Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
“Used to have a chore rotation at the group home.” Bastian shrugs. “Punks love them some barbeque.”
Group home? He doesn’t elaborate, so I leave it be.
“I can’t believe you’re cooking for me right now.”
“I’m not.” He flashes me a grin over his shoulder, a few dark strands of his hair falling over his forehead with the move, and my god, the heat that spreads through me. “I’m cooking for me, but I’ll share.” He glares then as if thinking better of it. “Food. I’ll share food … wait.” His features sharpen more, gaze, once again, darting my way. “This kind of food, feel me?”
A laugh bubbles up in me, and I look down, realizing my fingers are running across the cool leather in my lap. My eyes catch on the sewn-in tag at the collar. Written in the same perfect cursive on the note from his wallet. “Bishop.”
Our eyes meet, and he frowns, dropping his to the jacket.
He pauses a moment as if working through the slipup and deciding if he’s pissed I found it, but then he nods, turning to squirt sauce onto the meat right out of the bottle.
Bastian Bishop.
I look him over.
“Episcopos.”
He frowns my way, but only for a moment.
“Your last name,” I tell him. “It means overseer.” I pause. “What do you do, Bastian Bishop?”
It’s such a generic, cliché question. He’s around my age, so he should be in school. I skipped my senior year and went straight into the scholar’s program, now in year two.
“Oversee.”
I roll my eyes, watching as he grabs a strip of foil, drops the meat inside of it, and walks over, nodding his chin for me to move, so I scoot toward the other end.
Bastian places the tinfoil he’s using as a serving tray between us, sauce-coated chicken legs on top of it. I’ve never seen tinfoil at the dinner table, and I’ve never eaten chicken legs before, but it smells divine. So much so I lean forward for a stronger hint.
“All right, Rich Girl.” He holds the end of a drumstick and takes his switchblade, cutting into the meat and then lifting the blade to my lips.
“Forgot to pack the forks, did you?”
“No forks, no plates, and limited napkins.” He frowns in warning. “Now, open.”
I do as I’m told, and he eases the blade forward.
I snap my teeth closed over it and he tenses, making me laugh on the inside as I lean back, taking the bite with me. I flick my tongue out to touch the tip of the blade for fun and then chew.
My eyes widen, my palm coming up to cover my lips as I finish it.
“That’s … good.”
He nods, grabs a drumstick between his thumb and pointer finger, and bites right into it like a caveman, coming up with sauce along his cheeks.
Chuckling, I lean closer, and he narrows his eyes when I keep on coming. Gazes locked, I lick at the sauce, and before I can pull away, his free hand locks around my neck, and his mouth is on mine.
It’s hard and firm and wanting, and I open for him, welcoming the heat of his tongue and shivering as he rolls the silver ring across my lower lip. He pulls it into his mouth, growling as he tears away.
He glares, but it’s liquefied and hooded. “Eat.”
I look down at the mess between us, and he adjusts to cut me off more, but I nudge his arm away. Looking to where he still holds his piece between his fingers, I settle my gaze on mine.
And then I pick it up.
Bass
It’s comical. Truly.
Her face scrunches, and she stares at the mess of meat like it’s foreign, and she has no idea what to do next. To guide her, as fucking weird as that seems when we’re only eating fucking chicken, I bring mine to my lips, taking a more careful bite from the edge and she does the same, her hand coming up to hover beneath her mouth to protect her little schoolgirl uniform, just in case a rogue piece falls with her careful nibble.
Now that I think about it, she’s probably never had a chicken leg before.
“Okay, this is so going on the menu.” She sets her half-eaten bone down, stares at her fingers a moment, and then licks the tips clean.
“Menu, huh?” I toss my bone in the bag, going for a second one. “Your family own a restaurant or something?”
Her eyes fly up. “What? No. Why?”
“On the menu …” I raise a brow.
Her mouth opens, but then she looks down, and I’ll be damned. Her cheeks grow a hint darker, like the day I had her on her back beneath me. Well, not that deep of a flush, but a flush nonetheless.
Suddenly her shoulders square and her face goes all plastic on me, the fun, flirty girl going into dare to judge me mode. “We have house chefs with a rotating menu.”