This gorilla-sized man is thundering around The Pit’s kitchen, and he appears to be making about twenty pancakes on the flat grill. I never pegged him for the Suzy homemaker type, but even I have to admit it’s pretty damn sexy watching a man cook breakfast for dinner.
“Fuck, this heat has me wanting to stroke out,” he grumbles, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his plain black T-shirt.
“Welcome to Texas,” I mutter, swinging my legs as I sit on the shiny metal prep table, watching him mix a bunch of shit and then pour circles on the enormous restaurant size cooker. “You’re really going to be able to eat all of that?”
He grunts and next thing I know, he’s shedding his shirt, draping it over his shoulder giving me a full view of his wide, muscular back. Only one thing shapes muscles like that. I’d bet the man can do pull-ups for days. No wonder he knocked ol’ gnome out yesterday when he hit him. The man has the strength to easily dole out some punishment. Plus, he’s like six feet six or somewhere around there.
“How tall are you, anyhow?”
He turns to glance at me, eyebrow cocked. “Why?”
“Uh, I was just thinking about how you knocked that guy out last night. I was trying to figure out how many pull-ups you can do and was factoring in your height.”
His brow furrows. “You come off hostile, but I think it’s because you’re too damn smart up there in that pretty little head of yours.” He uses the spatula to gesture toward my skull.
“And you’re the size of an ogre. Should I assume you’re all brawn and no brains?”
He shrugs, turning back to flip the flapjacks over, and mutters, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Staring at him with that comment, I realize I don’t exactly hate him at this moment. He annoys me, but I think it’s because he’s so freaking attractive and he pushes me. Most men don’t have enough balls to really take me for what I am. They scare easily. This ogre, though, not so much. Maybe because he’s used to being the one who does the tormenting.
“So, how many can you do?”
“Pull-ups?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs then steps to me. “Watch the hotcakes.”
“Uh, ‘kay, but don’t be pissed if I burn them.”
“Won’t be the first time I had them like that either.” He shrugs and leaves me with a wink.
He stops in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” My gaze remains trapped on his every move. I can’t seem to break away from staring.
“You’re the one who wanted to know.” He drops his shirt, turning to face me and seconds later jumps up.
There’s a bar above the door, secured to the frame. It’s so we can slide a top lock in place if needed. I never really understood why the previous owner had it like that.
He makes it to fifty when the pancakes are cooked, and I have them on paper plates. He’s not even winded, chest coated in a light sheen of sweat. Fuck me, do I want to lick his freaking pecs. The man is ripped and just put me in my curious place pumping out fifty pull-ups without another thought. The sex we could have would be insane! Not that I plan to fuck him, but holy hell, I have to scrape my jaw off the floor at this rate.
“Not bad,” I mutter and hand him his plate.
“Mm-hmm, could keep going, but I’m hungry,” he grumbles, grabbing a plastic spork and the jar of peanut butter. There wasn’t any syrup around, but he swore the peanut butter would be just as good if not better. I’ve never had it like that, so we’ll see.
We sit side by side on the prep table and oh baby Jesus H. Christ do I want to lean over and just sniff him. The man’s pheromones are blanketing me with his little impromptu workout and cooking session. Not only that, but he can drive. The bastard won his race last night. I almost don’t know how to act around him.
He smears the peanut butter with his finger on each cake and holds it up.
“What?”
“Lick it.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’d offer that too, but I know you’ll fight me about it.”