“Are you seriously staring at my mouth right now?”
He’s incredibly warm and smells like an exotic mix of cucumber, lime and green tea.
“Yes. You have a beautiful mouth. By the way, are both your parents Caucasian, because your lips are—”
He crushes his mouth to mine and the impulse of it steals my breath. My head spins and pulsates all at once as he glides his tongue against my bottom lip. God, I can’t even breathe. And just like that, I’ve become putty in his stupid, confusing hands. Jesse pulls away, looking not nearly as affected as I do, and I drop my arms from around his neck. I sway briefly before stepping away from him. If this were a novel, he’d make some cliché joke about falling for him.
“If I knew it was that easy to shut you up, I’d have done it sooner.”
There’s no smugness to his tone or his demeanor. Oh, what a charmer. On another note, since when has he been capable of making my blood burn in my veins? Why did that one kiss have more passion than the night we spent together? I don’t know the answer to either of those questions, but I’m eager to find out. Super eager.
“Well what do you know? You are capable of a little fire. Here I was thinking you’d burnt out,” I tease as lean against the cold, metal railing.
“Don’t mistake my desperation in stopping you from talking as passion. And take your shoes off or I might actually let you break your neck next time.”
Ooh, the authority in his voice sends a hot flash of tingles down my spine. He has so much potential that he’s wasting it on plain sex. With a smile, I slip my feet out of my heels and scoop them up.
“We’re barely at my front door and you’re already barking orders like you’re king of the castle.”
I turn and bounce up the stairs. Behind me, I hear his shoes click against the concrete. They sound heavy and tired, but I don’t look over my shoulder despite how badly I want to mock him. He’s clearly more in shape than me, but my thighs are weathered to this kind of movement. I’ve been climbing these stairs for years. I doubt he’s climbed stairs a day in his life. He probably had an elevator in the house he grew up in too.
“Jesus,” He pants. “I take back what I said. You do need an elevator.”
“Don’t be a baby. We’re almost there.”
I lied. We’re only two floors up and still need to go four more, but I’m not about to tell him that.
When we eventually make it to the sixth floor and I turn the key, a panting Jesse practically barges past me and into my apartment. The first room you see as you open the door is my living room, and sure enough, Jesse drops himself into my black, leather recliner.
“That climb is not pleasant on an empty stomach.” He complains. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Ignoring him, I drop my heels by the shoe rack next to the door. “Don’t get sweat on my recliner. It’s expensive,” I say as I saunter into the kitchen.
I didn’t plan to have anyone over to eat today. To be honest, my libido sort of took charge when I offered it at the restaurant. Idiot. I wish it’d taken food, or lack thereof, into account. I open the fridge and stare at the random contents inside. I have a day-old roast chicken, as well as left over beet and feta salad. I made the salad on my own and I smile proudly into my refrigerator.
“What the hell is that?” Jesse demands from his recliner.
I grab the containers of roast chicken and salad, turn around and kick the door shut with my foot. Sitting on the floor at Jesse’s feet is Four and he’s meowing his little noise—demanding to know why Jesse is in his seat. When I’m home and sitting on it, so is Four. He sleeps on it most nights and probably spends the entire day there too. I drop the containers onto the table and walk over to Four. With a husky meow, he approaches me and circles my feet. His soft fur is warm against my skin.
“That is Four, my little Persian kitty.”
“He has to be the ugliest—”
I glare at him, daring him to finish his sentence. He doesn’t. Suddenly, tired of the scene (or offended by Jesse’s harsh words), Four ambles back down the hall to my room, leaving us alone. I return to the kitchen and fetch a fork each. When I return with the containers and forks, Jesse frowns at me.
“No plates?”
“It’s going into your belly all the same. I’ll get you a plate if you think it’ll make it taste better.”
He shakes his head. “Containers are fine.”
I hand him his fork and the chicken container, and drop into the couch adjoined to the recliner. “When you want salad, we’ll switch.”