Page 184 of Cook

“Fine.” He tilted his head up and looked at the walls, and I turned away.

I had followed his orders when getting the house ready for his return. He wanted more art hung. More pictures and painting. While the old walls had been painted over to freshen up the house, it was like he wanted every wall covered by us. He was reclaiming his childhood home as his own, piece by piece. He would take the old wood and brick, and he would make art from our lives.

“Your art is nice,” he murmured softly, like all the air had been stolen from his lungs.

I checked over my shoulder just to make sure he was still breathing properly.

“You have delectable taste,” he continued.

A small giggle erupted from me. “Is this your way of warming me up?”

“No. I know you’re already ready for me.” The floorboards creaked like he was nearing, and I shot him another look over my shoulder. He raised his hands in peace and stepped back. “I can smell you from here.”

“Maybe I should just eat the meat myself.”

“If you’re hungry, my sausage is ready for you.”

My pussy clenched, but I shook my head at him. He was my undoing, and if he kept at it, I wouldn’t be able to resist.

“I want you to prepare a meal for everyone at the club tomorrow,” he said, and I straightened up quickly.

“You normally do that for them.”

“Yeah, but I’ve taught you some stuff.” He winked at me. “Plus, I want them to see the art on our walls. And I want to show off my ol’ lady.”

A lump formed in the base of my throat. “Are we making it official?”

“No one has questioned it.”

And why would they? Cook had gotten his dick licked before, buthe had never brought anyone home. He didn’t let other women ride his motorcycle. He didn’t love women, but he loved me.

His smirk bloomed into a smile, and he licked his lips again. He was undressing me with his eyes. With me slaving over the stove and his food, I needed my clothes for protection.

“Go back to bed,” I said.

“Is that an order, baby girl?” he asked with a challenging light in his eyes.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He beamed but strode back into the bedroom.

With a heavy sigh, I finished cooking dinner and then set up two plates piled with food. He would need more food than me to regain his strength.

When I walked into our bedroom, I nearly dropped the plates. He had taken off his sweatpants, and his cock was erect, head pointing toward the ceiling. His long shaft was thick, the head purple and dripping with precum. His body was bare, minus the bandages across his wound. He gave me a stoic grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing. I forced my thighs apart, yet my inner walls clenched.

“You need to eat,” I said.

He held out his hand, and I gave him the plate. He started to eat as I stared at his cock. Saliva filled my mouth, and I swallowed.

“There,” declared Cook, placing the plate on the floor.

I eyed his plate. “You ate like two bites.”

“Saving room.”

“You need to keep your strength.”

“Can’t I just eat dessert first?” He licked his lips.

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