I laid a piece of deli paper on the muffuletta and set the skillet on top of that, pressing slightly to make sure it wouldn’t slide off.
“Don’t tell me there’s some kind of waiting period before we can eat,” she said, peering doubtfully at the skillet sandwich tower.
“What would give you a silly idea like that?”
“Precedent.” She leaned against the counter and took a sip from her glass of wine.
I tried to at least pretend to divide my attention between the food and her lips.
“It would be better if it sat a bit so the olive salad could soak into the bread, but...” I raised my hand at her groan of protest. “It will be delicious right now. Plates?”
I knew where they were. But if she was getting them instead of biting her lip and watching me like I was combination puzzle and praline, I stood a better chance of keeping my hands to myself. At least, that had been the plan until I watched her stretch to get the white French country plates from the cupboard. Her body made a long gorgeous line as she reached up and her skirt raised high enough to reveal the backs of her thighs. And shift my thoughts to how easy it would be to slide my hand along all that creamy flesh. To cup the curve of her ass and pull her back against me.
I’d twine our fingers together and stretch her body tighter, pressing the length of my cock against the valley of her ass. Jesus. I was so fucked.
I’d had such a simple plan: spend the day together, assemble sandwiches, eat, and leave while she still wanted more. Charlotte and sex was effortless. Intimacy was something else. Something we’d danced around the edge of without ever consciously acknowledging.
For me to get what I wanted, that had to change. And it meant no matter how much I wanted her, I’d be better served by keeping my hands to my fucking self. I turned back to the sandwich, removing the skillet about an hour too soon for maximum deliciousness. Couldn’t be helped. This time, I was the one who had to keep things moving before I did something stupid. I pulled off the deli paper and cut the round into four pieces.
“Taste it and tell me what you think.” I slid a wedge of muffuletta onto each of the plates she held, taking one for myself.
I waited, watching until she took the first bite. Her eyes went wide and then drifted closed in an expression I was getting addicted to seeing.
“You win. This is so much more than a sandwich.”
“Can you say that first part again, cher? I don’t think I heard you.”
“You were right. About the muffuletta.” She stretched the syllables in a way that made her even more adorable, something I didn’t think possible. “If you’d asked me earlier, I would have said that was unlikely. I’d have been wrong. Seriously, Ford, this bread is amazing. Light and soaked through to the crust with yummy olive juice, but nothing like mushy white bread. And the mortadella is melt-in-your-mouth delicious.”
Seeing the way Charlotte dissected the flavors without diminishing them was rapidly becoming one of my favorite things. The woman paid attention to everything and when she let herself go, she experienced pleasure with a single-minded focus I could easily become addicted to.
I took a bite of my sandwich, smiling as the briny olive salad hit my tongue, cutting the richness of the mortadella and cheese. She was right. It was the perfect combination of flavors, and the Barolo, with its dry, rich finish, enhanced everything. I made quick work of my wedge and debated a second, but I didn’t want to give my sadist trainer an excuse to add bear complexes to tomorrow morning’s workout. Better to put things to right in the kitchen and head out. Regardless of how much I wanted to stay with Charlotte.
––––––––
FORD HAD DONE it again. Provided a completely unexpected experience, finished with something unexpectedly delicious. Or maybe not unexpected at this point. The man had skills—in the bedroom and out. There were times I caught him watching me and the heat between us was palpable. Not that I was complaining, although it made it harder to keep the lines between the cooking and the other things we were doing together separate. Which was the plan and still what I wanted. Most of the time. Watching him pack up the muffuletta ingredients and tuck them into my barren refrigerator made me sure of one thing.
I wasn’t ready for him to go.
“You don’t have to do that. I can get it,” I said, not ready to come clean and tell him I wasn’t ready for him to leave.
“Don’t be silly. Finish your sandwich. I’ve got this. Don’t forget to toast the leftover bread for your breakfast in the morning.”
He pinned me with his gaze and my breath caught in my throat. The way he looked at me made me wonder if he’d had the same thoughts of sharing breakfast I had. And everything that came before. This man had me so twisted up. I didn’t know what I was doing. That wasn’t a feeling I was used to or one I was comfortable with. The only thing I was certain of was that I wanted him to stay. I wasn’t certain I wanted to tell him that, but I could cross that bridge later if I had to.
He finished stowing the leftovers and I watched him move around my kitchen, doing small tasks in preparation to go. He reached for the bag of pralines, either to eat one or to stash them in my pantry for later. I didn’t wait to find out which. I snagged the bag from his fingertips and grabbed my glass of wine.
“Want to watchDiscovery of Witches?” I walked to the other room and picked up the remote before I had a chance to consider my actions or his reaction.
When I turned to see whether he’d followed me, I found him settling himself in the corner of the sofa, as if he belonged there.
“Come here. Let me hold you, cher.” Looking much too sure of himself, he held his arm out, making space for me next to him.
I debated for a fraction of a second before giving in to what I wanted. I didn’t know when—or hell, if—I was going to get enough of Ford. Sex with him was more intense than anything I’d experienced before. It felt like it needed a different word. But after spending the day watching him with people who knew him—people who loved him—I just wanted to be close to him. To lean against him and share a little bit of time that neither of us orchestrated.
Still holding my wine and clutching the bag of pralines, I settled on the sofa next to him. He wrapped his arm tighter around me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before reaching for the waxed paper bag of nuts. The tenderness of the gesture, coupled with the offhanded way he munched the nuts, threw me completely off-balance. There was an intimacy in his actions that made it so easy to cuddle in next to him and press play.
Two episodes later, and my wine glass was empty and the pralines long gone. Thelight had shifted from afternoon to the slanted beginnings of evening, and the image on the TV had the judgy nerve to ask if we were still watching.
