Exactly, fuckface.My inner voice doesn’t hold back.You were supposed to fuck some random stranger and get Sloane out of your head.Except she’s already dug her way under skin and bone, and despite several tempting offers, none of the women who approached me tonight raised even the slightest interest. My dick stayed soft all night, and in the end, I gave up, frustrated and horny as hell, and came home to the one woman who only has to glance at me and my cock gets hard.
This could be a real problem.
I’m reminded of a conversation I had with Caleb, back when he was falling for Elisa, and he tried to fuck her out of his system to no avail.
I drag a hand through my hair and retract my wandering arm from the back of the couch. Fuck. I can’t let myself fall for Sloane. She’s not the one for me. The sooner I get that message through my thick skull, the better.
“Are you feeling okay?” Concern underscores Sloane’s tone as she yanks me out of my worrisome inner monologue. “You look a little flushed. Did you eat?”
“I had a late lunch but skipped dinner.” Loosening my tie, I pull it over my head, before unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt and running a hand around my neck.
“Stay right there.” Sloane hops up and disappears for a few minutes while I pause the movie. There’s still a decent amount left after the scene where Tommy got whacked.
Sloane returns holding a tray with a pasta bowl and silverware. “I saved you some dinner,” she says, setting the tray down in front of me. “It’s my first time making this recipe. I hope it’s okay.” She shuffles shyly on her feet. “It should fill the hole in your stomach at least,” she jokes. A pretty blush stains her cheeks.
“Thank you.” Leaning down, I sniff the steam rising from the bowl. “It smells delicious,” I truthfully admit.
A hypnotizing smile spreads across her decadent mouth, and we stare at one another for a few seconds.
“I’ll just grab you some water and a napkin,” she says before hurrying out of the room again.
I dive in, suddenly ravenous, and it’s pretty damn good for a first attempt. Sloane comes back, handing me a glass of water and a napkin. “This is really good.”
She positively blossoms with my praise. “I’m glad you like it,” she says, sitting beside me. I restart the movie and watch it while I eat. The instant I’m finished, she swipes the tray up, refusing to let me lift a finger. Dabbing my mouth with the napkin, I watch her leave the living room, thinking a guy could get used to having her around the place.
* * *
I come home early on Thursday night, wanting to spend some time with my son before bedtime. I hadn’t called Sloane to let her know, wanting to surprise Elio, but I’m the one surprised when I step foot in the penthouse. My nostrils twitch at the scent of vanilla and butter in the air as I unbutton my coat and hang it up. High-pitched squeals come from the direction of the kitchen, and the sounds of racing footsteps tickle my eardrums as I approach the room.
“You’re too slow, Slowpoke Sloane,” Elio shouts in between giggling.
“No, don’t,” Sloane cries before dissolving in a fit of laughter.
I stop in the doorway, amusement covering my face when I see the state of the place. The counter is littered with the evidence of baking, and there is flour everywhere. It’s sprinkled on every surface and dotted all over the floor. Elio and his nanny are engaged in a tickling contest on the floor, and they are both coated with flour and what looks like dough on their clothes and in their hair.
“Having fun without me?” I inquire, walking toward them with a big smile on my face.
“Daddy!” Elio shucks out of Sloane’s arms and heads toward me.
“Elio, no!” Sloane warns, but it’s too late.
My son barrels into me, wrapping his sticky flour-coated arms around my legs. White handprints mark my black pants, but I couldn’t care less. It’ll wash out.
“I’m sorry, Cristian.” Sloane stands before me, cringing as she surveys the mess Elio has made of my pants.
“Don’t be. I like seeing my son having fun.”
“Even if we made a mess of your kitchen, ourselves, and your pants?”
“Kitchens, people, and pants can be cleaned.”
“We made torch cookies!” Elio squeals.
“Torcetti,” Sloane confirms with a smile. “They should just be done,” she adds, her steps hastening toward the stove as she glances at the clock.
“I’m surprised any made it into the oven,” I quip.
“We were supposed to be making biscotti next, butsomeonethought it would be a good idea to have a flour fight instead.” She eyeballs Elio with nothing but pure joy on her face.
