The fork I'm holding freezes halfway to my mouth. The double meaning isn't lost on me, especially with the way his eyes are practically devouring me instead of his food.
"You should eat," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless. "Before it gets cold."
Ramsey finally picks up his fork, but the way he does it—slow, deliberate, like he's got all the fucking time in the world—makes my thighs clench together under the counter.
He spears a piece of salmon, bringing it to his mouth with excruciating slowness. His lips part, and I watch, transfixed, as he slides the food into his mouth. Then he closes his eyes and fucking moans.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, squirming on my barstool.
His eyes snap open, catching me staring. "Problem?"
"Nope. No problem." I stuff a sweet potato fry into my mouth, nearly choking on it in my haste.
Ramsey takes another bite, this time dragging his fork slowly out between his lips, his tongue darting out to catch a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, his throat working as he swallows.
"Fuck, that's good," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower.
I press my thighs tighter together; the pressure does absolutely nothing to relieve the ache building between them. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
He takes a sip of water next, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. A drop escapes, sliding down his neck, and I find myself tracking it with my eyes, wanting to lick it offhis skin.
"You're staring," he points out, that cocky smirk growing wider.
"You're being weird," I shoot back, stabbing another piece of salmon with more force than necessary.
Ramsey just shrugs, then proceeds to eat a forkful of rice in a way that should be fucking illegal. He actually licks his lips afterward, his tongue moving in a slow, deliberate circle.
"Do you always eat like you're auditioning for food porn?" I ask, my voice higher than usual.
He raises an eyebrow. "Do you always watch people eat like you want to climb them like a tree?"
Heat rushes to my face. "I don't—that's not—fuck you."
"Is that an offer?" he asks mildly, spearing another piece of salmon.
This time when he brings it to his mouth, he closes his eyes again, letting out a deep, satisfied groan that sounds way too much like sex. His tongue darts out to lick the tines of his fork clean, and I swear to god my pussy clenches in response.
"Can you not?" I blurt out, shifting uncomfortably on my seat.
His eyes open, feigning innocence even as his lips twitch with amusement. "Not what?"
"Eat like that. Like you're...you know."
"Like I'm what, Reese?" he presses, his voice dropping an octave. "Use your words."
"Like you're fucking," I hiss, heat flooding my cheeks.
He laughs, the sound deep and rumblingas he deliberately runs his tongue along the length of his fork again, eyes locked on mine.
"Holy shit, I cannot take another minute of you fucking your fork," I explode, slamming my hands on the counter and standing up. "I'm just gonna go anywhere else but here."
Ramsey's laughter follows me as I stomp to the living room, my cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. I throw myself onto the couch, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest like it might somehow protect me from the throbbing between my legs.
"You know," his voice calls from the kitchen, "running away doesn't solve anything."
"Neither does food pornography at the dinner table. You’re such an asshole," I shout back, burying my face in the pillow.
I hear his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving toward me. The couch dips as he sits down at the opposite end, and I peek out to see him watching me with those intense blue eyes, the corner of his mouth still quirked up in amusement.
