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She poked at the filets with a big, pronged fork.
It sizzled and popped as the juices bubbled free, and the blackened seasoning that coated it filled my nose.
My stomach rumbled.
“And just in the nick of time,” she teased.
God, did I love the way those hazel eyes frolicked and played and danced over me.
“What can I do to help?” It was a wonder I remained with the capacity to speak.
“Meems sent over some homemade mashed potatoes. I put them in the microwave to heat. Can you grab them?” She angled her head back to the door, black locks swishing around her shoulders.
“Yup.”
Had to peel myself from the spot to trudge back into the kitchen. I opened the microwave above the stove. Pulled out the casserole dish full of Meems’ famous potatoes.
Memories swam. She’d become my family, too. Had praised me like a grandmother would and tried to keep me on an honest path like a mother should.
Had taken care of me when I had no other place to go. Loved me when it should have been impossible to.
“Ahh, I think I slayed these.” Elena’s ridiculously sultry voice jolted me out of the trance. Or maybe the only thing I could hear, feel, and taste was sex.
The door clattered shut behind her. “They are juicy and plump and just begging to be devoured.”
No doubt, considering the only thing I could think about when she used those words was her perfect ass.
As I pulled out the casserole dish, I peeked to the side to find Elena strutting in, all kinds of proud as she carried a metal tray with two perfect steaks on top.
My gaze swept her delectable body. “Looks delicious.”
“Mmhmmm…” she drew out as she set them onto the island. “I know I burnt the last ones and all—okay, fine, you got me, I charred the beejebus out of them—but I turned the temp down on this and let them cook a little slower. I think I found the magic number.”
A stranger would think her attitude blasé, but I could feel the current skimming beneath the surface of her skin.
The extra heat that bubbled and simmered as she peeked over at me.
“I’m sure you did.”
Elena.
She was the magic number.
She edged around the island and moved to the cupboard over the main counter. Slower than normal, though I still felt her like a landslide.
A sand trap.
Pulling me in.
Just the tips of her fingers brushed over my outer thigh as she passed.
Flames ignited at the innocent contact.
Fuck. This was torture. Punishment for a motherfucking war crime.
She hiked up on her toes and pulled down two plates. “Let’s put it to the test, shall we?”
“How about you sit, and I’ll make you a plate?” I suggested.
