Page 105 of Lana Pecherczyk
His brows slammed down. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding—” She gasped as his fist tightened in her hair.
He tilted her face down, forcing her to look at his tattooed torso, abdominal muscles flexing with rapid breath, down to where the tightly wrapped towel trapped his erection against his thigh.
Her mouth dried.
“Far out,” Blake murmured, eyes widening. “Yeah.” She licked her lips. “I can see why you’re waiting for me to adjust.”
“Not funny.”
“Kind of is, Mr. Brown.”
A frustrated, stunted growl caught in his throat. His fingers flexed against her scalp as if he considered pushing her down further, what she kind of hoped he’d do—take charge and order her to open her mouth, to take him deep.
The thought made desire flood her system. Her clit pulsed. She grew wet. Hot. Needy. A moan slipped from her lips, and she pressed her thighs together, hoping to ease the ache.
River let go and took a giant step back, running both hands through his damp hair. Flexing biceps short-circuited her brain and spiked her pulse. Desire ran rampant in her body, tightening her nipples, her skin. Dark, blue eyes met hers.
“You think you want this, Blake, but you don’t know me.”
“So let’s get to know each other, then. That’s what these nesting challenges are for, right?”
Why did that sentence seem to frighten him more than a monster?
“Right?” she pushed.
“Yeah,” he admitted, relaxing his shoulders.
“We can take it slow. Start with one challenge. See how we go.” She glanced at the mess in the sink and sighed. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. If you wanted a mate who could cook, it’s not me.”
“I can cook.” He turned toward the ruined bench seat. “But I’m shitty at repairing furniture. More of a slice and dice sort of male.”
Possibility fizzed through her. She slipped off the counter. “I’m excellent at it!”
“Oh yeah?” His small, hesitant smile filled her with warmth. “Then we’ve been approaching this all wrong.”
“We have?”
“You repair. I’ll cook.”
“But your mother addressed the recipe to Lark. Doesn’t that mean a woman should cook?”
“Fuck the letter. Do what you want.” His brows drew together. “Wait. Unless you want to cook?”
She shrugged. “Maybe you can teach me?”
“Whatever you want.”
For a long, blissful moment, they stared into each other’s eyes with the same dopey, hopeful grin. Then River’s eyes widened, ruining the spell.
“Ma said something I’m starting to wonder about.” He rummaged around the table, found the letter, and scanned it. “Could be another thing I’ve been wrong about.”
His self-deprecating tone didn’t sit well with her. “What do you mean?”
“She said my blood was used for the spell, and that I had to complete the rituals. Not us.” River folded the letter, determination settling over his features. “That means you probably don’t have to do any of it.”
Her disappointment clashed with his hopeful eyes.
