He gets saucy now, just a little bit, his gaze darting from my eyes down my body. “You tell me, honeybee.”
I bite my lip. “You’re getting spicy, Garrik.”
He snorts. “Am I?”
“Oh yeah.” I tilt my head. “Used to be that when I said something suggestive, you’d blush from antennae to toes. Now you’re out here teasing me like you’re not well aware I’d let you do unspeakable things to me bent over the counter.”
His antennae twitch violently. Now he’sreallyblushing.
“Gotcha,” I tease.
“You’re relentless,” he mumbles.
“I just like seeing you like this.”
“How?”
I reach out to graze my fingers up his forearm. “Just…liking me. Wanting me.”
His eyes snap to mine, and for a beat, I see it all in his eyes. Not bashfulness, but…heat.Hunger.
A flicker of desperation.
He sets the knife down with care and turns to face me fully, like he’s finally giving in to the pull that’s been building all day. His broad chest rises with a slow inhale, arms bracing on either side of the counter as he leans in just a little, not touching me yet.
“I always wanted you,” he says, voice thick with restraint. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when it felt impossible.”
I suck in a breath.
His gaze drops to my thighs, then lifts again. Nothing’s visible…but he knows. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”
My cheeks burn. I shake my head.
Garrik exhales sharply. “Say the word, honeybee,” he murmurs. “And I’ll take you to bed right now. Dinner can wait. Everything can wait.”
But I shake my head, a smile curling my lips. “No.”
His whole body goes still. “No?”
I slide my legs apart just a little, just enough to tease. “Not to bed. Not yet.”
Garrik groans, the sound low and guttural. His antennae flick forward, searching, twitching like they’re just as desperate as I am.
I reach up and cradle his jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing the edges of his beard. “You said you were gonna feed me,” I tease.
“I was,” he growls, stepping between my knees. “I am.”
“You can’t tempt me with a nice dinner like this and not give it to me,” I chide, picking the knife up again and holding the tip to pass it to him. “Now—get back to chopping, chef.”
Garrik takes the knife from my hand, his fingers brushing mine—warm, a little rough, and shaking just slightly. Whether it’s restraint or anticipation, I can’t tell. Probably both. He doesn’t pull away right away, just lets our hands linger.
Then he clears his throat and says, “Well, if you’re going to tease me like that…you may as well help.”
“Oh?” I say, lifting a brow.
“Chop these,” he says, sliding a bowl of alien fruit toward me. “Thin slices. Think you can manage that?”
“Mm…I don’t know, seems pretty difficult,” I murmur, but I take the knife anyway.
