Page 45 of Tough Nut to Crack

She did agree to let me stay here, so it would be weirder to knock and make her answer the door, right?

Hoping I make the right decision, I open the door, the scent of something delicious hitting my nose before I can even cross the threshold to stand inside.

I pull in a deep breath and let the aromas swirl around me.

Other than growing up when Mom would have dinner ready and on the table by five when my dad got home from work, I've never had this. I've never been in a serious relationship where someone cooked for me.

I know better than to think of this as anything more than transactional, but knowing I'm going to have a good meal after a hard day's work hits me in a way I wouldn't want to speak out loud.

I know I paid for the food. That's my end of the bargain, and hers is to cook, but there's a labor of love that goes into preparing a meal for someone, and I know better than to just see this as her doing her part, despite knowing that's exactly what it is.

She's standing at the sink washing a few dishes. The sway of her decadent ass and the off-tune words coming from her mouth tell me she has those earbuds in just like she did last week at my house. My body has the same reaction as it did then, my mouth watering for more than what she has on the stove.

She's sexy as hell, leagues above any woman I've had the privilege of putting my hands on, and knowing exactly what she feels like when she is under me, knowing the noises she makes when she feels pleasure, makes it very difficult not to pick her up and carry her out of the kitchen much the same way I did that first time.

As if she can sense me, she turns, giving me a look over her shoulder. She startles some, but there's a smile on her face not a look of annoyance like she feels irritated that I'm in her space again.

Without pulling her earbuds out, she says, "Twenty minutes until dinner is ready. Go shower."

The command in her voice makes me want to challenge her, to walk up and wrap my filthy arms around her just to see how fiery I can make her, but then there's a chance she'll refuse to feed me, and I can't have that.

I dip my head in agreement before walking toward the guest bedroom to grab clothes to change into after my shower.

The sound of her off-key singing follows me, and I find myself smiling the entire time.

My shower is quick and economical, and I do my best to convince my brain that I'm just hungry and anticipating the taste of her food, but I know better. I want to spend time with her, and as much as I like sliding inside of that tight, perfect body of hers, I know I enjoy talking to her just as much.

I towel off, rubbing, not dabbing like a crazy person, before pulling on a pair of sleep pants and forgoing the shirt because I know it will annoy her as much as it will turn her on.

I fully expect her eyes to roam over my bare chest when I enter the kitchen, but her gaze drops to my feet.

"You aren't wearing shoes," she says almost absently.

"Are your floors dirty?"

"What?" she snaps, her eyes dragging up my body until they lock with mine. "My floors are clean."

"Do you have a foot fetish, baby?" I tease.

"I just... don't think I've ever had a barefooted man walking around my house before."

I watch, seeing her fight the urge to look back down, and I smile when she loses the battle. I wiggle my toes, laughing when she grins.

"I've been barefoot in your bedroom several times now," I say.

She spins, messing with something on the stove rather than answering, but I give her the reprieve because I'm fighting my own battle, wondering why it pleases me to hear that there haven't been other men here.

Unless...

"Do they usually keep their shoes on or something?" I prod.

"Dinner is ready. Will you grab plates?" she says rather than answering my question. "They're in the cabinet right up there."

Her kitchen is small, and I don't think she purposely wants me to step up behind and crowd her in place near the stove, but then again, that doesn't stop me from doing it.

She's as still as a statue when my bare chest covers her back so I can grab the plates, and she doesn't breathe until I take a step back.

I'm struggling with how fucking irresistible she is, and as I set the plates down at the breakfast bar, I can't help but wonder if asking to stay here was a terrible idea. I feel as if I'm feeding some sort of addiction each time I touch her, and when my fingertips aren't tracing over her skin, they itch to do just that.

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