He’s cold, hard, and impatient—three things you can’t be with a kid. But then I realize there isn’t a whole lot that I know about him if I’m to be truthful with myself. Yet, here I am, in the home of a man who’s basically a stranger.
He turns after securing us inside, catching me staring. But I don’t look away, I couldn’t if I wanted to. It’s the way he’s staring at me, a combination of lost and lust brimming in his eyes. It’s the same way he looked at me the night I walked in on him hurting that man, an expression that isn’t much different from the one he sported while fingering me in that office.
“Why did you bring me here?” I say after a swallow.
“Shoes.” He nods to my feet while slipping out of his expensive dress Oxfords and dropping my keys on the side table near the door.
For the first time, I notice his flooring. It’s hardwood and well-kept, just like he usually is. The thought brings me back to his disheveled appearance, and questions stir in my mind. But I don’t ask them because the one thing I do know about this man, is that he will not respond to them.
I remove my sneakers and set them next to the door along with my bag. Once I’m upright again, he holds a hand out to me, and I take it.
“Have you eaten?” He guides me through the opening that leads from his living room to an open kitchen.
“I had a salad earlier.”
“That’s not food,” he adds blankly.
We stop in front of the island, a sleek design with matte black wood and a contrasting white marble surface, a style that stretches through the entire kitchen aside from the stainless-steel appliances.
“It’s plenty enough.” I bring my eyes back to him.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles, bringing a smile to his lips. It’s lopsided and subtle, but it’s there nonetheless. I chuckle in response, shaking my head to keep from saying anything.
“Sit. I’ll feed you—real food.”
I saunter to one side of the island, taking up residence in one of the backless, bowl-shaped stools. Easton remains on the other side, bending down to remove a cast-iron skillet from one of the cabinets.
“You’re going to cook?” The surprise is evident in my tone because yet again, he throws me off.
He huffs, another tiny smirk threatening to come through. Easton washes his hands and dries them on the cloth he keeps on a hook near the stove that’s mounted into the wall next to the microwave.
“And what…that’s hard for you to believe?”
Classic Easton, answering a question with a question.
“You’re just—yes, it is hard for me to believe. All of this is.” I wave my arms around, twisting and turning. “This isn’t what I expect of you.”
“Are you thirsty?” is all he says.
I nod, almost as if I’m used to this by now. There will never be a straight answer with him.
Easton removes two tumblers from his cupboard then strolls to the freezer to fill them with ice cubes. After pouring two finger widths of brown liquor into both glasses, he returns the bottle to the stylish drink tray resting at the corner of his countertop.
“Thank you,” I mutter and accept the drink.
Easton brings his to his lips, watching me over the brim. My nerves flutter at that, and I blink and point my eyes toward the ceiling while taking a sip of my own. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does, and I’ve certainly never had my body react to anyone the way it does to him.
When I look at him again, my gaze falls to his rings—one on each finger—all equally expensive. My mind trails back to the other night, and I lick my lips involuntarily. I only realize that I do because he taps his finger on the island, his stare more intense when our eyes meet again.
“Do you like steak?”
I chuckle to push away the nervous energy now flowing through me. “Who doesn’t?” I shift in my seat and take another swallow of the amber liquid.
“So why are you surprised by me cooking?” He opens the fridge, retrieves a clear Tupperware container, and sets it on the counter. Next, he removes a thing of asparagus, a bag of small red potatoes, and a bunch of other items.
I try to piece together the meal in my mind based on everything he’s gathered. Really, it’s an attempt to keep my mind busy, because even though he’s changed the subject, my pussy still throbs from memories of what he did to me while wearing those rings. He clears his throat, and I shake my head in response.
“You don’t strike as a man who knows his way around the kitchen. I guess I imagine you being one to eat out, or—” I pause for a second, and he stops, waiting for me to finish. “There’s some woman you have at your beck and call to prepare your meals.”
