“The oven what, baby? It’s broken?” He looks genuinely confused, one brow lifting. “I’ll replace it. I’ll redo the entire kitchen if it makes you feel better.”
“N-not the oven. It’s dinner. And you. You work so hard.” Healing good people. Torturing the bad guys. “And I love you so much. I wanted you to have a homemade meal for once. Not something bought or made by a chef who doesn’t care about you. But I burned it. I-I’m a disappointment.”
“Never. Don’t you ever say that.”
He growls, leans in, and seals his mouth on mine.
This kiss isn’t a consolation prize or an act of pity.
It’s hungry and feral.
He wants me.
With his hands on my jaw, he devours my mouth, forcing my tongue to mate with his. His breath is hot and minty. His cologne makes me heady.
He’s tending to me with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. I’m cared for. Cherished.
One kiss after the other, he melts the tension from my body.
And though tremors continue rippling beneath my skin, at least the world isn’t closing in on me anymore.
“Where’s Hope?” His question catches me off guard.
“Hope?” Then—right, we asked him over for dinner. “You got here early. She asked to give her twenty and saidthat being punctual doesn’t give you a free pass from being interrogated.”
“Of course.” A smile slashes over his handsome face. “Come on. Twenty minutes is plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
He doesn’t explain, simply takes me to the closest seat, which is the stool at the kitchen island. He gets the flowers and wine next, setting them carefully on the counter.
Once he closes the door to my home, his expression turns intense as he stalks toward me.
My stomach twists. I have no idea what’s going on.
“Alaric?”
“Shh.” With incredible ease, he scoops me into his arms, bridal style, and carries me to my room.
“Wait, I need to order food.” He must be hungry, and here I am, letting him spoil me when I should be the one taking care of him. Ugh. “Pizza’s the easiest, right?”
“Fuck pizza. Fuck food.” His long gait gets us to my bedroom before the wordfoodleaves his mouth. “You need me, and I’m going to take care of you.”
The things he’s saying, his hoarse voice, I have to suppress a moan. My panties are ruined. Soaked.
When he closes the door to my room, I’m already so worked up that my nipples strain against my bra. I groan from the friction.
From his touch too. The careful way he lowers me to my feet. His hands slide from my neck to my arms, my waist. It’s heaven.
My palms are shaky on his chest when I ask, “You’re not disappointed? Really?”
“I could never be disappointed in you. Ever.” Without letting go of my waist, he lowers himself to the floor, one knee, and then the other one. Elegant. Controlled. Hot. “Especially not today. Look at you, wearing that dress that shows off every curve. You could feed me burned toast at this point, and I wouldn’t just eat it. I’d lick my fucking fingers clean.”
I shudder at his sincerity, at how adoration bleeds from every word. Then I gasp when he shoves me up against the wall. But he doesn’t stop there. His hands close even harder around my hips, pulling a gasp out of me.
“And the fact that you cooked for me…” he growls.
“Yes?”