Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Hey,” I say, finding Gabriella looking gorgeous in a green shirt dress and bright white sneakers. Her eyes move down the length of me, and she moistens the middle of her bottom lip, already thinking about sex. It’s only taken me a month to be able to pick up her sexual tells. In fact, I think she might be the horniest girl I’ve ever met.
“Hey, Dalton.”
When I close the door, she steps close, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a kiss. In seconds, she deepens the kiss, moaning against my lips, her tongue tangling with mine. Instantly, my body is primed, but I’m wary. She’s been this way since the night Blake’s condom split; totally focused on sex. Different from the first time we were together when she snuggled up against me and seemed to relish my affection.
She got her period the next day, so there weren’t any repercussions to our group experience, but ever since, she’s been fixated on getting to the physical act as quickly as possible, asking for us to be cold and domineering, resisting and avoiding any kind of aftercare.
Tonight, I don’t want to just fuck her. I want to spend time with her like we used to and hear about what’s been going on in her life. I want to feed her and show her how good I am at doing something that was totally outside of my skill set until she came along.
It takes all my powers of resistance to put my hands on her shoulders and ease her back. “You ready for dinner?”
“I’m hungry for you,” she says, reaching down to cup my dick.
“And I’m hungry for you, too, but first, I want us to eat. The food is ready.” I know I don’t imagine the flash of panic in her eyes, but I plow on, hoping that she’ll relax once she sees what I’ve prepared. “It’s your favorite,” I say. “Irish stew with mashed potatoes.”
“You made stew?” Her eyebrows form a disbelieving arch that makes me chuckle.
“Better.” I smile. “I made your stew.”
I take her hand and lead her to the kitchen. I haven’t set the table with anything fancy. I wanted to but thought if she saw a rose in a vase, or fancy napkins, she might run for the hills.
She inhales as she sits at the chair that I hold out for her. “It smells good, Dalton. Almost as good as mine.” The last part is said with a mischievous grin and I’m immediately relieved to see her relaxing a little.
“Wait until you taste it.”
It’s stupid that I feel nervous about serving her. It’s just a meal. Just meat and potatoes, after all. Except, it’s so much more. It’s like I’m baring my soul. A soul I didn’t know I had until Gabriella gently inspired me.
I try to assemble her plate like a picture I saw online. It doesn’t come out exactly as I hoped. It smells so good, though, that I hope she’ll forgive the rustic presentation.
“Here,” I say, setting her heaped plate down in front of her. Gabriella breathes in the steam and nods her head. I don’t serve myself until she takes a bite and I watch her react to the flavors; my heart lodges in my throat until she smiles.
“Wow…that is delicious, Dalton. Are you sure you didn’t buy it from a restaurant?”
I rest my hand on my heart and pretend to be offended. “You wound me.”
“Seriously.” She heaps another mouthful and chews. Her eyes are wide and appreciative, and I find myself holding my breath. “So good.”
It’s only when she’s confirmed it’s good that I heap my plate with the food, and when I sit across from her to eat, I’m salivating.
My first mouthful of tender meat in a rich sauce and creamy potatoes is like heaven. I’m so proud of myself that my chest expands like a peacock. Like, seriously, I never thought I could make something so good.
Gabriella pours herself some red wine and takes a sip before she dabs her lips. “Did you practice?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I just wrote everything down when I got home,” I say. “I’ve started compiling a recipe book of the things you’ve taught me.”
“Don’t go trying to sell it,” she jokes. “Those recipes are trademarked by the Cross family.”
“I would never,” I say seriously.
“Although…” Gab pauses, glancing up to the left. “Have you ever thought about going to culinary school?”
“What? No!”
“Don’t dismiss the idea like that. I’m serious.”
I rest my fork-holding hand on the table, scanning her face to gauge the genuineness of her comments and find her expression earnest. “You think I could?” I ask.
“I think you really have potential.”
“My dad wouldn’t like it,” I say, cringing at how immature I sound and my instinct to try to keep him happy.