Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 177137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 886(@200wpm)___ 709(@250wpm)___ 590(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 886(@200wpm)___ 709(@250wpm)___ 590(@300wpm)
“This place is still so new. I think the opener is in that drawer there.” She points using her chin. I smile at her multitasking and locate the corkscrew. I’m pleased that she hasn’t been drowning her sorrows during my absence. I’ve seen what happens when she gets drunk.
When I turn to look at her, she’s blushing.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask as I shrug out of my jacket and toss it on the couch. I make my way back to the waiting bottle of wine.
“How little I know you.”
“You know me better than anyone.” She can certainly read me like no one else. It’s unsettling. I open the bottle, mimicking the cheesy flourish of the waiter in Portland.
“I don’t think that’s true,” she responds, as she continues to unpack the bags.
“It is, Anastasia. I’m a very, very private person.” It comes with the territory, doing what I do. What I did.
I pour two glasses and hand one to her.
“Cheers.” I raise my glass.
“Cheers.” She takes a sip and then starts busying herself in the kitchen. She’s in her element. I remember her telling me how she used to cook for her dad.
“Can I help you with that?” I ask.
She gives me a sideways I’ve-got-this look. “No, it’s fine. Sit.”
“I’d like to help.”
She can’t hide her surprise. “You can chop the vegetables.” It sounds like she’s making a huge concession. Perhaps she’s right to be wary. I know nothing about cooking. My mother, Mrs. Jones, and my submissives—some with more success than others—have all fulfilled that role.
“I don’t cook,” I tell her while examining the razor-sharp knife she hands me.
“I imagine you don’t need to.” She places a chopping board and some red peppers in front me.
What the hell am I supposed to do with these? They are such a weird shape.
“You’ve never chopped a vegetable?” Anastasia asks in disbelief.
“No.”
She looks smug all of a sudden.
“Are you smirking at me?”
“It appears this is something that I can do and you can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think this is a first. Here—I’ll show you.”
She brushes past me, her arm touching mine, and my body springs to life.
Christ.
I step out of her way.
“Like this.” She demonstrates, slicing into the red pepper and removing all the seeds and shit from the inside with one smooth twirl of her knife.
“Looks simple enough.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble with it.” Her tone is teasing but ironic. Does she think I’m not capable of chopping a vegetable? With careful precision, I start to slice.
Damn, these seeds get everywhere. It’s more difficult than I thought. Ana made it look easy. She pushes past me, her thigh brushing against my leg as she collects the ingredients. It’s deliberate, I’m sure, but I try to ignore the effect she’s having on my libido, and I continue to slice with care. This blade is evil. She moves past me again, this time skimming her hip against me, then again, another touch, and all below my waist. My cock approves, big-time. “I know what you’re doing, Anastasia.”
“I think it’s called cooking,” she says with disingenuous sincerity.
Oh. Playful Anastasia. Is she finally realizing the power she has over me?
Grabbing another knife, she joins me at the chopping board, peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and French beans. She takes every opportunity to bump into me. She’s not subtle.
“You’re quite good at this,” I concede, as I start on my second pepper.
“Chopping?” She bats her eyelashes. “Years of practice,” she states, and brushes up against me with her behind.
That’s it. Enough.
She takes the vegetables and places them beside the gently smoking wok.
“If you do that again, Anastasia, I’m going to take you on the kitchen floor.”
“You’ll have to beg me first,” she counters.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
Oh, Miss Steele. Bring it on.
I put down the knife and meander over to where she’s standing, keeping her pinned with my gaze. Her lips part as I lean past her, an inch away, but I don’t touch her. With a twist, I switch off the gas for the wok. “I think we’ll eat later.” Because right now I’m going to fuck your brains out. “Put the chicken in the fridge.”
Swallowing hard, she picks up the bowl of diced chicken, rather clumsily places a plate over the top, and puts the whole thing in the fridge. I step up behind her silently so that when she turns I’m right in front of her.
“So, you’re going to beg?” she whispers.
“No, Anastasia.” I shake my head. “No begging.” I look down at her, lust and need thickening my blood.
Fuck, I want to be buried in her.
I watch as her pupils dilate and her cheeks flush with desire. She wants me. I want her. She bites her lip and I can bear it no more. Grabbing her hips, I pull her against my growing erection. Her hands are in my hair and she’s pulling me down to her mouth. I push her against the fridge and kiss her hard.