by Lilia Moon
“Good.” He kisses the top of my head, tucks me into his side, and shuffles us over to the stove. “Sauce is done, so we’re just waiting on the garlic bread.”
That would be the layer of stupendous I can smell over eau de orgasmic sauce. I sniff like an enthusiastic puppy as he drops angel-hair pasta into a steaming pot. “If I’d known garden gnomes could cook, I would have gotten one sooner.”
He snorts and kisses my head again. “You have five minutes until dinner. Which is maybe enough time to check your texts.” He nods over at our phones, sitting side by side on the counter. “They’ve both been beeping at regular intervals.”
I’m not sure I want to deal with real life, but I pick mine up and tap idly on the screen. And snicker. The first one is from Bee, and it’s full of emoticons I didn’t even know where legal. I hold it up so Rafe can see. “Did you know there are kinky emojis?”
He laughs. “I like the handcuffs.”
That’s the tamest of what she sent. I shake my head and scroll down. Liane’s texts are tinged with worry, probably because I haven’t answered any of them. I type a quick reply. Tell Matteo I’m going to kill him, but otherwise things are good.
Rafe, still reading over my shoulder, snorts. “Tell Matteo he doesn’t have to worry about you. I plan to get to him first.”
I elbow him in the ribs. Gently. I’m oddly fond of this cuddly crap. “Threaten people with your own phone, mister.”
He picks his up, thumbs it one-handed, and shows it to me. I read the text from Matteo about some client who has their latex pants in a twist and a comment about newborn babies that totally shouldn’t be in the same sentence as anything about latex pants. A man who’s clearly being avoidant, and probably doesn’t need anymore shit from me right now.
It’s the text under that one which catches my attention, though. From some guy at the airport about monthly rental fees to park a plane.
Rafe’s hand squeezes my shoulder gently as he sets both our phones out of the way. Then he scoops me up and deposits me onto the counter. “Stay here. I need to drain the pasta.”
I don’t argue with sexy men who are making me dinner. Well, I might, but not when my brain cells are still this discombobulated. Uncomfortable texts can wait. I watch as he pours an avalanche of water and spaghetti into my shiny red colander, tosses it with a little of my best olive oil, tops it with sea salt, and dishes a mountain of it onto two plates.
I groan as he ladles sauce over the top, which is mostly drowned out by my belly rumbles, thank goodness. Five orgasms and it’s well past sunset, which means we’re done with whatever weird kinky games we were playing today.
Something in me puddles when he bends over to pull the tin-foil-wrapped garlic bread out of the oven, and it isn’t my pussy. I scowl as he tugs open the foil to let what’s inside cool off some, but I probably ruin the effect by drooling. “You seem to have made yourself right at home in my kitchen.”
He glances at me, and there’s something careful in his eyes.
Crap. He cooked me dinner and I’m being prickly just on principle. Or to cover for texts that rocked me more than I’m ready to admit. “Sorry. I’m hungry and I’m really grateful you’re about to fix that, even if I have sucky manners.”
He shrugs, and his eyes are back to easy. “In my family, we invade each other’s kitchens on a pretty regular basis. Sorry if I used up anything you need. I can head to the store tomorrow and replace it.”
I’m a complete jerk. I slide off the counter, close the two steps between us, and wrap my arms around him from the back. “I run tame in half the kitchens in Crawford Bay. It’s not that, and I’m sorry I made you feel even a moment of hesitation over doing a really nice thing.”
He turns and takes me in his arms, tucking my head under his chin. “It’s been a big day. Let’s eat, and then we can talk.”
I’m totally on board with the eating part. I’m not sure even homemade garlic bread is enough to get me ready for the talking.
Chapter Forty-Six
Rafe
I’ve made a lot of pasta sauce in my lifetime, and I’ve known how to make it right since I was seven years old. But this is amazing, even by those lofty standards. Clearly India grows magic tomatoes.
