“The curiosity was killing me,” I said, brushing aside the pesky introspection. “What did you find in my kitchen to cook?”
“Precious little, cher, but you had eggs, so we’re having an omelet.” He grabbed the handle of a frying pan I was pretty sure I’d never used before and flipped a perfectly formed omelet onto a plate.
Opening a jar of salsa, he peered inside and sniffed the contents before spooning some on top of the eggs. I could have told him it was okay. It was left over from a tortilla chip reading binge after I’d locked up the Anderson negotiations. The opposing counselor folded spectacularly when I’d provided photo evidence of his client’s infidelity. The resulting settlement had been more than my client dreamed. I’d celebrated with a glorious night at home and abrother’s best friendromance. The salsa was good. I might not cook, but I cleaned like a fiend, and I couldn’t stand to have moldy things in my refrigerator. If it was in there, it was edible. Which was one of the reasons it rarely held anything beyond a few staples.
Ford slid open the silverware drawer and grabbed two forks. He filled two glasses with ice and topped them with seltzer, dropping a sugar cube I’d forgotten I’d had in each. The bubbles fizzed furiously, releasing the light scent of grapefruit and adding another layer to everything he’d done. The care he took with even simple things like serving canned seltzer elevated it to something special.
“I’m going to put together a bar care package for you. I couldn’t even find a cocktail shaker.”
In addition to judgment at my kitchen provisions, his words implied we’d be seeing each other again. The thought made my stomach tighten, either in anticipation or a fight-or-flight response. I wasn’t sure which bothered me more—my culinary inadequacies, his assumption that this was more than a one-off, or the thought that more time didn’t make me cringe. I could learn to cook. I should learn to cook. Maybe. Probably. I could at least take that off the list, and deliberately ignore the rest.
“Come on, cher.” Ford handed me a glass and motioned with his head toward my bedroom. “Back to bed.”
I took my drink and padded down the hallway ahead of him as if breakfast in bed mid-coitus was something I did all the time. Keeping my robe on—eating eggs naked felt like a step too far—I climbed onto the bed and took the plate he offered me. Ford apparently had no naked egg compulsion. He climbed onto the bed next to me, pressing a kiss to my forehead before picking up the other fork. He paused for a moment, watching as I took a forkful of eggs and popped it in my mouth. There was cheese from God knows where, herbs, and some kind of vegetables. It was delicious and completely unexpected.
“You’re a magician. This is some kind of voodoo loaves and fishes thing you did.”
His laughter was warm, and his eyes lit with pleasure and the smirk I was getting used to. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Ignoring the promise of his words, I rolled my eyes. It wouldn’t do me any good to let him know the effect he had on me.
“You’ve proven yourself in my kitchen. The eggs bow before you.” I slid just enough opposing counsel into my voice to make it clear that eggs were a low bar.
Instead of rising to the challenge—or worse, getting offended—his grin grew wider. He carved off a sizable bite of omelet, popping it into his mouth and chewing before responding.
“Damn straight.” He watched as I took another bite of his creation.
I tried and failed to school my face. For reasons I saw no need to look closer at, I didn’t want to hide with Ford. Just for the night, I wanted to give him—give both of us—the truth.
“I still can’t believe you made this with things I already had.” I used my fork to fight him for the last bite, loving that he didn’t just bow out and let me have it. Winning thingsalways made them better.True of omelets, too, I thought as I popped the last bite in my mouth. “That was amazing. Thank you.”
Ford took the plate from my hand, setting it on the nightstand before manacling my ankle with his hand. “Lay back, cher, and let me show you what else I can do.”
––––––––
I ADDED FEEDING Charlotte to my growing list of new favorite things to do with her. I’d known it would be good—that she wouldn’t be one of those women who was all about denying herself—by the way she’d eaten the focaccia earlier, but I still loved the way she gave herself over to something as simple as the taste of a well-made omelet. It wasn’t the first time I’d said a prayer of thanks to mymemefor teaching me to cook.
Finding something to cook had been one of the biggest challenges so far. Charlotte’s kitchen was perfectly appointed. She was short bar gear, but I’d fix that. But like the rest of her space, it looked like it had been designed by someone else. Beautiful, classic, like Charlotte, but nothing felt like she’d actually chosen it. It was more like a picture of what someone thought she looked like.
The only thing that really felt like her—at least the little bit I knew of her—was her bookcases. With their kaleidoscope-colored spines and steamy covers, the books were a rare glimpse at the woman herself. I planned to spend more time getting to know them and getting to know the woman, starting with spreading her out before me and making her come again.
Thinking about the way she’d come apart under my mouth had my cock going hard enough to press against the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs. I grabbed her ankle and tugged her toward me, urging her to lay back on the bed. She still wore the floral silk robe she’d slipped on before she found me in the kitchen, and I wrestled momentarily with whether to strip her naked and bare all her beautiful pale skin to my hands and mouth or whether to play with the slide of silk over her body. The robe had a tie, which presented its own myriad possibilities.
“You’re looking at me as if I’m a present you’re trying to figure out how to unwrap.”
There was just enough wonder in her voice to do something to me. Like her acute discernment let her see the truth of the situation but she couldn’t quite believe what she saw. I could get off on convincing her to trust it. To trust me.
“That’s what it feels like to me. Having you spread out in front of me, skin flushed, watching me with those gorgeous blue eyes that don’t miss a thing. You are so fucking beautiful, cher. I want all of you, and I can’t decide where to start.”
“Let me help.” She reached for me, and I let her pull me up her body until I hovered over her, our faces a breath away from each other, the thin layer of silk warm from her body the only thing between us.
She cradled my hips between her legs, and I rocked into her, giving myself over for just a moment to the ache of my cock so close to her core. So close to what I needed. Her arms went around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. Our gazes locked, and we froze for a moment, caught in the rightness of holding each other.
“God, Charlotte.” I didn’t know what else to say. Speechless didn’t sit well with me, but there was something about this woman that made it both easy and hard to know what to do. I didn’t want to push her too far too fast, and I didn’t want to lie to her or hide, so I did what I’d learned from years behind a bar observing people. I watched her face and waited for her to show me what she needed.
“I don’t want to come again without you. Please, Ford.” She spread her legs wider and pressed up against me, destroying the last vestiges of my control. “Fuck me.”
I wasn’t man enough to resist that kind of honest command. I didn’t want to be. Closing the breath of distance between us, I brushed a kiss to her lips, bracing myself when she arched into me, giving herself to the heat burning between us. With strength born from the promise of getting closer to her, I managed to break the kiss and sit up on my knees long enough to push my boxer briefs down my hips and off. A bead of precum glistened on the head of my cock and I fisted my length, starting an internal dialogue about going slow.
