Page 29 of Inked Persuasion

“I’m going to call your brother. I know he probably won’t work on my yard because he hates me, but he has to know somebody I can use.”

Annabelle laughed as she washed her hands in the sink while I started the water to boil for the pasta.

“He doesn’t hate you.” She paused. “Okay, he might a little, but he’ll like you when he gets to know who you are now. I did, eventually.”

“Okay, that hurt.”

“Sorry, we’re just very good at that.”

“It seems we are. Now, I have soda, water, and lemonade that I made to make my mom happy, but I don’t really drink it.”

“If it’s still good, I’ll drink it,” Annabelle said, shaking her head. “And you know I was kidding about lunch. But now I’m starving, so thank you.”

“I put you to work doing manual labor. I think the least I can do is feed you some semi-crunchy pasta.”

“Maybe I should be making lunch,” she said on a laugh.

“No, I can do this. I hope.”

She laughed again and then moved out of the way so I could get her some lemonade. We made the pasta, and I cooled it down quickly while she stirred up the olive oil, water, and the seasoning packet. We mixed it all together, added cut-up chicken I had from some leftover takeout, and ended up with a decent lunch.

“Hey, this is good,” she said. “Probably horrible for you and full of preservatives, but it’s been a while since I had one.”

“Sometimes it just hits the spot when you don’t want to make food or grab a hamburger on your way home.”

“Yes. I’m trying to do better about that, so I have lots of salad fixings at home all the time. But maybe I need to start keeping pasta salad fixings. I’m sure I could replicate that with my own seasonings.”

“And now I think I’m even hungrier,” I said and practically devoured my half of the pasta.

She ate her half, and we cleaned up, laughed, talked, and had a good evening.

“Here, let me help you with the dishes,” she said, moving past me. Her skin brushed mine. I still had a hard time telling myself that it was only me. I saw the heat in her gaze, the way she bit her lip, and I wondered what was going on.

The tension in the kitchen was palpable, yet I told myself I imagined it. But as my hand brushed against hers under the water, she didn’t move back. Instead, the sharp intake of her breath set me on edge.

We put away the dishes, chatting, but I didn’t think either of us knew what we talked about. And then she turned to me, her mouth parted, and her eyes wide. “I think… I think maybe… I don’t know.”

I leaned forward, both of us moving closer to the counter. “I don’t know either.” I reached out, telling myself this was wrong, but I couldn’t hold back. I brushed my knuckle down her cheek, and she gasped, leaning in to my touch.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to kiss you now.” And then I met her gaze again before I lowered my mouth to hers. She tasted of lemonade and pasta, and something new that had to be all Annabelle.

I let out a sigh, and she gently put her hands on my hips, parting her lips for me. I deepened the kiss, aching for more, not able to hold back. Her hand slid up my back, and I cupped her face, needing, tasting.

“Tell me to stop.” I groaned, then leaned my forehead against hers, trying to catch my breath.

She tugged on my shirt. “Don’t stop.”

So, I didn’t. I kissed her again, and then I wrapped my arms around her, put my hands on her ass, and lifted her. She let out a gasp, and then I captured her mouth with mine, needing her more. I rested her butt on the edge of the counter, pressing into her, my cock hard behind my zipper.

“Jacob,” she muttered.

I kissed her again, needing her, my hands now in her hair. She tugged on my shirt, and I moved back to pull it over my head.

Her gaze moved to my chest, and she let out a slow breath before raking her nails down my flesh. I hummed, tugging at her shirts, and she helped me pull them over her head. And then my hands were over her bra, cupping her.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I muttered.

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