His tongue traced a path that made my knees buckle and my fingers grip the counter so hard, my knuckles turned white. When he slid two fingers inside me, curling them with a precision that should not have been legal, I stopped thinking about the sauce entirely.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and simmering tomatoes and basil, and I came apart on his tongue while the bread rose on the counter beside us.
Afterward, he stood, licked his fingers clean, and pressed a kiss to my forehead like he’d just helped me reach something on the top shelf.
“No more,” I breathed, pushing gently at his chest. “Until dessert.”
His eyes darkened. “My dessert will be you.”
“Your dessert will be whatever I decide it is. Now sit down before I burn something.”
True to his word, he let me finish. He stayed in his chair, though I caught him shifting more than once, his jaw tight, his eyes tracking every move I made like I was something he needed to memorize.
I plated everything with more care than I’d taken with a meal in years. Golden chicken Parmesan with melted mozzarella bubbling at the edges. Spaghetti tossed in the sauce I’d spent two hours babying. Thick slices of garlic bread glistening with butter.
I set the plate in front of him and stepped back, my heart doing something stupid and fluttery in my chest.
Knox looked at the plate. Then at me. Then back at the plate.
He picked up his fork. Cut into the chicken. The crunch of the breading gave way to tender, juicy meat, and he brought the first bite to his mouth.
And closed his eyes.
The sound he made was low and rough, pulled from somewhere deep. The genuine, unfiltered reaction of a man tasting somethingrealfor the first time in years.
When he opened his eyes, they were brighter than I’d ever seen them.
“Oh my God.” He took another bite before he’d finished the first, like his body couldn’t wait. “Is this what real food is supposed to taste like?”
We’d been living off of the basics and DoorDash for days, but this was the first official homemade meal I’d cooked.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying very hard not to cry. “Do you like it?”
“Do Ilikeit?” He stared at me like I’d asked if the sun was warm. “Harper, if you make this for me every night, I will literally do anything you want.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Anything?”
“Anything. Dishes. Every night. Foot rubs on demand. Name what you want.”
“Watch a rom-com with me. No falling asleep. No commentary about plot holes.”
He hesitated. Just barely. “Definecommentary.”
“No talking.”
“Can I make facial expressions?”
“Minimal.”
“Done.”
“Let me pick the music in the car. Permanently.”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
I laughed, and he grinned at me, and the kitchen felt warmer than any oven could make it. He took another bite and shook his head slowly.
“I forgot food could make you feel like this,” he admitted.
