Page 64 of Crave Thy Neighbor

“Ah.”

“What are you doing here?”

I rake my eyes over her outfit. She’s not dressed for work, and I know that because her work attire usually includes a pair of jeans that show off her curves in ways I can’t ignore. But today she’s—

Oh, fuck me.

No wonder her bra was hanging on the door—she’s not fucking wearing one.

Like she can feel my eyes, her nipples form stiff peaks, and I have to fight the urge to cross the room and see if the color of them matches those pink lips I know taste sweeter than sin.

My dick jumps to life behind the zipper of my jeans.

Look away, Nolan. Just fucking look away. She’s off limits.

“I’m off today,” she says, drawing my eyes away from her chest. “I walked down to The Gravy Train for coffee, then stopped at the grocery store for bread before it really started coming down. I was going to make some of the soup I spotted in the pantry and a grilled cheese for a late lunch. You interested?”

As if on cue, my stomach growls.

She laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I don’t say no to a home-cooked meal very often.”

She crinkles her nose up. “It’s not really home-cooked. I’m just cracking open a can.”

“Are you making it on the stove and not in the microwave?” She nods. “Then it’s home-cooked enough for me.” I head for the door. “You coming?”

“I’ll be out there in a sec. Gonna change. I’m wet.”

I raise my brow.

“From the rain,” she clarifies with wide eyes.

I chuckle, then head for my room, where I swap my jeans for sweats. It’s a rainy day, and rainy days mean bumming around in sweats.

When she meets me in the kitchen a few minutes later, she’s wearing a pair of black leggings with a few holes in them and a sweater about three sizes too big, the sleeves rolled up on her forearms. Her hair is now twisted into one of those messy buns, and she somehow looks about five years younger.

“Tomato or chicken noodle?” she asks, pushing her sleeves up higher.

“Your pick,” I tell her, watching her stretch to reach the top shelf of the pantry.

The sweater she’s wearing rides up with the movement, and someone ought to tell her those leggings are see-through when she does that, but it sure as hell won’t be me. I like the sight far too much.

I look away before my cock starts to respond. The last thing I need is for her to glance over here and see me rocking a half-chub.

“We’ll do tomato then.” She pads out of the pantry, closing the door behind her. “I really only like to have canned chicken noodle if I’m in a pinch.”

“You make it homemade?”

“Yep.” She shoos me out of the way and grabs a pot from the cabinet beside the stove, then flips the burner on. She shoves the can of soup my way. “Open that, please.”

I retrieve the can opener from the drawer and crank the can open.

“It’s simple, actually—the chicken noodle soup, I mean,” she continues. “The hardest part is getting the seasoning just right. I’ve spent a lot of time perfecting it over the years, so I’ve got it down to a science now.”

I dump the soup into the pot as she reaches into the spice cabinet.

“Oh, wow. This is kind of sad,” she remarks, taking inventory of what little spices I have.

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