I couldn’t imagine facing this man on a football field.
But facing him here, I wanted nothing more.
He set the bottle on the island and turned toward me, his hand landing on my upper arm, dragging higher to my shoulder and eventually stopping on my neck.
A touch so subtle, yet my back arched.
I heard myself intake some air, but I didn’t feel it.
All I felt was him.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous.”
My heart was pounding out of my chest, his statement only making it beat faster.
Things from there happened so quickly, I couldn’t keep track of the steps, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting beside the bottle on the counter and he was standing in front of me.
Our faces were close.
His chest was goading me to touch it.
He lifted the scotch to his lips, taking several sips. “Are you hungry?”
It took a few moments before his question registered. “As in ... food?”
He laughed. “Yes, Emily, as in food.”
I’d been so fixated on him, none of my senses were picking up on anything else. But now I noticed the kitchen smelled incredible, a delicious combo of tomato sauce and meat.
My stomach growled.
“Ben eats early—too early for me. While he eats, I usually have a salad so I can do dinner with him, and I eat the main part of my meal later on. That was about to happen when he came bolting down the stairs with the button up his nose. So I shut off the oven, keeping the pizza in there. Are you up for having a slice?”
My brain wasn’t anywhere near the thought of ingesting food. Neither was my stomach, but maybe putting something in my mouth would tame the thoughts that were running through my head. “Sure.”
“It’s either you or pizza, but I fucking need to eat something.” He gave me a smile.
And when he turned around and went over to the oven, I completely lost it, dissolving into a pool of wetness on his counter.
He slipped his hand into a mitt, opening the door and removing a large pizza stone, placing it on top of the gas burners. “It’s homemade.” He looked at me over his shoulder. “Pepperoni, mushrooms, and jalapeños. You good with those toppings?”
I nodded. “Homemade—you’re saying you cook?”
As he turned back toward the stove, taking a plate out of one of the cabinets and a pizza cutter from a drawer, he replied, “I can. I’m actually pretty decent at it.” He placed a slice on the plate, put the rest of the pizza back in the oven, and brought the plate over to me. “Idon’t do it often. That’s only because I don’t have the time. If I didn’t work as much, I’d probably cook every night. I enjoy it. This, though, I didn’t make.”
I balanced the plate in front of me and lifted the slice. “Who made it?”
“I have a chef.”
My brain had immediately thought it was a woman in his life, even though he’d already confirmed he had no such thing. But of course he had a chef. The man was a billionaire.
“Goals.” I released a long sigh. “Honestly, that’s so dreamy.”
“It’s a time-saver. But you know, I’d rather do it myself. I love getting lost in tastes and smells and experimenting with different combinations.”
He made everything sound like a sex song.
“Now that’s a sight I’d like to see.” I chewed on my lip.
