Page 15 of Big Easy
She giggles, and the sound is endearing. "I'm a little surprised, but I like the thought of you in the kitchen." Sutton quickly covers her mouth and blushes. "Oh, my God. I can't believe I just said that out loud."
Damn. Can this woman be more adorable?
"Tell me about your day." I try to move us past her embarrassment by shifting the subject.
Sutton sighs heavily. "Exhausting." She laughs. "No different than any other day. It's not always easy taking care of people at the end stages of their illnesses."
Our food arrives, and the waitress sets our bowls of soup in front of us and the platter of boudin balls in the center before pouring Sutton her glass of wine. Our waitress sets my tall glass of cold sweet tea in front of me, and I down half of it once she walks away.
"You like beer," Sutton says before sipping her drink.
"It's sweet tea. I don't drink."
Sutton raises her brown over the rim of her glass. "You don't drink. Like, at all?"
"No."
"You mind me getting personal and asking why?" She sets her glass down. Picking up her spoon, she tastes her chowder. "Mmm. It's so good." I watch her take another taste.
"Not as good as my momma makes it, but Ryker does a damn good job bringing a bit of Louisiana cuisine. And to answer your question, I don't partake in any alcohol or drugs because my sobriety is important to me."
"So, you've battled addiction in the past?" she asks, and I nod.
"I've been clean and sober for more than fifteen years." I begin eating, as well. Sutton smiles. Instead of continuing with the current conversation, she points to the appetizers in the center of the table. "So, what did you call these?"
"Boudin. It's a ground pork sausage with rice and other seasonings. It's not the healthiest of food, but it's damn good eating. Try one," I encourage her, and she reaches across the table. As she's plucking one from the plate, her shirt-sleeve rises up her bicep revealing faint bruising that looks a lot like someone's handprint.
"The fuck," I growl. "Who grabbed you?" I feel anger bubbling in my gut.
Her eyes follow my line of sight. "Oh." She rubs at the spot on her arm. “I didn't realize he gripped me hard enough to leave a mark," she says under her breath.
"Who the fuck put their hands on you?" I feel the heat on my face as my rage builds.
Sutton waves her hand dismissively. "It was nothing, really. My patient's son got a little handsy when I declined his offer to grab coffee earlier, just before you arrived."
"Name," I demand.
"Jaxson, I handled it." Sutton levels me with a look that says she has it under control.
Although her attempt to squash the conversation is cute, I don't let it go so quickly.
"Name, babe. Now." My voice is stern, leaving no question that I mean business.
Sutton rolls her eyes but caves. "Peter Sanders. But it was nothing, I promise. It happened to be his third attempt to get me to go out with him, and the third time I declined." Sutton pops a boudin ball into her mouth and moans. "I like boudin," she smiles my way, but the anger I feel with the knowledge of someone—a man—putting his hands on what's mine prevents me from returning the smile. "Besides," her smiles fade slightly, "he's not my type." She licks her lips as her eyes turn lusty.
Her heated stare does the trick, flipping the switch off on the rage I'm feeling inside—for now.
"What is your type, babe?" Wanting contact with her, I reach around the table and pull her chair toward me, dragging it across the wood decking.
She swallows. "I think you know the answer. I wouldn't be here, with you, if you didn't."
I grip the back of her neck, dip my head, and graze my lips down the side of her neck. She presses forward into my touch. Her hand grips my knee, then slowly slides her palm up my thigh, coming dangerously close to brushing the tip of my cock.
"I want you in my bed." I nibble her earlobe, and her breath hitches. "I can't think of anything I want more than to bury my cock inside your pussy."
She nods but almost looks shocked when she agrees.
"I need your words, babe." I wait with bated breath for her reply.
