Page 214 of Rock Me All Night
12
We arein and out of the grocery store in a breeze. Drew knows exactly what he wants and exactly where to get it. When he tries to pay, I shove $40 in the pocket of his jeans. He doesn't object. Maybe he likes my hands in his pants.
A girl can dream.
At home, Drew chops and dices, lost in his cooking the same way he gets lost in the guitar.
I measure flour, sugar, and cocoa powder. A few minutes and this cake will be ready for the oven. "Could you set the preheat to three-fifty?"
He murmurs some kind of affirmative, but he doesn't turn toward me. I focus on stirring, my fingers wrapped around the wooden spoon. The batter is thick and rich and it smells like some wonderful mix of vanilla and chocolate. I dip a finger and bring a taste to my mouth.
"Mmmm." I groan much louder than I mean to.
Drew turns almost instantly. "Shit. I was worried Meg and Miles were hiding upstairs."
My cheeks flush. "Only me."
"That good?"
I offer him the spoon of batter. Instead of grabbing the spoon, he licks it.
His tongue slides over his lips. He grabs the spoon and licks it again.
"Hey!"
I try to grab it back, but he holds it over my head. Damn, Drew is so much taller than I am. There's no way I'll manage to grab it by jumping.
I push myself up, ass on the counter. I hold onto the cabinet to steady myself and slide to my knees. I reach for the spoon but Drew takes a step back. It's still out of reach. He smirks and shakes his head like he knows he's defeating me.
Oh, that's how he's going to play it? I slide off the counter and plant my feet on the ground. I scoop a glob and take two steps toward him.
I fling the batter on his nose.
His eyes close as he winces. "You're asking for it now." He charges, slides his hand in the batter, and flings it on my face.
Oh, fuck, that's cold and sticky all at once.
Drew looks at me as if to call a truce. But the words truce do not flow from his lips. Nice try.
I flick a scoop in his direction. He ducks but it lands on his neck and his otherwise perfectly clean white t-shirt.
He shakes his head. His eyes narrow. He reaches around me and dips his hand in the bowl.
He moves closer. Until his crotch is pressed against mine. He shifts, pinning me to the counter. My lungs empty. My interest in our food fight evaporates. He feels damn good against me.
Drew smiles as he hovers his batter-covered fingers over my nose. He draws a line down my face, chin, neck, chest. It stops at the neckline of my t-shirt.
That flutter builds between my legs. His fingers are inches from my breasts.
I take a deep breath, willing my body to calm down. It doesn't work.
"Truce," I offer.
He draws another line down my face. His lips curl into a smile. "Truce."
"Asshole."
He laughs. "Here." He wets a towel in the sink and tosses it to me.
