Aside from that. I’m leaving. Soon. I’m heading back to Atlanta in mere weeks.
I’d almost broached the subject last night after we shared another pricy bottle of Louis Latour. And as I lay in the grass cradled in his arms, I could feel the tension in him, the hesitation.
“Are we ever going to talk about this, Tobias?”
He turned me to face him, and I could see the revelation he was holding, but instead, he kissed me, stoking our fire higher to blind us both from the flaming truth.
Instead of protesting, of demanding a real conversation, I released my relieved breath onto his tongue and kissed him back.
And it’s here we remain selfish, untrusting, greedy.
What could possibly become of us?
But I gladly pay the price for every minute spent with him, because the alternative, our inevitable end is too crippling, too painful to acknowledge.
“I’m cooking,” he smarts, ripping me from my wayward thoughts, “so it’s the chef’s choice.”
“Well, I want cinnamon.” I search the spice rack and grab a bottle, breaking the seal.
“No cinnamon.”
“You’re so damn bossy.”
“Chalk it up to a side effect of my line of work,” he snarks, expertly whisking the batter into submission as I taunt him with the bottle.
“How about three shakes?”
He stills his movements and looks over to me, and I swear I see a bit of heat spread over his face. “Three swishes of the tumbler before you take a drink. Three taps of your toothbrush against the sink. Three flips of the bathroom light. Three flicks of your pinky before you move a chess piece. Three pumps of body wash. Happy three seems to be your number, Mr. Touch of Just Right OCD.”
I flip the top to the cinnamon as he sets my profile ablaze with his glare. I flick my eyes to his, a knowing smile on my lips. “You tried, Mr. King. You really did. You masked it as well as you could, but I didn’t miss it. And honestly, I find it endearing you have these tics.”
He raises a thick brow. His ink-black hair still drenched from our shower. And there’s very little more alluring than a soaking wet Tobias. I’d proven as much a few seconds after we stepped out of the shower.
Before I remembered my dream.
The raw stab the image produces has me wincing as I move toward him, shaking the bottle in taunt.
“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, slowly backing up.
“But I love cinnamon,” I push out my lower lip.
“That’s your problem.”
He cradles the bowl protectively away from me, still whisking as I prowl toward him.
“Don’t test me, woman.”
“Fine, I won’t put it in the food.”
“Glad you’re seeing things my way.” He watches me as I shake three dashes of the spice into my palm before I lift it, and blow. Tobias wheezes as a cloud of cinnamon covers the side of his face, momentarily blinding him. Cursing, eyes flaming with the promise of retribution, he slams the bowl down and lunges for me just as I leap out of reach. Giving chase, I barely manage to get through the back door and yelp when his fingertips brush my hip just as I clear it.
“You better fucking run,” he roars behind me as I sprint past the pool and dare to glance back. He’s hot on my heels, eyes dancing as he gives chase. I’m barely able to make it through the garden when he manages to hook me around the waist on the lawn.
I yelp his name when he twirls me around like a ragdoll, my feet dangling in the air before he lowers me to the grass and begins rooting into my neck as I choke on spicy fumes.
“Damnit man, you reek.”
“J’adore la cannelle,” I love cinnamon, he retorts snidely shaking the residual water in his hair across my neck and chest before coating me with the powder, creating a paste across my flesh as I frantically try to push him away. It’s when he pulls back that he robs my breath, his eyes bright, his smile so blinding, I shudder beneath him. It’s when my smile dims with the image that’s been screwing with me all morning that he draws his brows.