I’d dropped the kids over to Linc after work, stopped at the supermarket to buy the ingredients to cook dinner for us, and had arrived here about an hour ago. He’d given me a key to the place two days ago and told me to use it whenever. I’d told him I really wasn’t sure when that would be since he didn’t have any furniture in the place, to which he’d called me a smartass and told me he would buy some. That had caused butterflies in my tummy and that in turn had resulted in him receiving a blowjob he’d loved so much that he had then proceeded to fuck me for three hours straight. Needless to say, Tuesday had been a long, exhausting day at work.
I looked up from my laptop and eyed him, noting the tension lining his face. “It’s Taylor Swift. Surely you’ve heard of her.”
He put the beer he’d bought in the fridge and came to me. Placing his hand on the back of my neck, he bent and dropped a kiss on my lips before continuing on his way out to the living room. “Never fucking heard that song, and never fucking wanna hear it again,” he said as he moved.
I smiled.
All was good in my world.
My man was his usual moody self, my kids were with their father, my sister was with her guy, my mum was out on another date with the library dude, and I had just figured out how to perfect a lemon cheesecake that had given me grief the last time I tried to make it. King would benefit from that on Saturday night, and then I would benefit from him being happy. It turned out he had a sweet tooth. And it turned out that I could get him to do all kinds of shit when that sweet tooth was satisfied.
I shuffled the playlist, and a One Direction song came on. Grinning, I called out, “Is this one better?”
He didn’t reply, but when he entered the kitchen again a couple of minutes later, he said, “Your taste in music is shit. Anyone ever told you that?”
“Only every guy I’ve ever dated.” His features darkened, reminding me of his demand I never mention another man to him again. I’d momentarily forgotten. Shit. In an effort to shift his thoughts from that, I said, “Who’s your favourite band?”
My gaze dropped to take in his change of T-shirt into a clean, white tee. I’d never seen King wear white before. It kinda threw me, but in a good way. He’d also taken his boots off and walked barefoot towards me. I loved it when he wore no shoes. I felt like it showed his relaxed state, and that was a state I wanted him in a lot more. I didn’t like the idea of my man stressing over shit all the time.
When he reached me, he slid onto the barstool beside me at the breakfast bar. “Is this gonna be twenty questions?”
I smiled as I ran my fingers through his long hair that had fallen across his face. It reached just below his beard now, and I had to admit, it did good things to me. I’d never been into this kind of haircut on a man before, but on King, I loved it. “Will you play with me?”
His eyes searched mine. “Twenty is a fuckload. Hit me with five.”
“You play hard to get.”
“Metallica.”
“Does that mean I only have four left?”
“Yeah, and you’re running out of time.”
Shit, I had so many questions that my brain scrambled to pick the best. In the end, I decided to keep this light and fun. The deeper stuff could wait. I wasn’t convinced he was in the mood for it tonight. “Favourite meal?”
He didn’t have to stop to think about it. “Your roast chicken and that gravy you make with it.”
Oh God, he was trying to kill me here.
“Favourite number?”
“Who the fuck has a favourite number?”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
“Seven.”
“And what the fuck makes it your favourite?”
“It’s my lucky number.”
“How the hell is a number lucky, Lily?”
“I choose it when I put the Lotto in or when I have to take a number at the butcher or—”
“You don’t just take the number at the front?”