Page 9 of Crazy In Love (Secrets of Suburbi 3)

"You're glaring at me," he said calmly like he had at the bar last night. But he shouldn't have been calm now. He was tied up. We weren't two carefree adults flirting in public. He was my prisoner.

"I'm not glaring." I turned away from him. I was expecting him to still be hostile, not...whatever the hell this was.

"Everything smells wonderful. Do you want to untie my hands so I can eat?"

So that's what this was. He was trying to make me feel comfortable so I would free him. But just because I was adorable didn't mean I wasn't one step ahead of him. "I'll feed you. Do you want syrup or butter on your French toast?" When I first met my husband he preferred butter. But after a few years I’d finally convinced him that syrup was a significantly better choice.

"Syrup."

Interesting. I lifted the bottle, trying my best not to look at him. I would not fall into whatever trap he was trying to put me in. But my hand hesitated before pouring the syrup. "Do you want it on the top or do you like to make a pool on the side that you dip it into?" My husband also swayed between these two options like the syrup newb that he was. There was no method to his madness.

"Which do you prefer?" he asked.

"I'm a dipper." The only reasonable choice.

"Ah. I should have guessed."

What does that mean?

"Whatever's easier for you. You're the one feeding me."

Right. But my hand with the bottle still hesitated. "Do you like a lot or a little?" My husband was also very finicky about his syrup usage depending on how much he'd worked out that day. A longer run meant more syrup. I tried not to sigh as I waited for a response. I would have made something else if I'd thought about how impossible this situation was. Tomorrow I'd serve cereal.

"A normal amount."

Normal was different for everyone, making normalcy a nonsense answer. He was being ridiculous. Or was he being agreeable? He was definitely being confusing. I poured some syrup on the side of his plate that was normal for me and plunged a bite of French toast into it. "Open."

He parted his lips, his eyes trained on mine instead of the fork. Odd choice. What if I was a serial killer? I could just stabbity stab him right in the throat and he never would have seen it coming. Although, I did just use the phrase stabbity stab, so he was probably safe from that ever happening.

His lips closed around the fork and he groaned.

I swallowed hard. He'd made that same noise last night when he kissed me. Like I was the only sustenance he needed to survive.

"Divine," he said. "This is seriously the best French toast I've ever had."

I knew it was divine. I knew it was the best. But hearing it still made me smile. I cut off a piece, twirled it in the syrup, and then took a bite for myself. Before I was done chewing I realized what I had done. I'd eaten off of his plate instead of my own. With his fork. Old habits die hard. "Sorry," I said and swallowed before I finished chewing. Which made me cough. Which for some reason made his smile grow. "I have a clean fork."

"I don't mind sharing," he said.

He was looking at me in that way again. Like when he'd called me beautiful instead of a bitch.

I cleared my throat. "I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs, so I scrambled them." I was the one that needed to keep him unbalanced. Statements like that would help. Please don't remember me. I pushed some into his mouth before he had a chance to respond with something disarming.

"You guessed right..."

Of course I guessed right. I shoved more food into his mouth to get him to stop talking. I wasn't sure which was worse...him yelling or him being overly nice. He's just messing with your head.

He wants you to untie him. But I was smarter than he was giving me credit for. There would be no lulling me into a false sense of security or buying basement Christmas trees for him.

When I forced him to drink orange juice, I poured it into his mouth a little too generously. Some dripped down the side of his chin. I caught the liquid with my thumb at the same time his tongue darted out to stop it. But instead of lapping up the orange juice, his tongue collided with my thumb. We both froze. Well, froze wasn’t exactly what I did. I'm pretty sure my temperature skyrocketed.

I was most certainly coming down with a cold. There was no other explanation for why my pajamas were suddenly too warm. I needed to get into bed. Drink hot tea. Guzzle down loads of soup. Maybe add some Nyquil to the mix to make me forget that I had a sexy man in my basement with a very warm and experienced tongue. Oh my God, stop. "All done eating? Okay, great." I dropped the fork that I'd stupidly shared with him onto the tray. "I'm just going to..." I pointed over my shoulder. "Later, alligator." Who says that? I picked up the tray and started walking toward the stairs.

"Wait! I kind of need to..." his voice trailed off.

I almost forgot to gag him again. I placed the tray back down. But before I could lift the fabric he started talking again.

"Would it be possible to get..."

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