Page 42 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Hell, he could’ve said a year.
I nod and stretch my arm toward him. “Deal.”
Cyrus hesitates for the briefest moment before wrapping his hand around mine, squeezing lightly, and abruptly releasing me. I start to frown but at the last second catch myself. No curiosity when it comes to this man. That’s my new rule.
“I was going to order dinner, but since you ate, would you like dessert?” he asks.
My stomach chooses that moment to gurgle, reminding me and anyone within a five-mile radius that I left before Mom could serve up peach cobbler and butter-pecan ice cream.
“I take that as a yes?”
“A gentleman would’ve ignored that,” I mutter.
He shoves up from the couch. “I’m no gentleman. We’re both aware of that fact.”
As he strides from the room, I briefly close my eyes, but that’s a bad, bad idea, as my mind provides in vivid, exquisite detail howitbelieves just howungentlemanly he is. Beginning with how he would tangle one of those big but incongruently elegant, long-fingered hands in a woman’s hair and shove her to her knees ...
A searing blast of heat surges through my veins, converging between my thighs. Leaving me hot and wet. Because that woman in my head has dark natural curls, and as she tips her head back to look up at him and await his next instruction, she wears my face ...
Shooting up from the couch as if my ass is on fire, I follow behind him.
Friend. He wants a friend. Not a friend with benefits. Not that I’m offering that. Because I’m not.
Good God, girl. Who are you trying to convince?
Shut up, heffa.
I’m losing it. I’m calling myself out, and I’m losing it.
Cyrus leads me into a kitchen straight out ofArchitectural Digest. I instantly fall in love, and cooking isn’t even my ministry.
“This is lovely,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips along the marble countertops. “This room must be one of your favorites.”
He pauses next to the island, studies me. Then slowly dips his chin. “Yes, it is.” Another pause. “It’s actually the room that sold me on the house.”
“I can see why.” I scan the unique wine closet, beautiful countertops, top-of-the-line appliances, airy spaces, eating nook, fabulous island ... “Is that pie?”
“Dutch apple.” He moves to the cabinets and pulls down two small plates, then retrieves forks from another drawer. “Do you want a slice?”
“Don’t play with me. Do these hips look like I turn down pie?” I slap them for good measure.
He draws short, dishes and utensils in hand, his gaze dropping to my waist. And it stays there. The air catches in my lungs, and I’m afraid to move. To shatter this moment where that blue gaze strokes me as if the denim covering me has disappeared and nothing separates him from my skin but space.
A second later, he drags his gaze upward, meeting mine, and the breath that lodged in my throat expels on a low, harsh puff. Before, I’d compared his eyes to the blue heart of flames. But I hadn’t seen them alit, burning. I hadn’t been seared by them.
Until now.
“I’ll take that as a yes too,” he says, covering the remaining space to the island.
There’s gravel in that midnight voice, and a shiver trips over my skin.
What wasthat? He hadn’t been staring at my hips, atme, like he wanted to strip me out of my jeans and eatmeinstead of the dutch apple pie. That must’ve been a figment of my overactive, sex-starved imagination. Yes, that had to be it. After all, it’s been ... well, a while since I’ve had an orgasm that wasn’t like frozen yogurt—self-served.
Cyrus lifts the crystal dome from the cake plate and cuts a healthy-size slice of pie, sets it on a plate, and slides it across the island to me. I tense, waiting for the comment; I can’t help it. Call it a side effect from too many boyfriends who considered it their God-given duty and right to advise me on my health, dietary habits, and weight just because they stuck their dick in me. Other than platonic, professional handshakes, Cyrus has touched only my chin—and yes, I can still feel the brand of that grip without even trying—but it doesn’t stop me from bracing myself for the verbal onslaught.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, he cuts himself a slice as big as mine, replaces the top, and tucks into his food. Surprised, I stand frozen, watching him. I’m not ashamed of my size 16 frame and the curves that pack it. Contrary to what some people have to say about my lifestyle, I regularly work out and eat a well-balanced diet, but I refuse to starve myself. And I enjoy food, especially treats like pie. And I don’t see a reason to go without things I enjoy just because society frowns on it. Society can suck a fat bag of dicks. Skinny ones, at that. Still ... I wouldn’t be human if the comments didn’t dig into my tender skin, if they didn’t leave bruises. Particularly when they come from people I share my heart and body with. I would be a liar—more so than I’ve already been lately—to claim I haven’t erected a sensitive wall when it comes to this issue.
