Page 91 of Almost Enough

“Even then.” I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before teasing her. “Though I’ll expect compensation for the torture.”

Her eyes darken. “I think that can be arranged.”

I capture her mouth with mine before she can say anything else, the connection immediately turning desperate. She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat that goes straight through me, and I grip her thighs harder, pulling her to the edge of the counter.

Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan. I deepen the kiss, tasting the sweetness that’s purely her, my tongue sweeping against hers. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me against her, and I can feel the heat of her even through our clothes.

I slide one hand up her spine until my fingers tangle in her copper waves. I angle her head to take the kiss deeper. She pants against my mouth, her nails scraping lightly against my scalp. I’m two seconds away from forgetting about dinner entirely and taking her right here on this counter.

My other hand grips her hip. She shivers, pressing closer, and I swallow down every needy sound she makes.

The shrill beeping of the stove timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of ice cold water. With a grunt, I pull back, reluctantly tearing myself away to turn off the burner.

I grab the plates from the cabinet and start filling them, scooping generous portions onto each one. “Go sit,” I tell her, nodding toward the dining table. “I’ll bring these over.”

She hops down, and I feel her before I see her. Her fingers brush my waist before she rises onto her toes, lips grazing my ear. “Yes, sir.”

Before I can even process her sweet, deadly tone, her teeth close gently around the edge of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine and blood rushing straight to my dick.

I drag in a slow breath through my nose.

“Whitley…” I warn.

She releases me and laughs as she makes her way to the table. I take a second to collect myself and will my body to calm the hell down. This woman is going to be the death of me.

When I finally turn around with the plates, she’s sitting there looking entirely too pleased with herself, chin propped on her hand, eyes gleaming with mischief.

It isn’t long before Whitley’s filling the space with chatter, her voice light as she recounts her shopping trip with Violet, laughing at something that must’ve been funnier in the moment. The way she talks with animated hands and every emotion written on her face, it’s impossible not to hang on every word.

I try not to stare, but it’s damn near impossible. The way she lights up when she talks about her work, the passion that colors her voice when she describes the kids in her art program… It’s like watching someone become more themselves with every word.

“So there’s this one little boy,” she says between bites, “who wouldn’t even pick up a paintbrush for weeks. Just sat there, arms crossed, glaring at everyone. Yesterday? He painted an entire mural. On paper, thankfully, not the walls.” Her laugh fills the kitchen. “Though I wouldn’t have minded either way.”

“That’s impressive,” I say, meaning it.

She nods, leaning forward. “It was this whole underwater scene with these crazy sea creatures that looked like they came straight out of his imagination. When I asked what inspired him, he just shrugged and said, ‘Nightmares aren’t as scary when you put them somewhere else.’ How profound is that?”

“Smart kid.”

“Right?” She twirls pasta around her fork. “God, this sauce is amazing. Who taught you how to cook?”

The question catches me off guard, and my shoulders tense. “Taught myself, mostly. Had to.”

She tilts her head, studying me with perceptive eyes. “Because of your mom?”

“Yeah,” I admit, pushing food around my plate. “She wasn’t exactly winning any homemaker awards. Some days, if I didn’t cook, we didn’t eat.”

Whitley’s expression softens, but there’s no pity there. Just understanding. “Well, little Beau had excellent taste. This is seriously good.”

“It’s not that complicated.”

“Says the guy who probably knows the difference between simmering and sautéing.” She points her fork at me. “Meanwhile, I once set pasta on fire. Actual pasta. In water.”

I can’t help but laugh. “How is that even possible?”

“I got distracted by a phone call. Apparently, there wasn’t enough water, and then…” She makes an explosion gesture with her hands. “Fwoosh. Spaghetti inferno.”

“You’re something else.”