaks on?—”
He spins faster than I expect, and I walk straight into him. I wobble, arms flailing for dignity, but he’s already got me, one arm around my waist, pulling me in, steadying me like it’s nothing.
“Careful,” he murmurs, and because he’s Dom, because he can’t help himself, he dips his head and kisses me.
It’s not the hungry kind. It’s the I’m-glad-you’re-here kind. Soft, lingering, our lips brushing once, then again, until a small, humiliating sigh escapes me.
He smiles against my mouth. “Hi,” he says, like that was our real hello.
“Hi,” I breathe, fingers curling in his shirt so he can’t go far.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes flicking over my face like he’s checking I ate, slept, and didn’t self-destruct today. “Shit,” he says suddenly. “I didn’t even ask if you’d eaten. Or if you were hungry. I just started cooking.”
“Dom,” I say, laughing. “You made me dinner. I’m not gonna complain.”
He shrugs, a little sheepish, which is not a look I see often on Mr. Control. “I just thought… maybe you deserved someone cooking for you for once.”
The way he says it makes heat crawl up my neck. I nudge his chest with mine. “So you’re saying this is, like, a date?”
“Oh, it’s a date,” he says, voice going low. “A very well-fed date.”
“I do like to be eaten,” I say, letting the innuendo hang.
His eyes darken. “Behave.”
“No.”
