Lie (Betrothed 8)

“Because I’ve been fucking you for an hour, and I need sustenance—if you want me to keep going, at least.”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“What would you eat if I weren’t here?”

I propped myself up on one elbow so I could look down into his face. With my body turned his way, his hand went farther over my back to my shoulder, bringing me closer with a lustful look in his eye, as if he liked my body from this angle. “I don’t know. A sandwich? Maybe nothing at all.” I was used to men staring at me, wanting me, but no one had ever stared at me the way he did, like he was constantly attracted to me, constantly hypnotized by the way my lips moved when I spoke. This man was pumped with so much testosterone, he always wanted to fuck, even when he’d just finished.

“You would skip dinner?”

“Sometimes.”

His hand moved to my ass, and he squeezed my cheeks. “Baby, you need to eat. I love your body, and you need to take care of it.”

I noticed he called me baby all the time now, anytime he addressed me. A man had never called me that before because I’d never been in a relationship—not that this was a relationship, but it was a first for me. I felt right, and I couldn’t imagine him calling me anything else. “I have to keep my weight down for ballet. I told you that.”

“I don’t think eating dinner is going to sabotage your chances. Imagine how much more energy you would have if you ate properly.”

I rolled my eyes. “You aren’t my boyfriend, so don’t tell me what to do.”

His hand stilled on my back, and that aroused expression turned into something sinister. “No, I’m not your boyfriend because that’s pussy shit. I’m your man. And I will say whatever the fuck I want to say.” He amplified his statement by smacking me on the ass. “You need to eat.” He got out of bed and pulled on his boxers.

“What are you doing?”

“Making dinner.” He left my bedroom and walked into the kitchen.

I lay there for a while and listened to him move around pots and pans and open cabinets to see what he could throw together. I sighed to myself before I got out of bed and picked up a shirt from the floor. I pulled it over my head and removed my hair from underneath the neckline. I didn’t bother putting on a clean pair of underwear because I suspected he would fuck me before we even had dinner.

I went to the kitchen and joined him. “What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken Francese and spaghetti.” He placed the pot of water on the stove and turned on the heat so it would boil.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and placed my lips against his shoulder blades. “That sounds good. I have all the ingredients for that?”

“Yes. And you have lots of white wine.” He moved to the fridge to grab all the ingredients and started to cook in the pan.

I placed myself on the counter with my knees pulled to my chest as I watched him cook.

Sometimes his eyes would wander and look right between my legs.

“Do you mind?” I squeezed my thighs together.

“Not at all.” He gave a grin like a smartass and dropped the spaghetti noodles into the water. He moved to me and bent down so he could shove his face between my legs and kissed me. Kissed me hard.

I hadn’t expected it, so I grabbed the back of his head and arched my back as I released a loud moan. “Whoa…”

He pulled away and kept cooking like nothing had happened. He flipped the chicken, added more wine for the sauce, and then boiled the pasta in the separate pot.

I eyed the bottle on the counter. “Are you going to use the rest of that wine?”

He smiled and handed it to me.

I grabbed it and drank straight from the bottle. “You can whip this up without a recipe?”

“A recipe is like instructions, and a man doesn’t need instructions.”

He definitely didn’t need instructions on how to kiss me, that was for sure.

He stepped back and leaned against the kitchen island as he waited for everything to cook. With his arms across his chest, he looked at me, from my face to my pussy. “That shirt looks good on you.”

“Feels good too.” I raised the bottle and took a drink.

He looked at the food to make sure everything was working properly before he turned back to me, his blue eyes watching me like there was nothing more entertaining than seeing me drink from a bottle of wine.

“When are you going to invite me over to your place?”

“I’m surprised you’d want me to.”

“Why? I hope there’s more than just that basement.”