Page 98 of Sugar Baby Mine

We end up at a cozy restaurant with dark leather booths and tables with dim lighting. Everything is a mix of American and German cuisine; it’s like a comfort food for my soul. We get two plates to share, a pot roast and a schnitzel meal with a plate of fries, because I have to have some. And despite being a potato-heavy meal between everything, I love the braised red cabbage the most.

Then we stop at this gourmet market because snacks are a must, even on a long weekend vacation.

I’m absolutely dead by the time we get back to the house and Ben drags me through the door. All my spoons have flown out of the drawer for today.

I kick my slip-ons off in the living room once everything is put away, swiping a bag of popcorn off the counter as I trudge back to the bedroom with a yawn. I wish we’d brought Pebbles along to curl up with; I could use some animal therapy.

“I’m so tired. Why was there so much walking?”

Ben finally enters the bedroom, a bowl tucked under his arm and two bottles of water. “It wasn’t that much walking. Certainly wasn’t more than Italy. You’re being dramatic.”

“And that’s well within my rights when you look like that,” I wave a hand at him then gesture to myself, “and I look like this.”

“Like what?” He sets the items down on the bedside table before moving toward the dresser to stand in front of me. In true, oblivious boy manner, he yanks his shirt over his head.

“Oh, come on. You’ve got abs.”

He looks down at his stomach with the light definition of muscle and pinches at the one place he’s softer than the rest. “Not abs.”

“Suuure,” I drawl, narrowing in on where his biceps flex andhis forearm strains as he unbuckles his belt and pulls off his jeans. “What would you call it, then?”

“Stomach muscles.” He shrugs.

Heat crawls up my cheeks when he pulls his boxers along with his jeans, stepping out of his clothes only to pull the overly cute pajama bottoms I picked out for him on.

He turns to lean against the dresser, holding out my set, entirely unbothered.

And he shouldn’t be. But I am. Because as much as I’ve seen him naked, I’ve never seen him so casual—shirt off, bare feet, cotton pajamas with a rainbow array of chubby whales.

I cross my arms at the waist, pulling the silky material of my hoodie up over my head. My jeans are a little harder to peel off my legs. I can feel him watching the entire time even as I stumble to pull my socks off. When I reach out to swipe the clothing from his outstretched hand, he pulls it out of my grasp, withholding the clothing as he makes atsksound that reverberates in my skull.

“No underwear.”

“I thought we were joking,” I say lamely, hands twisting behind my back to unclasp my bralette. I drop the silky, orange material to the floor and his gaze drops from my face to my chest in a slow dip that feels like something out of a movie.

“Iwasn’t joking.”

I kind of wish he was, but as long as there’s something between me and the bed, then I’ll be fine.

My panties slip over my hips and I step out of them, toward Ben. The warm central air heating in the house brushes my skin, but my nipples harden anyway.

“Pajamas, please,” I trill, pulling on the fabric clenched in his fist.

He relents and I pull the shirt over my head first, then the pants. They’re both a little loose—comfy, just the way I likethem. I tug the drawstring on the pants tighter, tying the strings into a bow and smoothing my hands down my stomach.

Ben reaches out for my hands, and I let him as he steps closer. He pulls a hand up to rest on his shoulder, the other to his hip.

“And what about that comment on whatyoulook like?”

“Oh, you caught that, huh?”

“Of course.”

I scan down the length of his chest, following to where his fingertips are tracing the sliver of skin between my pants and top.

“I’m just—soft,” I say. “It’s not a bad thing, I guess. I don’t think of myself as fat. If anything, I’m thin. But I lack any hard angles, muscle definition, or strength.”

“And do you go to the gym?”

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