Page 6 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I momentarily brighten at the thought of being treated to a dinner out, but Eric dispels that idea by saying, “I’ve been dreaming about your lasagna all day.”
He gives me another sloppy kiss, and moves past me into the apartment, not noticing that I’ve closed my eyes and am counting to ten.
This is one thing my mother got right. She never cooked or cleaned, so no one ever expected it of her. And if ever she got a wild hair up her butt and cooked something for us—even something as simple as toast—the entire family acted as if it were a Christmas miracle.
She might be a pampered snob, but she’s no dummy. If you don’t spoil other people, they can never take you for granted.
I close the door and join Eric in the kitchen, where he’s rummaging through my fridge. He emerges with a beer, pops the top, guzzles from the bottle, and shucks off his shoes, all without closing the refrigerator door. “How was your day, babe?”
I sigh. “Long.”
He doesn’t ask for details. “Mine, too. I’m beat. And starving,” he adds with emphasis, finally closing the door. Unbuckling the black utility belt around his waist, he deposits his gun, baton, radio, and all the other various accessories attached to it directly onto my kitchen counter. It makes a strangely ominous-looking mess. He drops his hat and badge beside the mess, strips off his navy short-sleeved shirt and regulation trousers, throws them over the whole pile, and turns to me, wearing only a pair of black socks, his white undershirt and briefs, and a huge grin.
He spreads his legs, props his hands on his hips, and declares, “Officer Eric Cox reporting for duty, ma’am! What’s this rookie’s lesson for today?”
I stifle another sigh.
Once upon a time, Eric’s talent for kissing was as bad as my Grandpa Walt’s practical jokes. It shocked me when we first started dating, because he’s a great-looking guy with loads of self-confidence, and, I assumed, plenty of experience with women. Apparently that experience did not include learning how to control a violently enthusiastic tongue while kissing. I swear the man would stick his tongue so far down my throat he could taste my lungs. When I complained about the problem to Kat, she suggested I take matters into my own hands and show him what I liked.
So I made up a game called “The Rookie Gets Shown the Ropes.” Far from being insulted, Eric took to our little game like a duck to water.
And now I have a monster on my hands.
I calmly fold my arms across my chest and lean against the fridge. “Well, Officer Cox, today’s lesson is a very important one. It’s called ‘How to Order Takeout When Your Girlfriend Has Worked a Twelve-Hour Day and Has a Migraine That Might Compel Her to Rearrange Certain Parts of Your Face with Her Fists.’”
He laughs uproariously. He thinks I’m joking.
“Babe, you’re so cute when you try to act like Grace! I love it! Do more!”
Grace is my other best friend. She’s a marriage and family counselor, whip smart, older than me and Kat by five years, and a bona fide badass. If Eric was her boyfriend and he’d demanded homemade lasagna within the first five seconds of walking in her door at the end of the day, he’d be missing a few important body parts right now.
“Sure. Our second lesson today will be, ‘How to Survive a Spanking with a Spatula with Your Dignity Intact.’” Without taking my gaze from his smiling face, I remove a wooden spatula from the jar on the counter next to the stove. I slap it against my thigh. “And our final lesson is simply called ‘Paying Attention to the Warning Signs of a Psychotic Break in the Tired, Irritated Female.’”
I smile sweetly at him, tapping the spatula against my leg. His own smile fades.
“Oh. Oops. Sorry, babe.”
He might be a little oblivious, but I’ll give him points for the apology, which I can tell he means.
Relenting, I toss the spatula to the counter. I give him a hug. “It’s not your fault. I just had a terrible day, and I’ve got a splitting he
adache. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
He hugs me back, chuckling. “You didn’t even raise your voice, silly. And I meant it when I said you were cute. If that’s you snapping, then I’ll take it anytime. My last girlfriend used to break stuff when she was angry. She’s Italian,” he adds, as if her nationality explained her urge to destroy things.
I rest my head on his shoulder, which strains my neck. Without his work shoes, he’s lost another inch. “Do you mind if we just order a pizza tonight? I really don’t feel up to cooking.”
His voice registers concern. “Sure. Why don’t you go take some Advil and put something more comfortable on, and I’ll take care of it. And after dinner I’ll give you a massage. How’s that?”
I groan in anticipation. “That sounds amazing. Thank you.”
He nuzzles my neck. His voice drops. “After your massage, you’ll get something that will relax you even more.”
I know he’s trying to be sexy, but the odd and unwelcome image of him slipping a roofie in my drink has me wondering what’s wrong with me. Eric would never do something like that. He’d never have to; in spite of what A.J. Edwards might think, I have a healthy appetite for sex, thank you very much.
A.J. Why does he look at me the way he does? Why does he treat me like I’m a leper? What’s that scar above his eyebrow? And those tattoos on his neck and the backs of his fingers, what are those all about? Does he have more tattoos? Where?
Why am I thinking about A.J. when my boyfriend is kissing my neck?
