“You are a lot of things, sugar, but stupid doesn’t come even close to being one of them,” he tells me, and I melt a little more against him. “But now that it’s out in the open, can we try that again, properly this time?” At my nod, he smiles as he leans down, his lips a whisper away from mine, and I can feel his breath as he says, “I love you, Erin.”
The words and use of my real name make me shiver against him, and my eyes tear up as I reply something I never thought I’d get to say to another man for the rest of my life. “I love you too.”
“I know,” he sing-songs, giving me a cocky grin, and I’m grateful for his playfulness. He kisses me thoroughly then, and right when I’m just about to point out that yes, Emmy could get an Uber, he pulls away, giving me a swat on the ass and making me yelp before rounding the giant island in the center of his kitchen. He grabs a huge russet potato out of a basket on the counter, and I pull out one of the stools under the lip of the island to sit and watch his handiwork.
“For time’s sake, I’m going to do it in the microwave,” he says absently, almost like it’s a habit from speaking all the steps while he’s filming his show. All I can do is stare, watching his masculine grace as he fixes me lunch, the look of concentration on his face making my heart swell, knowing he’s making it for me with such care, even if it’s just a baked potato.
When he slides it across the white stone countertop, my jaw drops at the starchy masterpiece, and as the scent wafts up my nose, I feel hungry for the first time. He pulls out a drawer and hands me a fork then wipes his hands on the white towel slung over his shoulder.
I groan at the first bite. This isn’t some cheap steakhouse stuffed potato. I watched him grate this cheese, watched him whip up this fresh sour cream as the potato cooked in the microwave, and the butter came out of an unmarked container, hinting it wasn’t something he just bought from the grocery store. These bits of bacon didn’t come out of a package or a shaker. I got to witness his awesome knife skills again, like that day in my kitchen, as he diced a couple slices he pulled out of a block wrapped in white butcher paper.
“This is the best starchy potatoey starch I’ve ever eaten in my life,” I mumble around a mouthful, breathing in and out through my mouth to try to cool it off as I attempt to chew it. So unladylike, but goddamn. It’s fucking good and I don’t want to wait.
He grins, coming around the island to kiss me on the top of my head. “Lemme taste.”
I narrow my eyes up at him, shaking my head. “My carbs,” I growl.
He widens his eyes. “Woman, gimme a taste, or I will take it myself.”
I sit up straight, shifting in my seat haughtily. “Oh yeah, and how will you do that?” I challenge.
He leans over me, his towering height allowing him to look down on me even with me sitting on his bar stool. “Before you can even blink, I’ll have you across my knees and I’ll spank that tight little ass then use your back as my dining table.”
My eyes widen at that. “Kinky. I read an erotic novel like that once.” I dip my fork into the potato, making sure to get a little bit of each topping into the one bite before lifting the utensil to his lips.
“You like to read dirty books?” he asks before opening his mouth, using his perfect lips to slide the food off and onto his tongue.
I snort. “Is there a woman out there who doesn’t? Have you ever read one? Hotter than watching porn, because you can imagine for yourself what the people look like, even putting yourself in their place if you want.”
His eyes twinkle as he chews and watches me take a bite. “Men are more visual creatures, aren’t they, Ms. Psychologist?”
I shrug. “This is true.”
“Maybe they’ll make it into a movie and then we can both enjoy…?” he prompts, and he must mean the title of the book.
“Oh goodness. I don’t remember the title, because the author, Red Phoenix, has like eighty-four thousand hot-as-hell stories, but yeah. If they made them into a movie or series, I. Am. Here. For. It.” I emphasize each word with a tap of my finger to the end of his nose.
“So you like the potato? I think it needs salt,” he adds, reaching to the center of the island to grab the grinder full of pink salt crystals.