His eyes widen. “Is that so?”
He moves slowly from the stove back to me, caging me in again. He leans forward, his scent overpowering the aromas coming from his cooking. I love the way he smells.
“Yes,” I whisper as his lips brush mine.
“I’m a pretty good multitasker.”
He doesn’t give me much of a chance to ask what he means by that before leaning in and licking the outline of my lips with his tongue. “Lean back. I’ll show you what I mean.”
While I place my hands behind me and rest my weight on them, he walks over to the skillet and stirs the garlic, then grabs the lemons he cut and squeezes the juice in.
He walks back over to stand in front of me. His hands find the buttons of my jeans that I changed into after work and unbuttons them. He pulls them off, along with my panties, then places one of my feet up on the counter, like he did on the table in his foyer. He runs a finger up and down my pussy softly, barely touching me, but causing a wave of pleasure.
“You think you can get me off and not burn dinner? I doubt it.”
He shakes his head at me. “Have faith, Eva.”
Without turning around, he takes two steps back to the skillet and stirs. When he comes back, he leans forward and slowly licks from my ass to my clit.
I gasp at the jolt of shock, though the thrill is far from unwelcome. “Every inch of you tastes delicious.”
He pushes two fingers in me and begins to flick his tongue quickly over my clit. My hand instantly grips his hair, which makes him groan. It’s like he likes the pain.
My head falls back, and my eyes close as I bask in his attention. I’m inching closer and closer to exploding when I feel the abrupt loss of him.
He throws the pasta in the pot and closes it. I watch him as my chest moves rapidly, my body hot and desperate.
“Look at you, open and waiting for me,” his deep voice nearly growls. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”
His words are intense, but don’t feel like a lie. How could it be true?
If this ends, I don’t know how I’ll ever recover. Could there ever be another man who makes me feel this way?
Then he’s back on me. He grips my thighs as he locks me down and dives back in with reckless hunger, tongue flicking fast, filthy, precise. I don’t stand a chance—my body arches, a scream tearing from my throat as I start to feel myself break.
“That’s it,” he growls against me, tongue circling my clit with ruthless rhythm.
I try to squirm. He growls again and holds me in place, relentless until I come so hard that I see stars.
He stands with a quiet, dangerous confidence that makes my breath catch, then turns his back to me and gets back to cooking. He uses tongs to pull the pasta out of the boiling water and adds it to the skillet, mixing it around in the juices.
Okay, he wins this one. He’s a great multitasker. Dammit.
He picks up my panties and jeans. “Here. Hop off the counter.”
When I do, he’s down on his knees, slowly helping me into my panties first, then my jeans. He stands up and focuses on zippingand buttoning them, kisses my forehead, then grabs two plates out of my cabinet.
“I’m just going to cut up some of this bread. Why don’t you open that bottle of wine and pour us some?” he asks over his shoulder.
Once all is said and done, we are sitting at my table with an incredible plate of pasta, fancy wine, bread, and oil with herbs to dunk in—all prepped while he got me off.
He is trying so hard not to smirk as he grabs his glass of wine and takes a sip.
“You’re really impressed with yourself right now. Aren’t you?”
He chuckles. “You know, you have these ideas in your mind, but I could have easily burned something or overcooked the pasta.”
I smile and shake my head. “At least you’re honest about it. Your ego might not be as inflated as I thought.”