Chapter Thirty-three
Rayne
After Rayne returned from the grocery store, he’d put all the food away, then gone upstairs and done a little unpacking before he took another long, hot bath in his favorite oil. By then, it was time for him to get started on dinner.
He had his vegetables and rice simmering, and the aroma of fresh herbs was beginning to take over the downstairs. Surely, Mike had to smell it too. Rayne spooned some more garlic lemon butter sauce on top of his seared salmon filets before he took the skillet off the range and slid it into the oven to finish.
“What the hell smells like fish?” Mike yelled, coming down the stairs.
“Fish!” Rayne hollered right back. When he turned away from the stove, Mike was standing on the other side of the island, and then he was in his arms.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked, but Rayne didn’t have a chance to answer before Mike pressed his mouth against his. It made him moan at the confidence and the control. It wasn’t until his dick was good and hard that Mike stopped.
“Can I have more of that for dessert?” Rayne asked breathlessly.
“We’ll see.” Mike nipped his bottom lip, his rough timbre sending chills down Rayne’s spine. He liked that Mike wasn’t pressed for his body; his primary focus wasn’t to fuck him like every other man he’d encountered. And it was one of the biggest turn-ons Rayne had ever experienced.
“Yes. We will see.” Rayne gave Mike one of his looks, lowering his lashes to his cheeks as he smoothed his hands over Mike’s clean T-shirt that was clinging to his damp chest. He felt the rumble of Mike’s growl beneath his palm, making him dig in closer. “You’ll see I’m used to getting what I want.”
Mike held Rayne behind his neck and pulled him close for another kiss, smiling cunningly against his mouth before he let him go. Rayne was hot and flushed, but he managed to pull himself together enough to lower the temperature on his wild rice before it got mushy.
Mike opened the refrigerator and froze mid-reach. “Where’s all the beer? And what is… what is that?”
“Your beer is on the bottom shelf,” Rayne answered. “And what is what?”
“That block of thick, wet, white—”
“Before you say shit… it’s tofu. I plan to make a scramble on Monday morning before work.”
Mike shook his head, but he looked more amused than annoyed. He popped open his beer and guzzled a few gulps, his eyes catching on the sauté pan on the back burner. “Why is there green shit on the stove?”
“It’s spicy garlic edamame.” Rayne chuckled at the horrified expression on Mike’s face.
“What the hell is etta—? Oh, never mind. Rayne, I’ve been working outside in the sun all day… I’m not about to eat like I’m on a keto diet.” Mike tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. His steps faltered when he noticed the huge bowl of oranges, apples, and peaches on the island.
“Mike. Before you judge, give my food a chance. You might like it. You are what you eat, y’know.”
“Well, tonight, I guess I feel like being a cow because I’m about to order a double cheeseburger from Outback.”
Rayne sucked his teeth.
“Calm down. I was gonna buy you one too,” Mike said, sounding for real.
“And does it come with a side of high cholesterol too? No, thank you. We’re going to eat what I cooked.” Rayne leaned forward and kissed Mike’s slack lips while he stood next to him at the stove, peeking in the pot as if there was something scary inside of it.
“Where’s the meat?”
“In the oven. We’re having pan-roasted salmon.”
“Well, only if it’s organic, wild-caught, and ethically butchered, of course,” Mike droned, and Rayne barked a laugh so hard he shocked even himself. He didn’t know Mike had a sense of humor.
“Very cute. And actually, it is wild-caught Pacific, so the joke’s on you.”
“You’re lucky I’m crazy about you.” Mike eased behind him, making Rayne pulse and tingle in some interesting places from that declaration.
Mike’s hair was still damp from his shower, and Rayne got a good whiff of the masculine bodywash as Mike burrowed under Rayne’s collar. Mike ventured beneath Rayne’s loose shirt and stroked his rough hands over his skin, making every nerve and cell strain toward him.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this? You don’t strike me as the type that spent hours in the kitchen.”