Page 27 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

“Get comfy,” I say, wanting to get her to look at anything else but me. “Take a seat.”

She does, but I can feel her eyes still on me. They make my skin prickle.

The microwave hums, filling in our silence, and when it beeps, I make the mistake of touching the hot bowl with my bare fingers. I grit my teeth to stop myself wincing, then poke it with a fork to stir it. It smells great and it’s bubbling, but I throw it back in for another thirty seconds to be sure.

And the whole time I’m “cooking,” I stare at the microwave so I don’t have to face her.

Finally, I can’t avoid it anymore. “Thank you,” says Freya as I hand her a bowl.

“My pleasure,” I say, then take my seat on the other side of the table. It’s like a showdown I don’t want to face.

Why does this feel so hard? We’ve done this a hundred times before. And yet, everything is different now.

“This is really good,” she says as she eats.

“I know. Pierre is the best. I’m so lucky to have him.”

“I wish I had a personal chef,” Freya mutters, and I find myself feeling guilty for reasons I can’t quite put into words.

“You should come over more often,” I say, trying to be brave.

She scoffs at that. “I come over nearly every day.”

“No — I mean not for work.”

“Because?” She can clearly hear that there’s an end to that sentence and she’s urging me on her with her wide eyes and full, kissable lips.

“Because,” I say, more grumpily than I mean to, “I like having you here, okay? You’re a good friend.”

“Friend…” she echoes, and I can’t tell if that’s disappointment in her voice or not.

“Would you want it to be more?” I ask, deciding that the direct approach is the best one.

“Would you?” she asks back, decisively not answering my question.

Is this her way of letting me down gently? But she deserves my honesty, so I simply say, “Yes.”

With that Freya sets her fork down, rounds the table, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me hard.

For a second, I’m too taken aback to react. But then I melt into it, her lips pressing hard against mine, her tongue flicking against me in exploration, her hands warm on my face. Eventually I manage to regain enough of my senses, but when I go to place one of my hands on her waist, she pulls away a little.

“Was that okay?” she asks almost nervously.

“God, yes. I say do it again.”

She leans down and presses her lips into mine again, passionate and warm with just a hint of desire. Something starts stirring inside my stomach, a lustful attraction that I’ve been trying so hard to hold back. But now her lips are on mine and our hands are tangling and roaming, and I don’t need to hold back any longer.

“Freya,” I whisper into her mouth, dragging my teeth over her lower lip to make her gasp. “I want you. I want you now. I want you so badly it hurts.”

“Me too,” she whispers back. “I have for a while.”

It’s tempting to start arguing, to question why she’s never acted on these feelings when we’ve both been wanting this for so long, but I don’t. I have more important things to do. Instead, I just lean up to kiss her again, rising to my feet so I can wrap my arms around her properly and pull her into my chest.

Carefully, I run my hands down her back, then wrestle with the hem of her shirt so I can touch her bare skin. She shivers slightly, grinding into me like we’re about to start merging into one. My cock is definitely paying attention now, my erection starting to grow in my pants. “Freya,” I growl, “let me take you to bed.”

I take hold of her hand, threading our fingers together, and as I do, her other hand sneaks down to feel my hard bulge. She draws a deep breath. “You really do want me.”

“You have no idea how much.”

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