Hell, this stings. Why am I even thinking about it?
She’s going through my cupboards. I bet the harvest is poor, but I eyeball her heart-shaped ass inside her skirt and try in vain to look away.
Food and a pretty girl. Eating and pleasure. Yeah, baby. These two go together in my mind.
Food is important. Hell, there was a time not long ago food would have been my number one priority. Filling my empty belly, and my brother’s, even if it meant begging from door to door or doing illegal shit for a piece of bread.
But now, looking at her… I don’t think I’ll ever eat again without getting a hard-on.
I’m given the task of cutting up chicken fillets into cubes, and I apply myself with all I have, murdering the filets until they’re practically mincemeat.
Feeling marginally better, I turn to watch her as she stirs onions and peppers in the pot. The smell is heavenly, and it makes my stomach growl.
She laughs and shoots me a glance. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.” This is the kind of smell that never wafted from the kitchen of the trailer where I grew up. I sometimes used to stop outside random houses and inhale, let myself imagine I lived there.
I’m hungry and horny and goddamn hard. She looks good enough to eat in my kitchenette, and my thoughts stray from the food completely. I didn’t know a girl in my kitchen could be such a turn-on.
Or maybe it’s just her. The memory of her tits, her nipples in my mouth, how wet she was, how she moaned when I touched her.
Bet she looks hot whatever she does. Bet she’d look even hotter out of her skirt and blouse, only dressed in the red apron she found in my stuff.
Or without the apron. Without anything at all. Just miles of creamy skin and—
“Pass me the chicken?”
Swallowing a groan, I grab the wooden slab with the meat piled on top and step to her side. Glance into the bubbling pot where she threw more veggies while I was imagining her naked and writhing under my mouth and hands, producing those breathy moans and—
“Can you stir this while I get the potatoes?”
A wooden spoon I didn’t know I owned is thrust into my hand, and I move it around in the bubbling mass, my gaze trailing after her.
I had my fingers inside her, and my tongue in her mouth not fifteen minutes ago. Her taste… Fuck, man, that shit’s addictive. I can’t stop thinking about it.
Can’t stop thinking about stealing some more time with her to explore her body, to find out what makes her tick, what makes her toes curl, what makes her come so hard she passes out with the force of it.
Jesus, Ocean. Slow down.
“So you won’t tell Jesse?” Kayla asks. At my uncomprehending look, she explains, “About Jason being so sick. You said you’ll be away this weekend somewhere.”
“Yeah.”
She’s looking at me as if expecting something more. About where I’m going, I bet.
I turn back to the pot, give it a half-hearted stir. “I’ll give it until Friday. If by then he’s not better, I should probably not only tell Jesse, but take him to a doctor.”
“I’ll help. I could come by tomorrow evening, if you’d like me to.”
I blink. “To make more soup?”
“And tea. If he’s not better.”
Right. Make soup and tea. Be here. With me.
“Ocean…” She takes a step closer, I hear her shoes scrape on the floor. “What is it?”
My hand is shaking, rattling the wooden spoon inside the pot. I clench my fingers around it. Oh, come on. Why do my eyes feel so hot? Why do I feel like my strings are getting cut, one by one, leaving me to sink and drown?