I grin as she ladles yet another monster spoonful onto a plate that’s mostly sauce with a few stray noodles. It’s her third helping. I man up and offer her the last piece of garlic bread, which is a sacrifice. I used a homemade loaf I found on the counter, and I’m really sad there weren’t two of them.
She takes a bite, and hands the rest back to me. I hide my smile. She’s definitely used to running tame in kitchens. Her give and take and easy sharing of food is instinctive, just like when my family gathers.
She gives me a look that says she didn’t miss that thought—and she’s not at all sure she likes it.
I sigh. We’re fed. Time to peel back the underlayers before she’s not willing to let me look. I pick up her plate, set it in front of me, and tug her into my lap.
She huffs at my physical bossiness, but her ass stays where I put it. She draws a figure eight in her sauce with her spoon before she slurps some up. Arrabbiata soup.
I mop up a little with my last bite of garlic bread. “Talk to me, Bright Eyes.”
She sighs. “Persistent man.”
I am when I need to be. I keep quiet. I’m not looking to raise her thorns. Not yet.
She sighs and nods her head over at our phones, ignored on the counter. “That text you got. About parking your plane.”
I didn’t actually see that one, but I know what it’s about.
She takes her time, slurps down another two spoonfuls of soup. Then she moves to the chair beside me, folding her legs and facing me. “You’re serious about spending a lot of time out here.”
I don’t object to her relocation, even though I really like her in my lap. She’s facing this, whatever it is, and I’ll take that any day of the week. “Parking my plane is as serious as it gets.”
She nods, and her eyes drop to my knees.
I reach out and run my thumb over her eyebrow rings. “How do you feel about that?”
Her smile is a little bemused. “Don’t you know?”
I shrug. “Empathy is as fallible as any other sense. And I’d rather you tell me.”
She huffs out a sigh, puts her spoon down, and meets my eyes. “I like my fuck buddies at a distance. I know you don’t want me to call you that, but I don’t know what you are, and I like to keep things that are confusing at a distance too.”
I nod. Me spending a bunch of time in a cottage just down the road is definitely not distance, at least by her standards. Which means she’s going to like what I say next even less. “I have some pretty simple words for what I hope we are.”
She gives me a look that’s one-third defiant and two-thirds scared.
Because she already knows what I’m going to say. “I like you. I want to be here with you. I want to make spaghetti sauce in your kitchen and help you grow your amazing tomatoes and figure out what there is between us.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I sing to my tomatoes. Horribly off-key, according to Bee. And tomatoes don’t start growing until spring, which is a lot of months away from now.”
Slow flight. It’s only scary if you let it be. “Yes.”
She shakes her head, but I can see the amusement she doesn’t want to let escape.
I shrug. “We can make this hard, or we can eat some of the fudge from the pan in the fridge while I think about the consequences of you sleeping through your two-hour check-in.”
I can see the battle in her eyes, and this time I truly don’t know what it’s about. She growls and stabs my chest with her spoon as she gets to her feet. “There’d better really be fudge in there.”
I nod solemnly. “There is. Two kinds. Salted caramel and icy mint.”
She shoots me a suspicious look over her shoulder. “Does this mean you raided my homemade mint extract?”
With both hands. “Maybe.”
She snorts as she pulls open the fridge door, but the sound she makes when she spies the fudge is anything but annoyed.
I grin. Food is definitely the way to this woman’s heart.
She backs out, cuddling two pans in her arms, and hip-checks the fridge door closed. Then she takes a seat in a high-back chair at the far end of the table and sets two very sharp knives down beside the fudge pans.
I try to assemble my face into something she might not want to throw knives at. “The salted caramel is my favorite, if you’re considering sharing.”
She picks up one of the knives and stabs it into the middle of the pan, smiling at me sweetly. “I don’t think sugar is good for Doms.”
