Method

“Oh, yeah, that massage is actually a blow job. Another specialty.”

“Mila,” he growls.

“Hey, I tried to keep it PG.”

“Don’t hold back.” His voice is thick, and I’m sure we’re about to initiate another phone session.

“Okay,” I say, taking another sip of wine and lowering the temperature of my sauce. “I’m buzzed, so this could get detailed.”

“Let’s get detailed.”

I hear the crunch of rocks in my drive and look to see incoming headlights out of my kitchen window. “Crap, I think my mom just pulled up.”

“Ignore her and talk dirty to me.”

“Lucas,” I scold with a laugh. “I have to go.”

“Okay, but make sure you keep those details close.”

“Promise. Get some sleep, you must be exhausted.”

It’s then that I see his Land Rover come into view and hear the playful lift to his voice. “Jet-lagged for sure.”

“Lucas!” I scream, dropping the phone and throwing open my front door. I’m already sprinting toward him as he hops out of his SUV and opens for me just as I crash into him. Inhaling him, I hold him tight to me, and he keeps me there. “Oh, God, you just made the drive worth it. Double vision is a bitch, for a minute there I thought I was going to steer right off a fucking cliff.”

I’m kissing every inch of his face as he speaks, his chin, his nose, his jaw before I pull back to catch his megawatt smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Isn’t this better?” he says, reading the elation in my expression that I’m doing nothing to hide.

“Everything is better.”

“Give me those fucking lips.” His kiss is both foreign and familiar and in minutes we’re back into a rhythm, tongues dancing furiously as he carries me into the house.

“Wait!” I say when he gets me halfway down the hall. “Go back to the kitchen.”

He frowns. “Not exactly comfortable.”

“I have to turn off the sauce.” Still in his tight grip, he carries me to the kitchen and sets me down in front of the stove. I’m stirring the sauce and killing the burners when he moves my hair to the side to nibble at the skin of my neck. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving, but that’s priority number two.” He turns me to face him and takes my lips with surety and possession. “I need inside you right now.”

An orgasm later, we’re eating lukewarm pasta in our underwear while I’m tracing his every feature with my eyes as he sucks the sauce-coated noodles into his mouth. Resting against my headboard while he dines, I’m finally able to drink him in. His tan is much darker, and he’s weary-eyed, but the rest of him looks incredible.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe how good this is,” he says, taking the half-full bowl of pasta I’d set on my nightstand and digging in. “You said this was Chicken Marsala?”

“Yes. And I made fudge cake. My comfort foods.”

His eyes lift to mine. “Comfort food, huh?”

“Yes, I’ve been a little lonely. I mean, of course. Work and home, just very routine, well it didn’t seem routine…” I trail off because I’ve said too much.

“And you were going to throw us away,” he says, his tone laced with contempt.

“I don’t know what I was about to do, but I was hurt, okay?”