“I didn’t ask for dinner, Zio.”
“I know. Come here still.”
He was so fine and had this deep, cavernous voice, and the tone he used made me weak. I hated how easily I obeyed. I sashayed over, intending to use my body as a weapon to get us back to the bedroom, where things made sense.
I got close enough to smell his expensive cologne and inhaled. There was sweat in the crook of his neck, and I wanted it in my mouth. I loved the salty taste of him. I stopped right behind him, letting the heat from his body and the stove wrap around me like a blanket. I reached out, my palms flat against the white cotton of his tee, feeling the hard, rippling muscle.
Before I could wrap my arms around his waist, his hand reached out. He caught me gently by the throat and pulled me into a filthy, soul-searing kiss. His mouth tasted like champagne I couldn’t afford, but he drank for free. I sucked his tongue.
My brain went quiet. This I understood. This, I could work with.
My body answered on instinct. My nipples tightened. My panties turned wet, fast.
But suddenly he let me go.
I almost whined.
He stepped back, sliding the chef’s knife toward me, handle first.
“Take over the vegetables,” he said, his voice steady while mine was still caught in my throat. “I need to start cleaning the oxtails.”
I stared at the knife, then at his dick print in his chinos. “The what?”
“Oxtails and grits,” he said, moving toward the sink with meat wrapped in butcher paper. “You mentioned you wanted them.”
My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. Zio was a chef. A damn good one. People waited months for a table to eat his food, but in four years, he had never cooked for me. I never asked. Men cooked for their women. I wasn’t his woman.
Cooking was an act of service. It was an act of love.
“Zio, this is a step too far,” I whispered, gripping the knife tighter. “You don’t cook for me. That’s… that’s not what we do.”
“It’s what I’m doing tonight,” he said over the sound of running water.
And I thought, shit. He was being very authoritative that night. He was usually only that way in bed with me.
He didn’t look back when he continued to speak. “And while we eat, I want to talk to you about something.”
“Something like what?” My heart sped up.
He finally turned, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. It felt like it was about to get very adult in there.
“Like why you start acting funny every February,” he said.
My grip tightened on the knife. “I don’t. I just write a lot during that time.”
“You do, and you write a lot all the time, you don’t disappear completely.” he replied evenly.
I swallowed. I could hear my own pulse beating ugly. I was exposed. Was it my fault I didn’t want to be around people during this month. It didn’t even make sense that the shit was in February during Black history month.
“Why did it matter? I didn’t understand why this was a conversation we needed to be having. We didn’t check each other’s schedules.”
“I didn’t say need,” he said. “I said want to.”
I forced myself to look at him. His face was so readable. He was in his feelings, though. I could tell by his tone—he got that way sometimes.
“We said no feelings,” I reminded him. “No expectations.”
He nodded once. “We said no promises.”
