Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Fuck, that was good,” he said.
I dipped the tip of my finger into his jizz and tasted just a little of it. “Huh.”
“Oh, Christ. You’re going to fucking kill me, Straighty.”
“Pretty sure that name doesn’t fit anymore,” I told him.
We lay there for a minute, just breathing. It was Sean who spoke first. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I liked it, obviously.”
“Just because your dick liked it doesn’t mean your head’s not in a weird place.”
True…but it wasn’t. It just felt…natural to me. “I’m fine. Are you hungry? I’m hungry. And I’m an incredible cook.”
He frowned as though he hadn’t expected that. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re going to cook me dinner?”
“I just let you finger my ass; you think I won’t cook for you?” I teased.
It surprised me when Sean leaned in and took my mouth. Our tongues moved together, and I hated the fact that I liked kissing him so much.
When he pulled away, he said, “I’d love it if you cooked me dinner.”
I tossed his underwear to him and then grabbed mine. “Let’s do it then.”
16
Sean
The fingers I’d had inside Ethan buzzed with excitement.
Watching Ethan writhe about on the bed like that, his muscles locking as he shot his load, was hot as hell.
I was kind of amazed at how quickly he submitted. I would’ve assumed a guy like him would have been more guarded…thinking that something about letting a guy in his ass would have made him less of a man. But he went right for it, all in. Hell, he had a fucking thirty-two-ounce bottle of lube, for Christ’s sake.
After I cleaned off in his bathroom, I met him in the kitchen.
Shirtless, in just a pair of jeans he’d pulled on before heading out of his room, I was pleased I still got to enjoy the view of his chest and torso.
He had some red bell peppers lying on the counter beside the cutting board he was working on. I pulled a knife from the wood knife block in the corner of the counter. Then I picked up the peppers and rinsed them off in the sink.
“Julienne, please,” he said, his lips curled in a smirk.
“Oh, certainly. Anything else?”
“That should do it. There’s another cutting board under the sink.”
I pulled it out after rinsing off the peppers. “So what’s for dinner, Gordon Ramsay?”
“I have this sort of paella I make, but with my own twist. It’s got red peppers, chicken, sausage…”
“A big, fat sausage?”
“You just can’t stop thinking about my dick, can you?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not going to lie and pretend I can stop thinking about it.”
He chuckled before washing his hands. “By the way, if you’re allergic to anything, now’s the time to let me know.”
“Cocky chefs give me violent allergies, actually,” I said as I sliced off the tops of the peppers.
“Well, after everything we’ve done, if that were true, I figure you’d be in the ER right now with a feeding tube down your throat.”
I laughed. “So paella doesn’t sound like chicken and white rice. Who do I need to credit for your skills in the kitchen?”
“My grandmother,” he said. “She wasn’t the best cook in the world. And I kind of stepped up to the plate with it. Showed her that I was at least good for something.”
“Did it work?”
“She’s not exactly the easiest woman to read, but I know she wasn’t impressed by much. She had very high standards for people…like she did with my dad. My grandmother thought of him as this flighty, creative sort without any real ambition—which is funny because that was more my mom. She was the dreamer, the romantic; she believed in all that fate and destiny crap, which wasn’t my father. He’d studied architecture in college—had passion for it, but once my parents got pregnant with me, he gave up his dream because he had to work full time instead of going to college. He ended up managing a grocery store. They struggled to make ends meet with the job, but they got by. I think she always felt like my father dragged my mom down. He didn’t give her the life she wanted for her daughter.”
As he spoke, he headed to the fridge and retrieved a packaged sausage, which he used a knife to tear open.
“He might not have loved it, but he loved us. He was always pointing out the architecture of buildings and he used to show me the pictures in some of these architecture books he had on the bookshelf in the living room. I remember liking it as a kid because he was interested in it, but after he passed, it seemed like the only thing I could cling to that reminded me of him.”
“Well, you are good at it.”
“Yeah, must’ve been in the genes,” he said as he lay the sausage on the cutting board. He turned to me, his eyes widening as though he’d just realized how much he’d shared. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. Just…my grandmother couldn’t see the value in my father or his dream…and she wasn’t much different with me when I decided architecture was what I wanted to do with my life. I think she sees him when she looks at me—the man who took her daughter away.”