Page 20 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

“I have wine.”

I bite my lip and grin at her. The affronted look she gives me shouldn’t be as cute as it is. “So do I. Come have dinner with me.”

A quick glance at my house and she jingles the keys in her fingers. Her tongue peeks between her lips and her eyelids flutter. When she brings her gaze back to me, she shakes her head and the tiny diamonds in her ears sparkle. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Live a little.” I step in closer, my hand on her wrist again. She wants something from me, but I don’t know what. It isn’t dinner, it might just be my mouth on hers, but I’ll give her both if she lets me.

“I do live.” She says it quietly, unconvincingly.

“Again, eating dinner that comes from takeaway containers by yourself is neither a plan nor living.”

“And I told you I have wine waiting for me.”

“You’re talking about wine like it’s your boyfriend.”

“So?”

“You’re going to eat dinner with me.” I take the plastic bag from her hand so that I can capture it in my own. “I promise it won’t be as painful as it sounds.”

We stand there, staring at each other until she attempts a half-hearted shrug and gives in. “Just dinner.”

“Whatever you want,” I say. Her palm is warm against mine, her skin satiny smooth where I rub my thumb over it. Is it wrong that I hope she wants me to kiss her again, to take it further? Would she whisper my name and hold on tight if I pushed her up against my door, yanked her panties aside, and plunged my cock inside her? Would she ride me like a cowgirl on the stairs to the second floor? Would she suck me off for the pleasure of it? Yeah, I would do all of it, if that’s what she wanted.

She places her case next to the door as I close it then follows me into the kitchen where I stow her supply of deli meals in the fridge and crack open a bottle of wine. Pouring some into a glass, I hand it to her then get myself one. Does she drink beer? Does she have an opinion on IPA or dark? Or is she strictly a wine girl? I have no issues with either, depending on the circumstance. Right now there’s a sort of odd peace between us, and I figure I’ll roll with it and go with her obvious love for Malbec.

She rolls the wine around the glass before taking a sip. “How do you know about wine? Is it because of her? Your ex?”

“Of course. How else would a guy like me know anything about the complexities of a good wine?” I pull a tray of chicken breasts out of the fridge and set them down individually on a wooden board before going back for Camembert, bacon, green beans, and baby potatoes. “That’s what you’re expecting me to say, isn’t it?”

She studies the nail polish on one hand for a moment. “But that’s not the case?”

“No.” I butterfly the breasts and flatten them with my palms. She watches me as though she’s never touched raw meat before.

“What then?” Leaning forward, she places her glass on the counter, her fingers still on the stem.

“There’s a couple punnets of strawberries in the fridge. Do you mind getting them?”

“You’re going to make me work for the answer?”

“Now that’s an idea.” I grin at her. Those fingers keep turning the glass. Does she want to put them on something else? Me, perhaps? I have half a mind to tell her to come here and kiss me for every answer she wants. “But no. You ask, and I’ll answer.”

Her heels click as she goes to the fridge for the strawberries. “Anything else you need?”

I need to touch you, but that’s more of a want. Except I can feel it under my skin, this creeping kind of energy that makes me want to pull her to me so I can bury my nose in her hair and be intoxicated by her scent, or nibble on her bottom lip just for a taste, or undo those buttons on her blouse so I can see more of her satiny skin.

“There’s a bowl under there.” I point at the door she’ll need to open. “And why don’t you kick off those shoes while you’re at it. You don’t have to maintain your rigid professionalism with me. Remember, I’ve seen you in your pajamas.”

“How could I forget?” She sets the bowl and the strawberries down between us while I pack the breasts with Camembert and tie them up with thin slices of bacon.

Once they’re laid out on a tray, I wash my hands and pass her a knife. “You’re doing that.”

The look on her face is priceless. She takes a full step away from the counter, her gaze locked on the knife in my hand. A soft shake of her head that makes the light glisten on her dark hair does nothing to cover the jerky movement of her throat as she swallows. “I don’t cook.”

“I can tell. You have a lot of frozen deli meals.” I pop the knife down beside the strawberries with a chuckle. “But trust me, you can’t mess this up. Just start with cutting off the tops and slicing them in half.”

“Okay.” One tentative half step forward and then resolve takes her all the way to the counter where she opens the punnet of strawberries. She picks up one of the juicy red fruits and scowls at it. “All right, but I’m telling you right now if there is a way to mess this up, I will find it.”

I want to laugh at her because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look at a piece of fruit like they wish it would die. But I hold back the chuckle that catches in my throat and the sudden urge to circumvent the counter, take her face between my palms, and wrap my lips around hers. To hell with it, I will anyway. Just not right now. A little later when she’s not wielding a knife.

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