I’ve never been the type to obsess over meals. I eat to fuel up. Always have.
But this?
This has very little to do with food.
I’m self-aware enough to admit it’s justher.
The care baked into every dish.
The way she pays attention.
The way she gives without taking.
Her asking if she’s allowed to almost killed me. I want to know who hurt her.
Who put that fear inside of her?
I want to gut whoever it was for doing that.
Then I want to ripitout. That fear and hurt.
I plan to rip it out. To fucking banish it from her existence.
The food feels like a metaphor, and I don’t like how accurate it is.
But what I really want is my mouth onher. My hands onher.
I want her close enough that I can tell what she smells like when she’s warm and relaxed. I want to memorize her taste.
How many nights have I spent with my cock in hand, picturing her while I jerk myself to completion?
Every fucking night since she got here.
Fuck.
I want her all the damn time.
But I can’t jerk off in here.
Not when she’s in the other room, just feet away.
The temptation to touch her will be too much.
I squeeze the phone in my hand for a second longer than necessary, using the pressure to drag myself back into the moment.
I’m in my office.
Talking to my brother-in-law.
Not standing in the lunchroom watching Willow breathe.
“You good, Thatch?” Mike asks when the silence stretches too long.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Everything’s good. Give Kells and Evan my love.”
I hang up before he can dig any deeper.
I scrub a hand over my face and take a slow breath.