Probably not, especially when he might have done a fair amount of tasting during the creation of said fudge. But that’s not the important part of what’s happening right now. She just pulled us back into kinky play. On purpose and voluntarily. While holding weapons.
A brat who just issued her Dom a dare.
A woman who, despite all visible evidence, is considering a response to my growing-tomatoes-and-making-spaghetti-sauce offer that might not be no.
Chapter Forty-Seven
India
Watching his inner Dom turn on is scary. And hot. And back to scary.
I don’t know why I’m playing chicken with him. Twist metal for long enough and it snaps, and my ass is still sore from the last time he wielded his toys.
I pick up the second knife, which is a totally dumb implement for extracting fudge, and try to look calm and cool. Which fails miserably, especially when I get a taste of the fudge. It’s the absolute antidote to his spicy spaghetti sauce, chocolate that tastes of glaciers and winter winds and everything pristine and untouched.
It’s absolute fucking perfection, and it melts me where I sit.
I sit perfectly still, my eyes on the man who made it, and let it ooze all over my tongue. Slowly, just like it deserves.
He smiles, and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes when he does. “You know how to be entirely in a moment.”
I do. Which is fine in some circumstances and deadly in others. Becoming one with a bite of impossibly good fudge is one thing. Losing track of myself in other contexts is an entirely different story—one of Doms and torches and metal that forgets her shape.
Slowly, moving in a fog of my own making, I reach for the other tray of fudge. The one that’s his, just like the icy mint one is for me. I let myself wish, for just a breath, that we weren’t quite so different. Then I carefully cut a piece and carry it over to where he sits. I set it down on the table and take a seat in the chair facing him, letting our knees touch.
He smiles, and his hand settles on my leg.
I take a deep breath. “So. Tell me about those consequences you had in mind.” I need him back in Dom mode for a while. I don’t know why. I just know that I do.
His eyes are steady on mine. “There’s still one vibrator left.”
Some wimpy thing that looked like a tie-dyed chicken feather. “There’s no way that will get me off until at least the weekend.”
He pops the morsel of fudge into his mouth. “Is that a dare?”
My clit winces. “No.”
He moves his fudge into his cheek like a squirrel. “Well, the way I figure it, I’m a good part of the reason that you needed a nap and missed your check-in. So I’m inclined to be reasonable.”
Said no Dom ever, at least not when he meant it. I cut myself another piece of my newly beloved glacier fudge. If he’s going to be tricky, I want my brain in gear.
He chuckles as he scoots my chair a few inches closer. “I’ll make you an offer. You can have a reprieve until sunrise if I get to hold you tonight.”
I stare at him. That’s way far across the line from fuck buddies into something far more terrifying. Which might be where he thinks we’re heading, but I haven’t decided if traveling there is remotely good for my health or his, and cuddling all damn night isn’t going to make anything clearer.
Even if all he means is cuddling, and I have this horrifying suspicion he just might. “No. No way. Cuddling is a hard limit.”
He raises an eyebrow. “One you want to be pushed on or one you don’t?”
I can feel the sadness rising, because the woman I so wish I was would have a different answer for him. “One I can’t let you push me on.”
He studies me as his fingers rise up and brush my cheek. “Why?”
I close my eyes and lean into his touch. “Because that would be going into a private room without a monitor.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Rafe
I keep my eyes on her face as we stall out, as our nose tips down and we start spiraling, a nasty free fall headed straight for a mountain. And remind myself this is something I know how to recover from. If there’s anything I can offer her right now, it’s that faith.
I clear my throat. “Planes sometimes crash.”
Her eyes fly open.
“But mostly, they get into trouble and it’s up to just the two of them, plane and pilot, to get out.” My hands and feet move, applying invisible rudder and throttle. “There are procedures. Checklists and maneuvers they practice together until they know exactly how to recover if an engine fails or turbulence tosses them upside down.”
Her eyes widen with every word.
