Page 27 of Erik

A yelp jerks us apart. I find the cutest pooch a foot away, barking, as we ease wrinkled outfits, and disheveled hair.

“Don’t mind Penny,” he huffs. “She’s got trust issues.”

I sink to her level, wrinkling my nose at her. She licks my chin, paws my thigh, and turns tail. She dashes through a corridor to the left, and I hear a doggy door swing in the distance. I stand back up, meeting Erik’s puzzled expression.

“What just happened?”

“I’m adorable.” I wink. “She couldn’t resist me.”

After a once-over that turns my head with the sexiest possibilities, he outstretches a hand to me. When I take it, he laces our fingers, and leads me through a labyrinth of rooms. We go down flights of stairs before climbing others. I’m too dazed to take inventory of my surroundings.

Must snap out of it, I tell myself.

Overlooking his wide shoulders, ignoring his kiss-swollen lips are easier said than done.

We step into a kitchen turned disaster zone. Pans, dishes, and glasses clutter a double sink. Countertops hide under scattered ingredients and charred chunks. Damp flour dots multiple surfaces, including his cheek, which I didn’t notice earlier.

I chortle resorting to humor to control the urge to lick the flour off his dimple.

“Things got out of hand.” His gruff delivery clashes with shuffling feet. “I don’t cook often.”

The idea he’s tried to cook for us swells my chest, while his vulnerability at having failed lifts my soul.

He slides a couple of drawers open and closes them, until he retrieves a corkscrew from one. Tilting his head, he says, “Come with me.”

We cross the ample kitchen to a swing door that he holds open for me. As I cross its threshold, I gasp at the sight of dozens of electronic candles shimmering in the darkness. Someone has set the far end of a twelve-seat table for two.

Erik gets behind a marble counter of a bar standing at the opposite corner of the room.

I follow him and perch on a barstool, my voice grits. “You burnt dinner.”

He cocks his left eyebrow, unscrewing the bottle.

Struggling to ignore the expanse of his chest revealed by the skin-tight shirt, I add, “Good to learn you’re not perfect.”

He pours wine into two goblets, hands me one, and we clink them in a silent toast.

His deep-set eyes penetrate my soul, without any trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Without haste, he takes a sip, before whispering, “People yearn for perfection.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, I raise an eyebrow, but he ignores my challenge, and remains silent.

I mutter into my glass, “Perfect is boring. I’ll take flawed any day.”

Holding my gaze, he stalks around the counter. With leisured strides, like a lion on the prowl. I crane my head back when he looms above me. He flashes his magazine-cover smile, keeping his eyes shrouded. In their shadows, I spy more anguish than I’d suspected.

Intent on comforting him, I cup his cheeks. “I mean what I say.”

Unable to resist, I spear my fingers through his hair, and pull his head down. I stop before our lips touch. His fingers close around my hair in a makeshift ponytail. He uses it to angle my head, before plunging his tongue past my teeth. I moan, blood ringing in my ears. He tugs at my hair. The electric jolt zings through my nerves, scorching my skin. He splays a hand on my knee, gliding it up my thigh, under the flimsy silk of the black skirt. My flesh trembles when he presses the tip of his fingers to my clitoris over the damp triangle of lace that covers my sex. I gasp when he pushes it aside, penetrating me with expert fingers. His tongue flicks my lips in the same rhythm his fingers coax my sex to ignite. His touch sparks a wildfire I don’t want to douse; but extinguish it I must.

My terms, not his, I remind myself.

Despite the exhilarating throb in my lower body, that blurs my vision, I push his solid chest. The warmth of the six-pack hidden under the shirt does nothing to lower my temperature. Lacing my fingers to hide their quiver, I draw back.

His ragged breathing matches mine. He eyeballs me, combing his hair, a sly twinkle in his chocolate eyes as he steps back. “Thought you enjoyed flawed.”

I lift my chin. “Burnt dinner, remember? Shouldn’t we order in?”

“Way ahead of you, ma’am,” he replies, with an exaggerated bow.

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