Page 114 of Only Mine
She reads my mind, grinning. “You have that look. Like you’re about to criticize my knife skills and then bend me over the prep table.”
“Only if you’re lucky.”
Her cheeks color, but she holds my gaze.
And to my insane delight, she unties the apron and begins peeling off her clothes underneath.
My hand freezes on the wineglass, watching as she pulls her sweater over her head. She’s not wearing a bra, just a thin camisole that clings to her curves like a second skin. The kitchen light catches on the lines marking her shoulders, thin whitescars forming a crosshatch pattern along one side of her collarbone. They gleam like silver threads, some older and faded to white, while others are newer with the faintest blush of pink.
They tell a story I’ve heard in fragments, one I wish I could erase.
I’ve seen them before, kissed them multiple times, and traced them with my tongue, but the sight of them always awakens the beast nestled inside me. Knowing she did this to herself, that she carved her pain into her own flesh when there was no one to protect her, makes my throat constrict.
I’d like to find every person who made her feel this was necessary. Her attacker, the police, the commenters, and the detective who suggested she invited it, and tear them apart with my bare hands.
Wrenley’s eyes flick down to where my attention is fixed, then back to my face. She doesn’t cover her scars or look away. Rather, she lowers the straps and slips out of the camisole, too.
Silence turns out to be a hidden talent of mine, because I’m able to remain still and quiet as she takes off her pants and underwear, then re-ties the apron, covering just enough to make me want to tear it off with my teeth.
I stay exactly where I am, a predator’s reaction to unexpected movement.
Her voice in that video swirls inside my skull, hoarse and shredded.When I can’t breathe, I dig my nails in until skin splits. That’s from reading comments about how I should be grateful he didn’t do worse…
The memory makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth might crack. Wrenley’s standing before me now, vulnerable and brave in nothing but my kitchen apron, and I’ll stop at nothing to build walls around her so no one can hurt her again.
“You’re staring again,” she says quietly.
I force myself to exhale. “I’m appreciating.”
“Appreciating what, exactly?” Wrenley adjusts her apron strings.
I set down my wineglass and circle the island, keeping a deliberate distance. “Your courage.”
A half smile plays on her lips. “This isn’t courage. It’s impatience. I really want you to fuck me again.”
“Is that right?” I reach for the olive oil, pouring a shallow pool into the pan without taking my eyes off her. “Hands.”
She extends them, palms up, just like a kid doing as she’s told.
I take them in mine, positioning her fingers around the wooden spoon, and she moans in disappointment.
“First rule of risotto: constant motion.” I guide her hand to the pan, standing close enough that she can feel my breath on her neck but not touching her anywhere else. “Like this.”
The burner ignites with a soft whoosh. I place the pan over the flame and add a knob of butter, watching it melt and bubble alongside the oil, then reach around her to add minced shallots. “Stir until translucent.”
Wrenley obeys, the wooden spoon making lazy circles. The kitchen fills with the sweet, sharp scent similar to garlic, onions, and butter.
“Stir from the center,” I instruct, purposely keeping my body just far enough away that she can feel my body heat, but not my touch.
Her shoulders tense as she concentrates, the muscles in her back shifting under smooth skin where the apron ties leave most of it exposed. A flush creeps up her neck.
“Am I doing it right?” she asks, her voice pitched lower than normal.
“Slower,” I murmur near her ear. “Cooking isn’t a race.”
She shivers.
“Now the rice.”
