Dishing Up Love

“I’d love that too,” I whisper, “but one, we don’t have time before we’re supposed to go to dinner. And two, you’ll be happy to know I’m actually feeling a teensy bit hungry.”

He pulls back at that, searching my face, and when he sees whatever it was he was looking for, determination takes over his gaze. “Right,” he rumbles. He looks around me into the sink, grabs my blush and shockingly the right brush, and opens it up the compact. He dabs a little on the brush, and then to my utter amazement, he strokes it gently along my cheekbones. At my wide-eyed look, he prompts, “What?” And then finishes off the other cheek.

When he closes up the blush and reaches around me once more for the mascara I hadn’t finished, he tells me to close my eyes, and I do as he says, too flabbergasted to do anything more.

“You’re… you’re doing my makeup right now,” I point out stupidly.

He applies the mascara flawlessly to my lashes, not a smudge out of place, and when I open my eyes, I see him reaching for my lip gloss. “Open,” he orders, pulling the wand out of the tube, and my jaw drops without question. He smirks at that. “Gotta remember that for later. Such a good girl when I order you around, huh?” When my face never morphs from my astonishment, he finally gives in to my unspoken questions. “Sugar, I’ve gotten my makeup done nearly four or five times a week for the past decade. You don’t think I’ve picked up a few things with that many hours in a makeup chair?”

When he lifts a brow and demonstrates me pressing my lips together, I mimic his action. At his, “There. Fucking beautiful,” I turn around on the counter to peek into the mirror. Subtle highlights of color, just enough to take away my paleness from being queasy most of the day, make me look like I have a healthy glow, and I whip around to stare up at him once again.

“Is there anything you’re not good at, honey? Cooking, designing, now makeup?” I shake my head in wonder. “How did I get so lucky? You’re like a gentleman, an alpha, and like, the coolest girlfriend ever wrapped into one.”

He frowns at that, narrowing his eyes.

“Of course, you are from California,” I tease, and then I’m squealing as he scoops me off the counter and carries me out of the bathroom to the bed, looking as if he wants to drop me there. But instead, he lays me down gently, trapping my hands above my head.

“You’re lucky you’ve got my baby in you, sugar. Or there would be hell to pay for all that,” he growls, but I see the playfulness in his eyes.

I soften at the mention of our baby and stop struggling against his grip on my wrists. “I love you,” I whisper, and after a moment of just looking at me, he lowers his face to the side of my neck, nuzzling me there, before whispering in my ear, “I love you too. More than anything.”

My stomach growls then, and his head pops back up. “I had a surprise dinner planned for you tonight, but I’m thinking it would be way too flavorful for what your belly can take today. What would you like instead?”

I narrow my eyes. “First, what was the surprise?”

“What if I want to save the surprise for a different day?” he counters.

“What if your surprise happens to be just what I’m looking for?” I volley.

He tilts his head to the side. “Italian,” he hints, and I groan.

“Oh ma God, yaaasss. Super buttery breadsticks. I’m in,” I tell him, and he thinks about it for a minute and then finally gives in.

“Whatever my sugar wants, my sugar gets.” He stands then, pulling me up when I reach my hands out. “You bring that little black dress I requested?” he asks, and I nod. “Good. If you feel up to it, wear that. I’ve gotta change.” And with that, he disappears into his huge walk-in closet.

My dress is comfy as hell, a bodycon dress that’s made of pure stretch, so I have no qualms wearing that bad boy to dinner. And then it dawns on me, and I burst out laughing. It makes Curtis peek out of his closet, and I see he’s buttoning up a sexy-as-sin black shirt that fits his torso and biceps like a second skin, making me drool a little as I wiggle into my dress. His eyes flare with heat, but he manages not to attack me, asking, “What’s so funny?”

“I was going to say something about this dress not being able to hide my food baby, but then I remembered… there’s a real baby,” I sing-song, threading my arms through the straps, and then I cease all movement. My head drops and I stare at my mostly flat belly, my hands raising to press there. “A real baby,” I whisper, and the next moment, Curtis’s hands are cradling my face as he tilts it up for me to look into his eyes.