What Grows Dies Here

So yeah, my relationship with food and my body hadn’t been the greatest, but I was working on it.

And I didn’t think once about carbs or calories as I wolfed down two bowls of mac and cheese. Nor did I think about doing such a thing in front of a man I’d just slept with. Women were supposed to nibble at salads and poached chicken on first dates, according to popular culture and society, at least.

But I was never one to act as a woman was supposed to act, and this couldn’t exactly be classed as a ‘first date.’

We were silent as we ate. I’d opened a bottle of wine as Karson cooked and handed him the glass, trying not to drool at his body. His eyes had flickered hungrily down the length of mine, which made my stomach do a little flip.

He moved fluidly in the kitchen, sure of himself in his movements, not asking me where a fucking thing was, finding things on the first try.

My kitchen was mostly for show—the extent of my ‘cooking abilities’ were putting together a kick-ass cheeseboard. The chef’s oven, sleek marble countertops, large fridge and various gadgets were there because most people spending tens of millions of dollars on houses wanted everything top of the line, for everything to scream money.

Although I liked it well enough, sometimes I dreamed of a cozy little cottage with delightfully cluttered counters and a warmth that my cavernous stone kitchen could never omit.

My mind flickered to Karson’s little cottage by the beach. Him cooking us dinner, the sounds of the waves traveling through open doors, me perched on the breakfast bar, watching him cook, sipping an ice-cold cocktail. I quickly pushed that little fantasy away.

I should’ve pushed the fact that this was just going to be sex between us, but I couldn’t find it in me to puncture the compatible silence, to ruin it. I could linger here, if only for tonight.

After eating, we both did the dishes, again in companiable silence. The night crept closer to morning by the time we were done, and I found myself growing increasingly anxious about the coming sunrise.

I wanted more of Karson, without whatever bullshit I’d no doubt conjure in the daylight. Not just more sex—although I certainly wanted more of that too. I wanted to know where he learned to make such excellent mac and cheese. I wanted to eat more of the food he made me. Wanted to know the history of each and every one of his scars.

Mostly, I wanted to know how he became who he was in this moment, what brought him to my living room in the middle of the night.

Which was where we had ended up once more. The bottle of wine sat on the coffee table, our glasses on either side. Our clothes were still strewn about on the floor—if you could call ruined French silk, clothes. Karson didn’t seem to have any inclination to put on any clothes, and I definitely wasn’t mad at that.

We didn’t nestle into one another on the sofa, didn’t cuddle. Though the idea of curling up on his chest, having those strong arms around me was incredibly tempting. I wanted to stare at him, wanted to drink in all of him. We sat close, very close, so I could smell sex on his skin, so his scent was mingled in with every breath I took.

I could’ve waited for him to speak. Could’ve told myself to create some kind of narrative about his silence, turn it into a game, a power struggle. Such a thought was sour in my mind. Karson was not about games. That was why he came here tonight. Because he wanted me, and he wasn’t going to fuck around making it known.

So I wasn’t going to play games either, no matter how unfamiliar that seemed.

“What’s your villain origin story?” I asked, settling down amongst the cushions, crossing my legs, not self-conscious about being totally naked. I was self-conscious about plenty of other things in my life—things no one knew about—but nakedness was not one of them.

Karson’s eyes traveled along my bare skin with hunger, reverence, despite all the things he’d just done to me less than an hour ago.

My stomach skipped—even after everything he’d done to me. A blush crept up my neck.

A fucking blush.

I didn’t think I was capable of doing that.

But here was a man who made me realize nothing was impossible, not with him.

“My villain origin story?” he repeated.

The low, raspy tenor of his voice tinged with amusement caused my pulse to skip even faster, but I tried to stay on task. Speaking was out of the question, so I took another sip and nodded.

“You think I’m a villain?” he asked, taking a sip of his own wine.

There was something innately sexy about a big, muscled, macho man sipping a glass of wine, holding the stem delicately with the same hands that had gripped onto me, bruising my very bones.

“Of course, you’re a villain,” I told him, meeting his eyes. “There’s no other way you’d be so interesting to me. Prince Charming is so fucking predictable.” I rolled my eyes. “And I’ve dated actual princes.”

The fact that I was still technically dating a prince didn’t linger in my mind.

“They are nothing like the stories. And even if they were, what ... save the damsel, slay a dragon, ride off into the sunset? Snore.” I smiled at him. “I’m not after a ride into the sunset and certainly don’t need you to slay any dragons for me. Villains keep things interesting. And I have it on good authority that they fuck better than any prince can.”

Though I didn’t know Karson near well enough to predict what kind of reaction he was going to have about my assessment that he was a villain, I knew I’d see the flare of his eyes when I talked about fucking.