“Monitors aren’t the only way to keep from crashing into the mountain, although I’m happy to fly us to Vancouver to do our scenes at the club if that will help you feel safer. But I also want to practice those procedures and maneuvers with you until we’re ready to handle anything the skies might throw at us or we might throw at each other.”
She’s still staring at me, and I can’t look away, even though I can feel the mountain rising up to meet us.
She clears her throat, and it’s a sharp, crackling sound. “Why?”
I blink, and the mountain freezes. “What?”
She exhales, and it’s as shaky as the last leaf of fall. “Why would you want to do that? To learn to fly like that with me? We hardly know each other.”
She’s saying it, but she doesn’t believe it. Which is good, because it’s a damn fucking lie. “I didn’t tell you the rest of the story,” I say quietly. “About my mom and the milk.”
Even utterly confused, her eyes soften.
I’m probably an asshole for using that, but I don’t care. “The day I got dumped on her doorstep, we sat there at that little green table, her and me. Drinking our milk. And then she told me that it might be complicated for a while, but she was sticking. She was my person and I was hers.”
I touch my fingers to India’s cheek. “I’m telling you the same. You’re my person, Bright Eyes. I want to be with you, in whatever ways make sense for us.”
She sits, utterly still, for so long that I think she might pass out from lack of oxygen.
I don’t retract what I just said. I don’t hide it away, even though there are absolutely eruptions coming. I can see them building in her eyes. She needs to know this about me too. That I can feel this deeply, be cracked this wide open—and I can still hold for her.
Whatever is firing up inside her finally reaches critical mass, and she hurls herself off the chair with tectonic force. “How can you say that? We’ve known each other for what, seventy-two hours? We’ve fucked twice. You can’t choose me.”
I’m not listening to her words. I’m watching her hands. The ones clutching the back of the chair like a life preserver ring. She’s not mad—she’s scared. I shrug, keeping it light. Casual. “That’s not up to you. My choices are my own. You get to pick yours.”
She closes her eyes and growls.
I keep my hands on the yoke, my feet on the rudder pedals. My truth is out there, naked and vulnerable. Now it’s all about whether she’s willing to see hers.
My job is to land us either way.
She sighs. Her eyes slide back open. “You know this is r
idiculous, right? I haven’t even gotten to lick your cock piercing yet.”
My heart does a fast, tight, perfectly executed barrel roll. “That could happen. After sunrise.”
She makes a face—and then she takes one slow step toward me.
Another.
I open my arms as she arrives at my knees and tuck her into the space on my lap that was clearly built for an armful of snarky artist.
“I’m scared,” she mumbles into my chest. “But you’re kind of like your fudge. Really hard to walk away from.”
I shrug. Staying loose and easy, which is one of the hardest maneuvers I’ve done in a long time. “So don’t. Sleep with me tonight. Wake up with me in the morning. See how that feels.”
She tilts her head up just enough for me to see her raised eyebrow, accented by three really skeptical metal rings. “I sense a mutant feather vibrator in there somewhere.”
I give her my best evil Dom grin. “Smart woman.”
She whacks on my chest. “I get to sleep until noon. You tortured me today, remember?”
I do. Every single moment.
The most important flight of my life.
Chapter Forty-Nine
India
I pad back into the bedroom, early-morning floors cold under my naked feet, and pause in the doorway. There’s a sexy man sprawled all over my bed, one leg and half his ass already escaping the covers I tucked him under before I snuck off to the bathroom.
I grin. The guy’s a seriously wiggly sleeper.
And he kept his promise. Or his threat. All we did last night was sleep. I still woke up more times in the night than I can count, always with at least one of his limbs tossed over me—and not once could I convince myself to extricate.
I’m still not sure this is a good idea, but even I can’t deny that it’s happening anyhow. I’m feeling my way into a relationship with a persistent, insightful, annoying garden gnome with a really hot ass, and I can’t even work up all that much indignation about it.
