Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“It’s great,” I say.
“What are you going to do for dinner tonight?” Mom asks.
I shrug. “I’ll rustle something up.”
“Do you think you could make something for Miles, too? You don’t have to, but I feel guilty about leaving him on his first night here.”
Jeez. Talk about testing me.
I could tell Mom I couldn’t make him dinner. It would make me feel too domestic, too wife-like, a preview of the future I can’t afford to entertain, but Mom is looking at me with too much hope. She prides herself on being a good hostess.
“Sure,” I say, nodding. “That’s not a problem.”
The door opens, and Noah and Miles walk in.
Miles has his T-shirt on again, but he’s so sweaty it’s sticking to his body.
“Sorry we have to abandon you this evening,” Mom says, “but Layla has offered to cook you a feast fit for a king.”
I’m about to protest that, first, I didn’t offer, and second, I didn’t say I’d cook a feast. Then Miles looks at me closely, and suddenly, nothing else matters.
No consequences exist—just us.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asks.
I swallow, wondering if he imagines kissing me, us holding each other, the passion moving into heated territory to places that should make me nervous, considering my experience. Or my lack of experience, really.
“It’s no trouble at all,” I tell him.
So, there it is, all planned out—our first date.
CHAPTER FOUR
Miles
After buttoning up my shirt, I brush my hair, then sigh gently.
Noah and Elena have already left.
From downstairs, I can hear the radio and smell spices. I hear my woman rushing around the kitchen and the clattering of pots and pans. This is far too close to the life I dreamed about. Being with my woman, having her cook meals for me… and then after…
“Be. Good.”
I say that firmly under my breath as a reminder. I’ll need a lot of those.
Layla is beautiful as she chops vegetables. Something is sizzling on the stove, and she has her back to me, standing in the kitchen’s light. She’s tied her hair up in a bun, a few wild strands spiraling.
I watch her for as long as I can, pretending I’ve slipped through reality, slipped through time, and we’re about to share a meal as husband and wife.
She’s startled when she spots me, almost dropping the chopping board. I dart forward, catching it.
“Thanks,” she says. “I had no clue you were there.”
“It’s my fault for sneaking around,” I tell her.
I hold the board, my hand an inch from hers, close enough to slide it the rest of the way and feel her warmth—the heat I’ve dreamed about every night since leaving her.
“It’s nothing crazy,” she says, carrying the chopping board to the stove. “A nice and simple stir-fry. Lots of meat. You probably need the protein after your workout earlier.”
“I feel blessed, Layla. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a proper home-cooked meal and from a professional, too.”
She rolls her eyes as the veggies sizzle.
“I’m not quite a professional yet,” she says, “but thank you.”
“It smells delicious,” I reply.
She carries the chopping board to the sink, placing it beside the other dishes.
“Would you like a drink or anything?” she asks.
“Let me sort that. You’ve already done so much for me.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll take water.”
“I’ll set the table, too.”
These tasks give me an excuse to create some space between us. As I busy myself in the dining room, I breathe slowly, ordering my body to stop with the never-ending signals. My balls feel full, flooded with seed. My hunger won’t wane.
When I return, she’s at the stove, tossing the stir-fry. She works with practiced skills. The best part is the look of concentration on her face, how she bites her bottom lip, and the care she applies to the task.
“You love your work,” I say.
She looks at me over her shoulder. The lust in me tries to take control, imagining her looking this same way when she’s bent over, her beautiful big ass on display, ready for me to guide my member to her hole, to slip inside, push deep so there’s no space between us at all.
Pushing those thoughts away, or at least to the edges of my mind, I focus on her response.
“You can tell that just from watching me toss a stir-fry?”
“Your passion is obvious, and I’m no expert, but this food smells delicious.”
I could spend the rest of my life complimenting this woman, being rewarded by her flushed cheeks and the conflicted pride and embarrassment on her face. Is it because I’m complimenting her? Is that where the embarrassment comes in? Or is it a general feeling?
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” she says softly.
There are lots of things I haven’t tasted, my sweet Layla. Her nipples in my mouth, and then I’d kiss down her belly, over the place that will one day hold our child, and further, until I’m kissing her legs and getting ready to indulge in her young, sopping core.