Jesse (Damage Control 2)

I cling to him, riding along the waves of his release, wondering if one can die of pleasure, and all the while what he said rings inside my head in a loop, deafening any other thought.

“Fucking love you.”

He doesn’t mean it. He barely knows me, and besides, it’s just sex talk. Bet he says that to all the girls. Bet he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Bet he won’t remember it in five minutes.

But I will.

***

“What are you making?”

His voice behind me startles me enough that I drop the towel I’m using to dry my hands. I turn around quickly and lean back against the kitchen counter.

“Breakfast.” I swallow against my nervousness, my palms slipping on the counter edge. “You know, what people eat in the morning.”

His mouth tilts up in a sexy grin, and I have to consciously close my gaping mouth and drag my gaze away—but man, a half-naked Jesse live in my kitchen sure is a breathtaking sight. In the slanting morning light pouring through the window, his bare chest seems cast in gold and copper, the sculpted muscles of his arms look unreal. He’s wearing his baseball cap backward, and with his eyes gleaming as he takes in the signs of my cooking efforts spread over th

e table, he looks achingly young and happy.

Also damn hot, and I resist the urge to fidget and giggle. Giggle! Me. No way. After all, we did spend the night together, and I’ve kissed my way down his awesome body, tasted him, had him inside of me.

No giggling is allowed, and I should look as relaxed and laid back as he is. Only problem is, he’s probably done this a million times—slept with a girl and then proceeded to act as if nothing has happened. Okay, so he said he’s never done this before, this sleeping-in-a-bed, taking-the-time-to-lick-and-taste thing, but can I trust him?

Not sure, no matter how cute he is. How devastatingly handsome he is.

Crap.

“Can you show me?” He lets his arms fall loosely to his sides, and my gaze dips to his low-slung, faded jeans. This isn’t one of the pairs we bought together. Nope, these are old and soft, worn almost transparent in places. One big rip shows me his tanned knee.

How can I be ready to jump back into bed with him when I was in his arms—and pinned underneath him, writhing in pleasure—less than an hour ago? He’s turning me into a nympho.

Totally his fault.

“It’s a recipe my dad likes to make when I’m home.” And speaking of which, I should call them, see how they’re doing. They were thinking about coming to visit. “It’s breakfast muffin cups.”

“Sweet, huh?” He leans over the bowl where I’ve mixed the ingredients. “Like cake?”

“No, these are salty. You make the basic mixture with flour and eggs and milk, but you can add cheese and ham and bits of dried tomato. Never had them?”

“Show me how to make them.” He’s looking at me eagerly, his eyes shining. “I wanna learn.”

I open my mouth to ask if he’s kidding me—boys in my experience aren’t really into cooking—but I recall what he told me, about having a kitchen for the first time and wanting to learn how to prepare food.

“Sure. I’ll show you.” I grab the silicon baking molds and the spoon, then gesture for him to take a seat. “I can give you the ingredients and quantities. You mix them up well, and then you preheat the oven. Pour the mixture into these molds,” I demonstrate, filling one after another, “shove them into the oven and wait until they turn golden and crispy on top.”

“Let me try.” He reaches for the bowl and spoon, and I pass them to him. He fills the molds, his eyes lighting up in delight.

I turn my face away. Weird how this moves me. I get a feeling I’m seeing a side of him nobody has ever seen. That he has let down his defenses and is trusting me not to mock him.

If anyone can understand that fear, it’s me.

We put the cups into the preheated oven, and as soon as I turn around, he backs me up against the counter, his warm breath ghosting over my mouth.

“I have to go to Damage Control,” he says, and it takes me a moment to understand the words, fixated as I am on the green-blue of his eyes and the shape of his body pressed to mine. “Training. Zane wants to talk to me, too.”

That’s it, I think dazedly. This is when he says I’ll be seeing you around, that we can be friends and it was nice, thanks. Maybe that’s why he’s been showing me this disarmingly boyish side of him. He wants to be friends with me.

Not that this makes a lick of sense—I mean, why the heck would a guy as sexy and popular as Jesse want to be friends with me?—but my brain is off to la-la land with him so close and personal and in my space.