Had Beck really lost interest that quickly?
Guess you’re not as special as you thought.
It’s for the best, I decided, then my brain melted again when he pulled an apron out of a cabinet and tied it on.
Crap! He was so sexy!
The scene combined my two favorite things: cooking and hot guys.
There was another quizzical look from Beck.
Unfortunately, there was no flirting smile and definitely no lust. Believe me, I looked. That morning before work, I had even cleaned everything up just in case he did decide he couldn’t contain himself.
But I was the one losing control. After eating the rest of my Chinese, I had lain in bed awake last night, listening for him to come walking down the hall, half wishing he would come into my room and finish what he had started. I desperately needed to feel his hands on me.
Now here we were in the kitchen, me watching him elegantly forming hamburger patties.
“You should um…”
He raised an eyebrow.
I swallowed. “Stuff those with onions and cheese.” I pointed. “Really turns it up a notch.”
“Like stuff it inside?” he asked.
“No,” I said, washing my hands then taking the hamburger patty from him. Our fingers barely grazed, but his touch sent a jolt down to my hoo-ha. Then my brain helpfully decided to add the soundtrack of Beck saying he wanted to put his tongue in my pussy.
We are having a wholesome family cookout, I scolded myself.Keep it together.
I grabbed some of the onions I had been chopping and selected a few cubes of cheese then mixed them together into the patty.
“Ta-da!” I said. “You bite into that, and it’s juicy and hot and has a little surprise.”
“Sounds like what I wanted to eat last night,” he said, voice lowering like ten freaking octaves.
Oof. So he did remember and was apparently still interested.
Feeling hot and bothered, I busied myself in the kitchen while Beck made the rest of the hamburgers, some plain, some with cheese.
I laid out platters for people to build their own burgers. I neatly fanned out American cheese, which was far superior because it melted nicely, along with pepper jack and cheddar slices for the heathens. I shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes as the pile of burgers next to Beck grew ever taller.
And longer! And thicker!
Beck looked over at the platter I had assembled.
What? Who, me? I’m not thinking about your cock, no sirree!
“I have a jar of pickles in the fridge.”
“Is that what that was?” I asked with a frown. “I thought it was Enola’s science experiment.”
“They’re homemade, fermented pickles,” Beck retorted, taking the jar filled with large cucumbers floating in brine out of the fridge.
“Pickles are gross,” I said flatly.
“Have you even had a homemade pickle?”
“I don’t like pickles. They are squeaky and taste like plastic. I’d rather eat salt-and-vinegar potato chips.”
