“You’re a flirt,” I say, trying not to smile. “You can’t help yourself. Just stop with the face thing.”
He raises a brow at me. “The face thing?”
“The smirk,” I say with exasperation. “The thing you’re doing right now with your dimple.”
“I don’t control my dimple.” He laughs. “But I do know he’d like to be rubbing against your inner thigh right now.”
My legs feel that sentence settle into the flesh between them. “I. Said,” I say through a strangled breath. “Not a word. Okay?”
He nods, amusement all over his lovely features. “My dimple and I comply.”
“Tonight, I’m going to pretend. . .” I reach for what I want to express. Need to. I force it out. “Pretend that I’m not engaged. And I want us to talk.” I try to stop my breath from shuddering out as I speak. “Be honest with each other.”
He slowly lowers his arms to his sides. “Just tonight?”
“There is only tonight,” I mutter, my voice shaking with each painful word, as they are neither strong nor fierce, but hesitant and sorrowful.
I have Akila to think about.
He runs his gaze over the length of my body. If his eyes could lick me from my foot to where my heart beats frantically within my chest, they would. “My dimple and I object.”
“Object to what?”
“Just tonight.”
“Bronson, please. No joking.”
“I’m not a joking kind of guy.”
That’s the most inaccurate statement ever uttered. I strangle a giggle, focusing on getting this part of the evening out of the way. “Do as you’re told, Bronson Butcher!”
He raises his hands, a smirk still firmly in place. “Okay, baby. No jokes.”
I nod. A heavy breath pushes past my unsteady smile. Bronson steps aside, holding the door open for me as I walk into the rich, comforting space of his suite. “Jesus, this is a nice place.”
Watching me closely, he tracks my movements around the hotel suite. “My dimple is not humble.”
Making my way into the kitchen, I see a pot on the flame simmering away. Fresh leafy greens cut up on a wooden chopping board, sliced tomatoes tossed with salt and pepper and feta, and two wine glasses sit on the shiny granite kitchen counter. Sadness seeps through me. I breathe in fast. Out. In.
“I’ll cook dinner for you every damn night. We’ll never eat in front of the TV. We’ll sit at the table and talk about our day.”
“You’re cooking for me?” I say, sliding on to a black stool. His presence strokes my spine as he moves past me into the kitchen.
“I cook every night, baby. I said I would.”
My throat tightens. Fighting back emotions, I watch all six-foot-five inches of tattooed masculinity work in the kitchen with ease. He spins to face me, that knowing smirk on his face.
“Checking me out?”
I try not to blush too hard. “I’m hungry.”
He slowly licks his lower lip, eyeing me with obvious intent. His gaze dances around the heavy rise and fall of my breasts, and time, for a moment, is still. Very still. The sound of the water slowly rising to a boil builds the tension between us. Just as the water steams and bubbles, becoming more volatile and scorching, so does the environment. The simmer of water is a suspenseful sound that seems to grow as the quiet lingers.
My insides simmer to its melody.
It dares me not to feel it.
His gaze arrows into me. “Careful with the way you look at me, baby. Or you’ll get that pretty little mouth stuffed with something besides risotto.”