“Are you all right?” Tom asks, the sound of his voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine as I place the pot on the stove and turn on the burner.
“You know, authors get such a bad rap for romance being unrealistic, but I can guarantee that if I told this story,”—I wavemy hand around—“I’d get just as many side-eyes as if I’d made it all up.”
I’m going for levity, but Tom’s expression doesn’t change. Concern is etched into the lines on his face, and for the first time since I met him, he looks tired.
“I think people believe what they want to believe. You can read an arguably terrible book and love it because it’s exactly what you needed at that time. It wasn’t a literary masterpiece, but it didn’t need to be.”
“I don’t think you’ll catch me retelling this story fondly.”
“Hey now,” he teases, closing the distance between us and settling his hands on my ass, his gaze skating to the opposite side of the island where he ate me out and then bent me over. “I willforeverthink of that counter fondly.”
I laugh and swat at his chest. “It’s nice to know under that tough exterior you’re still such a guy.”
His expression is wistful, his features softening as he presses a light kiss to my lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to truly enjoy anything—anyone—like this.”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” he asks, pulling me closer, the bulge in his pants impressive as he grinds me against him.
“That thing where you’re sexy andsweet.”
“You can’t tell anyone that,” he mumbles, his chest reverberating with quiet laughter.
“Don’t worry, I have no desire to fight off the hordes of women that would surely end up on your doorstep if they knew.”
“Hordes of women?”he repeats, his eyebrows moving up his forehead as he stares at me in disbelief.
“Yup,” I reply, popping thepfor emphasis. “Don’t you see how women look at you when you’re out in public?”
“You’re assuming I’m lookingfor attention, Kitten.”
The nickname sends a little zip of awareness straight to my core. I’d only been with one other guy who attempted to call me that, but I’d put a stop to that almost immediately. The way he’d said it was almost condescending, but we’d been young so immaturity was a factor.
Still, it always left me feeling icky.
Maybe I just needed the right guy to say it.
And now I found him.
I never knew you could make one word sound so possessive.
Gravelly.
A praising endearment, like I’m something special.
“What are you looking for?”
“Threats mostly,” he deadpans and I roll my eyes, the moment dissipating as the conversation takes a less suggestive turn.
“We’ll have to work on your flirting.”
“My flirting? You had no complaints last night about my flirting,if I remember correctly.” He pauses and adds, “Or this morning.”
“That’s not flirting; that’s sex.”
“I’m more of an actions over words guy,”—his smirk is wolfish—“and I was definitely flirting with your pussy when I had my tongue?—”
“Gah!” Shock and arousal bombard me like a system overload, and without thinking, I push up onto my toes and press my mouth to his.
