Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
The hiss of a bottle opening sounded before Kane rounded the island to place the beer in front of me, pulling up my hair to kiss the back of my neck.
I shivered.
The casual affection was unnerving.
But what was more unnerving was that it felt natural. Right.
“Gotta say, babe, I thought of you as more of a fine wine type of gal,” he said, walking back to the pan where he resumed the process of cooking.
I put my shaking hand around the bottle dripping with condensation, taking a long drink to wet my dry throat.
I contemplated his words. “I suppose that aligns with what little you know of me.” I wiped the wetness from the bottle onto his tee. “I don’t mind wine, especially the expensive stuff. It’s my job to know it, pair it with the dishes I serve. Well, it’s technically my sommelier's job, but I don’t hand over reins easily.”
“Well, that tracks with what little I know of you,” he teased, looking over his shoulder at me.
The underlying assumption being he thought of me as a control freak didn’t feel like an insult. Kane didn’t seem to feel threatened by the control I liked or my ‘abrasive’ personality, my inability to go with the flow—all things previous boyfriends had been vocal about.
Then again, he’d just met me, and I’d uncharacteristically gone with the flow, so he hadn’t really had the full experience. My throat clenched at the thought of someone obviously reckless and free like Kane knowing the real me… My schedules, my routine, my order. He would not like that.
For the first time in my adult life, I wanted to change myself for a man. A man I just met.
I shook that feeling off, taking a sip of my beer before putting it down. “I don’t drink often,” I continued, my voice notably cooler. “I don’t enjoy it. Being drunk.”
To my surprise, Kane nodded, sipping his own beer. “Yeah, it’s more fun to do crazy shit sober. Doing anything with a buzz just kind of … cheapens it. For me anyway.” He shrugged. “Each to their own, though. I’m not saying I haven’t gotten fucked-up. I have. Plenty. But in my old age, I enjoy making decisions based on needs, not on a chemical reaction to booze. And it would’ve been a fucking tragedy if I hadn’t been sober for the last two hours.”
I crossed my legs, needing friction as all of my hastily-gathered cool melted.
“I don’t know about wine pairings, but I’m thinking beer and pasta go pretty well with mind-blowing sex.” His voice was thick with mischief and lust.
There was nothing I could say, so I just nodded my head and watched him cook.
He didn’t press the conversation further.
It was nice, lapsing into comfortable silence, no need to force conversation.
I didn’t remember a time in my life when I felt more relaxed.
Though my instincts told me to get up, to clean up after Kane, to take over, I ignored them. I just sat and watched Kane “The Devil” Rhodes cook me pasta.
Naked.
I filed that away in my memories, knowing even then that it was something I’d revisit long after he’d forgotten about me.
I placed my fork in the center of my clean plate, licking my lips. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to finish the mountain of pasta Kane had served me, but I was obviously hungrier than I’d realized.
“That was amazing,” I said honestly.
He smacked his lips, his own plate empty too. “I get the chef’s stamp of approval?” he asked without self-consciousness.
I nodded. “You definitely do.”
In more ways than one, was what I left unsaid.
I leaned over to get his plate, stacking it with mine. “I’ll get the dishes.”
Kane caught my wrist. “Fuck the dishes. They’ll still be there in the morning.”
My eyes went to the chaotic kitchen, to our plates. Again, it went against all my instincts to leave such a mess.
“Give you a little brain aneurysm thinking of this sitting overnight?” Kane teased, this thumb gently rubbing the inside of my wrist.
I looked at him. He was smiling. Again, he wasn’t put off by my obvious Type-A personality. He seemed to find it … endearing?
I smiled back without even meaning to. “Maybe.”
He didn’t reply, just looked at me with too much knowing and tenderness.
Suddenly, I was uncomfortable under that gaze. Uncomfortable in his shirt, with a stomach full of his food. It was easy. Too easy.
“It’s late.” I yanked my wrist out of his grasp, voice cold.
It was the middle of the night. I wasn’t tired. Though I should’ve been. I’d been up since dawn, worked to get everything prepped at the restaurant for one of my very rare nights off. I was on my feet for hours out of the day, and I wasn’t athletically fit. Then there was the physical exertion of the sex.