Page 232 of The Winslow Brothers

“What if I have to go pee?”

“Hold it.”

“What if—”

He cuts me off with another kiss and proceeds to whisper firmly against my lips. “Keep that little ass of yours in this chair while I plate our food—or else.”

“Or else what?” I waggle my eyebrows. “You gonna spank me?”

“Oh, baby, don’t tempt me.” A deep, hearty chuckle rumbles his chest, but before I can do exactly that, he’s turning on his heel and heading back to the stove to plate our dinner.

Forget the dumb stove and spank me with your penis!

Okay…that was weird.

Mind you, the dinner smells delicious, but all that spanking talk has my appetite focused on something else. A myriad of dirty-as-hell thoughts fill my head, and I shift a little in my seat.

There has to be a way to put a pause on this dinner and revisit it a later time… I mean, that’s what microwaves are for, right?

“Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking and prepare to enjoy the feast you demanded.”

I look up to meet Flynn’s amused gaze as he sets two platefuls of fettuccine Alfredo with garlic bread on the table.

“How do you know what I was thinking?”

“Because you’ve got that look,” he answers cryptically and sits down in the chair across from mine.

“What look?”

He just smirks, doesn’t answer my question, and grabs his fork to dig in.

“I didn’t have a look,” I state, but he is completely unfazed. “I didn’t have a look,”I repeat, but Flynn just twirls pasta around his fork to take a big bite.

“Eat your food, babe,” he says once he finishes chewing. “After dinner, if you want to try to tempt me into spanking your sassy ass, be my guest.”

Damn, can he read me that well?

I put on a show of acting like I’m innocent and narrow my eyes at him. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Then what were you thinking about?” he challenges, calling my bluff.

“Uh…” I pause.Shit. “Um…couch…es…I was thinking about couches. For a new listing.”

His steady gaze drips with “I call bullshit.”

“Shut up,” I retort on a snort and proceed to take my first bite of Flynn’s fettuccine Alfredo. The instant the creamy pasta hits mytaste buds, I practically fall out of my chair over how damn good it is. “Holy hell, you can, like, really cook.”

Flynn looks up from his plate, and I don’t miss the amusement that flashes across his eyes. “Were you expecting something inedible?”

“No… Well, maybe? I don’t know, but this is insanely good,” I answer, and an apologetic smile lifts the corners of my mouth. “I wasn’t doubting your cooking skills. I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“You were expecting something revolting, which is why you brought home two bags of groceries,” he retorts with a sly grin.

“I wasn’t.”

He just stares at me.

“Okay, fine. I was. I mean, I hoped you would exceed my expectations, but just in case the meal didn’t turn out, I grabbed a few easy-to-make options to have on hand as a backup.”

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