Page 17 of Matched

A strange warmth suffuses my chest at his words, but I refuse to give in. Then his brown eyes lock with mine, studying every inch of my face and hesitating on my mouth, making it hard to breathe. His grip on my nape tightens along with something low in my belly. I exhale shakily and reach up to grip his wrist.

Hormones. Must be hormones.

Right?

I slip out of his grip, under his arm, and back into the bedroom to fill my lungs with air. Already, I want to go back to him, to bask in the heat of his body. The intensity of the need scares the shit out of me, and I stuff my shaky hands in my jean pockets.

This is bad.

Hormones or not, I can’t afford to get attached. Not so soon. Tony might have a lot to lose, but as he already told me, our union has an expiration date. I need to go into this next year with my eyes wide open. I’m not my mom. I can’t deal with recurrent heartbreaks. I suffered enough from hers over the years as it is.

“Inara? Any more rules?”

I swallow. “We treat each other with respect. Clean up after ourselves, help the other person out when we can, and communicate if there’s a problem. Like a real marriage.”

“Okay,” he agrees, but the way he licks his lips and his gaze travels down my body tells me he’s just as distracted as I am.

This won’t do. I need space.

“I’m hungry.” My voice is too bright, too cheery, and my smile is so fake, I probably look like a painted clown.

He’s standing in the doorway of the closet, his hands gripping the top of the door frame above his head. The muscles in his forearms bulge and the edge of his Walking Dead T-shirt rises to expose the smooth bit of skin hidden between his navel and the top of his low-hanging sweatpants. Holy shit. That is a lot of man.

My gaze homes in on the deep V disappearing beneath the band of his boxers, and suddenly I’m not sure if I was talking about burgers and fries. I glance up at Tony, whose small smile adds to the overall effect, and I grit my teeth against the burst of desire. Oh no. I’m not ready to go down that path right now. Even if the path in question is sexy as hell.

I lick suddenly dry lips and then curse myself. I need to get my mind out of the gutter.

A faint noise comes from the other room, interrupting me with the distraction I need. Craiger! Mason! I’d almost forgotten they were here. Thank God.

“I’m hungry... for food,” I clarify quickly, though not quickly enough, if the self-satisfied way he folds his arms across his chest and flexes his biceps is anything to go by.

“Oh yeah?” There’s nothing casual in his tone or that gaze swiping up and down my body, leaving me hot and flushed and needy and breathless.

I nod toward the door. “But first, I need to take a shower. I also want to get out of my work clothes and find something more comfortable.” I scoff when his eyes go wide. “Not like that. I mean sweats. Or shorts.”

He grunts and has that look. Like he’s undressing me mentally. And it’s hot as fuck. I’m one short second from throwing him onto my bed and ripping his clothes off. Like I said, it’s been a while. In desperation, I shove him toward the door. If we stay in this room any longer, I can’t promise I won’t do something I’ll regret. Company or not.

“What about food?”

“Check the fridge, give Lucas and his son some options, and I’ll make dinner as soon as I’m showered.”

Jesus, how much time does it take a man with legs that long to leave a room? Finally, he shuts the door behind him and I can breathe. In. Out. Over and over. Eventually, my hormones quiet down to a manageable level. My shower is quick and a bit cooler than usual. I still have visions of naked Tony in my head, but I can pull it together.

When I step into the living room, Lucas and Mason are sitting on the couch. “Where’s Tony?”

Lucas points toward the kitchen and for the first time I notice the scent of roasting garlic wafting through the house. Eyes narrowed, I follow my nose to find him standing at the stove, a panful of herbs already sizzling over one of the burners. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs without turning to look at me, pulls a knife and cutting board out, and sets it on the counter next to the sink. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Figured you could use some help.”

My heart melts, just a little. The guy can do a one-eighty from being a jerk to a thoughtful partner so fast, that it makes my head spin. He places several strips of raw chicken on the cutting board and when his deft fingers go to work, slicing, chopping, holding the knife like he belongs on an episode of Top Chef, a soft whimper escapes my lips. Then I fake a cough to cover. “I don’t mind cooking.”

“Then we can do it together.”

When I don’t respond right away, he glances up. His expression is blank, neutral. We’re together, at least for now. For better or for worse. Companionship is a good start. In time, maybe that can grow into respect. Affection. Eventually, a little midnight magic. I can make this work and show him that this marriage can survive longer, that having a partner like me is worth it. I roll the sleeves of my baggy sweatshirt up to my elbows and hip bump him out of the way. “Move over. You’re doing it wrong.”

“First of all, there’s no ‘wrong way’ to cut chicken.” Tony shoots me a look but moves over just enough to give me access to the other half of the cutting board. “Second, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, really?” I pull a knife from the rack on the counter and begin to dice.

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