Page 79 of The Roommate Experiment

I regain my composure enough to make a joke.

“Ah, you had some clothes left after all,” I quip, aiming for nonchalant but landing somewhere between breathless and over-eager.

Dylan smirks, tossing me a quick, lazy look as he moves to grab a pan. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary before he asks, “What’s your mood for breakfast?”

“Pancakes? I-I mmm… was wondering if you could show me how to make pancakes without using a pre-made mix?” I surfed through so many highs and lows I sounded like a boy hitting puberty.

Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Can you handle the pressure, Brolin?” he teases, his voice low and playful.

I nod in response while thinking,Can I handle the pressure? I can barely handle standing next to you without combusting. But sure, pancakes. Let’s pretend that’s my biggest challenge right now.

Dylan switches the pan for a flat griddle and selects the ingredients from the fridge, setting them on the counter as he gives me the basics of the recipe.

I listen, but his voice is white noise, drowned out by the heat creeping up my neck. I grip the whisk, pretending to focus as Dylan steps behind me, his front pressing against my back as he guides me through the movements. His warmth seeps through my shirt—well,hisshirt actually—and I’m hyper-aware of every inch of space, or lack thereof, between us.

His hands slide over mine, guiding the whisk in slow, hypnotic circles. The touch is maddeningly light, and my pulse thrums louder with each pass. I can’t tell if he’s aware of the tension building up. His touches appear deliberate, yet they’re casual enough to keep me guessing.

I’m balancing on a knife’s edge, almost anticipating the fall. He mumbles something about how whisking is all in the wrist. His voice is a spark, my spine a line of tinder waiting to ignite.

“Like this?” I ask.

“Mmhmm.”

He’s so close goosebumps race down my neck. I can’t focus. By the time we’re done, I might know less about making pancakes than when we started. The batter isn’t the only thing that’s getting mixed; my brain feels like it’s been tossed into the blender. I wish I could whisk my way out of this mess as easily as I’m whisking the batter.

Part of me wonders if Dylan is naturally this seductive, or if he knows what he’s doing to me.

As the batter smooths out, Dylan’s hands slow to a stop, but he doesn’t pull away. His chest keeps rising and falling against my back, the silence stretching between us like a rubber band ready to snap.

I struggle to find my voice. “Uh, what’s next?” I wince at how breathless I sound.

Dylan’s reply vibrates through me. “Now, we let the batter rest for a minute. Gives the gluten time to relax.”

“Right, relax.”

Dylan steps to the side, giving me back some much-needed space. I turn around to face him, to regain my composure, but one look from him nearly undoes me all over again. The heat in his eyes, the hunger, are new. But I’m not sure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, making me see what I want to see, or if it’s real.

“Ready to pour?” he rasps.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. We move to the stove, and Dylan hands me a measuring cup. I pour the batter onto the griddle pan in small, even quantities. As the pancakes start to bubble, it’s a good visualization of what my skin’s been doing all morning. Every nerve ending in my body is alive and screaming for his touch.

“Hunter.” Dylan’s voice makes me jolt. “You’re going to burn them if you don’t flip them soon.”

“Right, sorry.” I dutifully flip the pancakes. They’re a little darker than ideal, but still okay.

We work in silence for a few minutes, the sizzle of batter on the griddle the only audible sound. I’m going to explode if something doesn’t happen soon. Whatever game Dylan is playing, I wish he’d either stop or go further, because this in-between is torture.

When the pancakes are cooked, Dylan transfers them from the pan to a serving plate, forming a neat stack. He turns off the stove and sets the dirty pan into the sink. I expect we’ll sit at the table now, but before I move, Dylan surprises me again by lifting me bodily onto the counter.

The sudden movement knocks the air from my lungs. My ability to breathe further deteriorates when his fingers grip my hips and he steps between my thighs. I gasp, my hands instinctively going to his shoulders to steady myself. Then I pull away, wondering what’s happening.

With nonchalance, Dylan plucks a pancake from the tower and puts it on a plate, as if it were perfectly normal for us to stand this close, with him between my legs.

He grabs the syrup and begins to slowly pour it on top. Again, the gesture is inexplicably sensual, the sticky liquid drizzling over the pancake, strangely suggestive, obscene almost.

Dylan then grabs a fork, cuts off a bite of syrup-soaked pancake, and offers it to me.

I part my lips, letting Dylan slide the fork into my mouth. Once more feeling this is all very sexual. My lips close around the metal, the intimacy almost too much as the sweet richness of the syrup coats my tongue. But I barely register the taste. All I can focus on is the way Dylan’s eyes darken as he watches me.

---