I stand at the counter, slicing the breasts to half thickness. “Chicken Piccata. I’ll make yours with no breading. Heck, I probably should make both of ours with no breading.”
Jack steps in behind me, his hands running over my hips and around my waist. “No, you shouldn’t. You need to maintain your physique as well. Exactly the way it is.”
That never-ending flame he stokes in me flares to life. I need a fire suppression system when he’s around. I try to ignore how his words massage my heart. He says things like that, and I forget that we aren’t really dating.
We aren’t really anything. Fuck buddies, maybe. Since the masquerade ball, he’s been over every day. Without fail. We have sex. We talk. Sometimes we fuck a second time—or a third. Once, a fourth—man, was that ever a day. But with the exception of the gala, no dates.
I push him out of my way as I make dinner. Somehow, he works his way back in.
“Fine. If you won’t move, then slice this lemon for me. Thin, please.”
He takes the lemon and makes quick work of it.
I bump him with my hip. “Showing off your prowess with a kitchen knife?”
“Contrary to widely spread rumors, I do have talents in other places besides what I do when I’m between ladies’ thighs. What else?”
“I need the capers. Yes, you certainly have expertise between a woman’s legs.”
Just the thought of all the things he’s done to my pussy over the last few days brings the warm liquid of anticipation to my entrance.
We dine in the living room, the same place I sucked his cock while getting myself off. Every time I raise my eyes, they meet his. As if he’s been staring at me the whole time.
Is he thinking of that too? His huge dick sliding in and out of my mouth?
It comes to mind every time I sit on this couch. Sometimes, when I’m home alone, I sit here specifically to think of it. Those times, I usually bring my vibrator.
He nudges me with his knee. “Shayna gonna be home anytime soon?”
“Not sure.”
He sets his plate on the side table and settles into the cushions, his hands behind his head. “I want to bend you over the back of this couch and eat some pussy for dessert.”
And that small flame in my lower belly blooms into an inferno. This is getting ridiculous.
I have to stop this before it ruins my life. “Not today, Jack.”
His eyebrow quirks. “You sure? Because I have it on good authority that you like it when I slurp up your juicy-juice.”
“Good authority?” Oh, Lord, here we go.
“Sure. I suck it up, and you immediately make more. Pretty definitive proof, if you ask me.” His dimples appear, and he runs the tip of his tongue over the bottom half of his grin.
“You really are something else, Jackson Tremaine.”
“Seriously—you don’t want to get busy?” He lays his hand on my thigh.
I jump from my seat before I give in to that little voice that comes from my lower lips. “Yes, I’m serious. There is zero chemistry between Dave and me. It must have to do with the fact that I’m involved with you.”
He quirks a brow. “We’re involved?”
Exasperation escapes with my sigh. “You know what I mean.”
Jack rubs his chin, his expression difficult to read. It takes him a full minute before he pushes to his feet and gathers our dinner dishes. “All right. What can we do, since you won’t let me suck that pussy raw? Want to see a movie?”
His mouth moved. The words were audible. But there’s no way that’s right. “Did you ask me to go to a movie?”
He winks. “Sure. Remember? That’s where there’s this big screen and a bunch of people play-act some kind of story for entertainment purposes. I hear a lot of people really enjoy going, and even more when they go with a friend.”
A friend?
I let out a small sigh. Friends. Disappointment dampens the heat in my nether regions.
Disappointment? What is there to be disappointed about?
The answer to my unasked question hovers just out of reach, perhaps because I don’t really want to know.
He heads to the kitchen. “You don’t like the movies? We can do something else, if you want—no indoor skydiving, though. I promise.”
My stomach is heavy and my skin prickles.
The water turns on. Dishes clink as he washes them.
Jackson Tremaine—washing dishes in the house I live in. Jackson Tremaine, who said we’re friends. Jackson Tremaine, a man I never wanted to be my friend.
My feet root to the carpet as I try to work out how I got into this mess. Was it the way he took such good care of me when I busted my head? Is it because he keeps showing up, always smiling, joking, bringing the sunshine from the outside in? Or how he works so hard to bring me pleasure, even putting off his own?