Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I see his shoulders lift a few inches as if I had just said exactly what he was hoping I would before he walks away.
Once he leaves the room, I pull my phone out of my pocket, pop my earbuds in, and begin a fast-paced playlist, one that never fails to get me in the right headspace to cook.
I take a moment for myself, closing my eyes and pulling in several deep breaths in an attempt to calm my nerves. I'm in a rush, but I don't have to feel rushed.
"You know what you're doing," I whisper. "Just cook."
When I reopen my eyes, a new sense of calm has entered my blood. I'm ready for this, and despite having an hour and a half less time than I thought, I can do this with only a few minor tweaks to the menu.
To save time later, I work on prepping the vegetables, regretting my choice not to do this earlier. That part of me that enjoyed the other night wanted to spend more time around him tonight, and doing a lot of the prep here rather than at home allowed it.
I don't bother looking at my watch because there's nothing I can do to slow down time, and I'm going as fast as I can manage.
The song I've had on repeat for the last couple of weeks comes on, and I swear I feel the rhythm in my soul. I sway my hips, singing a lot to the part I understand, as I drop my eyes to look at the fire under the pan of oil. The pot I brought for this is way too big, and I realize I could've spent less time with it by doing two different batches of chicken spring rolls instead of one big one.
My Asian-inspired menu for tonight is more like tapas, where there's a variety of different things to taste. I was feeling a little petty about Mac demanding that I make a full meal rather than a tasting like I had suggested so he could pick exactly what he wanted.
I know that his giving me free rein on what to make will also leave fingers pointed at me if anyone is disappointed. Although I have complete confidence in my cooking skills, I know the folks around here have a particular palate and prefer things as they've always had. They aren't very keen on stepping outside of those comfort foods and trying something new.
My goal with my business is to help people change those hard-and-fast food requirements. I want people who have doubted me to try my food and admit that they were wrong, that there is a place for me in this town.
"Get hot," I mutter when I flick water droplets into the pan, only for nothing to happen.
Almost every other thing is ready, and I waited to the very end for these, so there's a greater chance that they'll still be hot once they're served to the McGees. Mac doesn't seem like the type to have a cocktail hour before the meal, so I'm working on the assumption that they can sit down to eat almost immediately after their arrival.
I squeal when I'm spun around so quickly that one of my earbuds flies across the room, but I don't have time to look and see where it landed before Mac has his lips pressed to mine.
"What are you—" I manage when he pulls back for a second to catch his breath, but the words disappear when he lifts me, urging my hips around his.
Threads rip in the hemline of my dress with the stress of having my legs spread so wide, but then his mouth is on me again, his boots thumping loudly on the slate flooring as he carries me from the room.
I once again feel subconscious about my weight, but it fades when he traverses the stairs with his lips on the skin of my neck without so much as a grunt for extending the effort.
"I think you were put on earth to fucking drive me insane," he says as he shoves his bedroom door open so violently that it hits the doorstop and bounces back.
He manages to catch it without even looking before it can slam into my back, and in the next breath, he drops me to the bed.
I stare up at him, dumbfounded and blinking, as he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a foil packet before tossing his wallet away as if it doesn't matter where it lands.
"Turn around," he grunts as he unzips his jeans. "Ass up."
"You've got some fucking ner—"
The words fall away when he pulls out that magnificent cock of his.
Does it really matter that he was rude the other night? The sex was out-of-this-world good.
"You've got some nerve," he argues as he rolls the latex down his length. "Shaking that ass of yours in my kitchen. Ass up, Riley."