Dishing Up Love

“You just chill and let someone take care of you for once,” he tells me, and my heart does this weird little thump and dive I’ve never felt before, making me squirm.

I use my foot to hook the top rung of the stool and scoot it over to me to then place both feet on the seat, resting my elbows on my knees while I watch him work. His every movement is full of masculine grace, and it’s almost hypnotic, a calm settling over me as I take in the way his hands grip and flex, the way his forearms clench and relax, the way his back and shoulder muscles bulge beneath his white shirt.

I let out an unconscious sigh at the view, and when he looks at me over his shoulder, I blush just a little at the knowing expression on his face. I make a joke to cover up my sudden blip of embarrassment. “So, is this what they mean by wife porn? I totally get it. No wonder y’all leave this part out of the show. You’d have to change your rating to TV-MA, for mature audiences only. You’d lose your status as a family show for sure,” I ramble.

He chuckles. “I don’t normally wash my participants’ dishes. That’s one of Rachel’s jobs. You’re the first to get this royal treatment.”

My eyes widen at that. “I suppose that makes sense. You’re a big, fancy chef who has minions to do his dirty work. You sure you don’t want—”

His hands are full and covered in soap suds, so all he can do is narrow his eyes at me. “Don’t. Move. You need to relax.” After a beat and seeing my discomfort, he asks, “It’s like… physically paining you to let someone do something nice for you, isn’t it?”

I grimace. “It’s not that. I just feel guilty when someone else is doing work in front of me while I just sit there and do nothing.”

He seems to ponder on that for a moment before nodding once. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, there’s nothing else to be done, and there’s no room for your luscious little body over here, because mine takes up the whole sink area. So chill.”

My face heats for an entirely different reason this time, and I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips as I feel myself relax. The tension in my body melts as I sink down onto the stool to rest by back against the island, watching as he dries our bowls before putting them back in the cabinet where they go. The Instant Pot is next, and he searches out a spot to put it. He rearranges a few things on the counter next to the stove, placing the butcher block of knives on the other side of it to make room in the corner. And the Instant Pot finds its new home there, where I’ll think of Curtis Rockwell every time I see it when I enter my kitchen.

“Out of sight, out of mind, sugar. It’s going to live right here, so you might actually remember to use it,” he says, patting the top of it before he slowly prowls toward me. As he comes right up to me, my breath catches when he leans down, placing a hand on the counter on either side of me and bringing his face oh-so close to mine.

Is this when he’ll give me that kiss he threatened me with? Is this the moment he’ll erase the memory of every kiss I’ve ever had in my life, overshadowing all other intimate moments I can ever remember having and replacing them with the feel of his flawless lips on mine?

My eyes shutter, and everything disappears around me except for the man just inches away from me. When my lids completely close, all I sense is my breath rushing in and out of my lungs as I anticipate his kiss, all my nerves seeming to rush to my lips, awaiting the press of his mouth to mine. They’ve grown so sensitive I can feel his breath mingling with mine where the air passes through my slightly parted lips. I can barely stand the anxiousness of it all, adrenaline pumping through me as if I’m at the top of a roller coaster ride. I’ve never felt such excitement, not even at one of the Comic Cons Emmy and I attend, in line about to meet one of my celebrity idols.

Sorry, Jensen Ackles, but you’ve got nothing on the man currently hovering over me, making every hair on my body stand on end, my nerve endings doing the same, reaching toward him as if they all want to latch onto him Venom-style and never let go.

And just when I think I may come unglued and launch myself at him, he dips his head to the side and nuzzles my ear, making me shiver. “Our haunted tour awaits, sugar,” he whispers there, and my pussy clenches at the same time I want to cry out in frustration as he stands up straight, reaching his hand out for me to take. There’s an evil little glint in his eye I catch before he smothers it with his excitement. “You think they’ll tell the story about Kathy Bates’s character in American Horror Story?” he asks, spinning around as I take his hand before tugging me out of the kitchen.