Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I didn’t want him to be evil.
Because sharing space with him like this—going through the day-to-day motions of domestic life as though this was our normal routine—felt more comfortable than anything I’d ever experienced. Even when I’d lived with my family, our house had been a little chaotic; too many strong personalities packed under one roof. I loved them fiercely, but this unfamiliar, quiet calm between Raúl and me held its own gentle warmth.
Plates full, I joined him at the counter that served as his usual spot for meals. He didn’t own a dining table, but that made sense for a man who never had guests. Who wanted to sit alone at a huge table when there was no reason for pretense?
I slid into the seat beside him, feeling cozy despite the austere aesthetic of his enormous kitchen. A bubble of quiet calm seemed to surround him, and I tucked myself close, seeking shelter inside.
Trying not to be too obvious, I waited to start eating, so I could watch his reaction to my cooking. Anticipatory excitement fluttered in my belly, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in longer than I could remember.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized just how much I missed cooking for someone else. Since I’d begun my awful, lonely journey, food had become nothing more than a necessity for survival. But the act of preparing a meal for someone else, not just for their nourishment but for their enjoyment, fulfilled an essential need in the foundations of my nature.
The pleasure that flooded my chest at his low, appreciative hum would’ve been shocking in its intensity if it weren’t for the blissful peace that settled over me. Raúl’s eyes closed as he savored his first bite, and his deep, nonverbal rumble of appreciation filled the protective bubble that surrounded us. The sound of his simple pleasure in what I’d prepared for him enfolded me like a fuzzy blanket, swaddling me in contentment.
He savored two more bites before turning his attention on me. He blinked, surprised to find me watching him. His glowing green gaze dropped to my mouth, and his lips quirked up at the corners. I realized my cheeks nearly ached from my wide, almost punch-drunk smile.
“That’s three bites,” he announced, his tone dipping in a teasing lilt.
He cocked his head at me, waiting for my reply. It took three full seconds for my brain to start working again, and I realized he was referring to my demand that he try at least three bites of my fajitas before drowning them in his nuclear hot sauce.
“Okay, you’re off the hook. Go ahead with your masochist sauce.” A bubbly laugh filled the kitchen. I was shocked to realize that the lighthearted sound had issued from my own throat.
His grin widened, and he reached out to briefly to brush his thumb just beneath the curve of my lower lip, tracing my smile. Then, he returned to his dinner and began shoveling the food into his mouth like he was a starving man at a feast.
No hot sauce was added.
I let out a satisfied hum of my own and tucked into my meal, utterly content. The flavors of my mother’s cooking suffused my mind with memories of home, but they only nestled me deeper in my quiet joy rather than stirring grief.
To my amazement, Raúl carried our empty plates to the kitchen and started washing dishes. Even in my family home, washing up had been the women’s task. Gehovany would’ve laughed in my face if I’d asked him to help with such a chore. And given me a slap for good measure, reminding me of my place.
Judging by the way Raúl simply took charge and started washing, the idea that this arrangement was unconventional never seemed to cross his mind. In my experience with men’s behavior in the home, his participation in such a mundane chore directly contradicted the hypermasculinity he exuded in all other aspects of life.
But as I watched him methodically carry out the task, his relaxed posture made me reconsider this knee-jerk assumption. Because although he’d demonstrated that he was all about machismo, those tendencies were rooted in his pride that he could provide.
Underneath all that testosterone was a good core; a man whose nature was rooted in nurturing rather than callously dominating.
My cheeks heated at the memory of how thoroughly he’d dominated me in the woods, punishing me with pain and forced pleasure until I surrendered everything to him.
The contradictions of this strong man confused me, but the temptation to believe the goodness in him was so keen that it tugged at my chest. It felt as though he’d looped rope around my heart, and the other end was wrapped around his massive fist; that huge, powerful hand that cradled my face so tenderly.
Lost in my muddled thoughts, I automatically found a towel to start drying dishes. He offered me a grunt that indicated gratitude, adding to my puzzlement.