Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Chapter 2
Bunny
“You really don’t need to make me a cake, baby,” Kipp sweetly states from the seat beside me, fingertips unable to resist brushing a fallen strand away from my face.
“And you really didn’t need to make me dinner,” I counter on another bite. “But here we are.”
“You needed dinner.”
“And you need a birthday cake.”
The eyeroll I’m presented is instant. “No one needs a birthday cake.”
“On behalf of all your fellow playground peers, Kid, I’m gonna have to object.”
Laughter floods the kitchen space joining the instrumental melodies that were the soundtrack to his shirtless culinary show.
Turns out in the shop he likes his Mozart and Beethoven, yet while cooking he prefers modern spins of them done by any random instrument such as the accordion.
Which is not nearly as unsexy as I’ve always thought it was.
Then again that could be because my boyfriend is sexy swaying his ripped frame around to anything.
And I do mean anything.
I may have a small obsession of watching him dance to The O’Jays while I’m working on my laptop.
Once his amusement has died down, he leans forward onto one elbow and asks, “How’s your omelet?”
“Cheesy. Pretty sure Gordon Ramsey would have your ass for this.”
Additional chuckles get his bare torso lightly bouncing.
Cutting off another small piece precedes offering it to him. “Want some?”
He simply shakes his head. “Eat up. You need the fuel.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’ve eaten this week.”
“So have I.”
“Crackers don’t count.”
“Then neither do animal crackers.”
His mouth bobs around in objection but not a single word manages to escape.
“Exactly.” Extending the egg towards him is accompanied by a teasing smile. “Don’t make me pretend this bite is a roadster in desperate need of parking.” The growing grin on his face inspires mine to widen. “Neither of us want that.”
“Maybe one of us does.” He playfully argues prior to leaning forward, allowing me to slide the contents into his mouth. “Maybe one of us might be into roleplaying.”
“Is that technically roleplaying?” It’s my turn to let laughter fill the room. “Are you telling me you wanna fuck me while I’m dressed up like a Transformer?” Feigned appalment appears in my expression. “Or something more exotic like a character from Robotix?!”
“That show wasn’t about cars.”
“They were carlike.”
“They were alien robots.”
“That’s carlike!”
“That’s nothing like cars.”
“So, you’re telling me that fucking me as a car is acceptable but as an alien robot is not?”
“I’m telling you I wanna fuck you anyway and every way you wanna let me fuck you, baby.”
There’s no hiding the hungry moan the words ignite.
Maybe I should do that now?
Maybe I should hop onto this table and let him eat me while I eat what he made me?
That seems like a win, win for everyone.
I bet if I double crunched those numbers that’s exactly what they’d say.
“Be a good girl,” my gearhead deliciously purrs, “and keep eating for me.”
It’s impossible not to initially pout; however, when there’s an audible grumble from my stomach to reiterate his point, I’m met with a cocky smirk.
Ugh.
How is he a balanced spreadsheet?
How can one person be so sweet and so smug?
He needs a personality audit.
I need a little more information on how he got this…wonderful, and if maybe I’m missing some data.
Perhaps he took an online Casanova course?
They probably have those.
They have everything else online.
“Back to the cake discussion,” I huff at the same time I break off another portion.
“No discussion,” Kipp casually insists on a shrug of his shoulders. “And no cake.”
“Yes cake.”
“No cake.”
“Yes cake.”
“No cake.”
“You’re gonna make me break out my inner Rhi Rhi and then the only thing that’s gettin’ eaten is me.” The snarky retort is finished with an even sassier swallowing of food that prompts him to warmly chuckle. “So, Lightning McQueen-”
“You know I don’t like those movies.”
“-tell me-”
“I almost find them offensive.”
“-what type of birthday cake you want-”
“More offensive than you trying to classify Robotix as a car cartoon.”
“-before I conspire with our boyfriend to get you a Cars themed one out of spite.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Another bite of my omelet is extended in his direction on a sarcastic stare.
“Fuck, alright,” he caves and consumes the egg piece. “How about blue?”
“Blue isn’t a type of cake, Kid. It’s a color.”
“I’m not hearing a difference.”
“Yet you have no problem being able to differentiate the sounds of a Porsche and Ferrari.”
“Those are two different fucking languages!”
More giggles seep free as I swipe another bite of the first real meal I’ve had since learning about the inevitable.
I never truly doubted that he would find me.
I mean I hoped for something different.
Afterall, being with them is different.
I feel seen.
And wanted.
And adored.
And safe.
I wanted to be wrong.
I wanted him to have lost my trail, but I knew better.
I’ve always known better.
That’s what’s kept me moving.
That’s what’s got me wanting to move now in spite of lecturing myself about that being the wrong call.