Page 53 of Exposed Ink

She leans over my shoulder, but when I turn to answer her, our faces almost collide. Her eyes meet mine as she drags her tongue along the seam of her lips to wet them.

“Chicken Alfredo,” I say, my eyes not leaving hers. “But right now, I’m thinking the only thing I’m hungry for is you.”

Kinsley’s cheeks heat up a beautiful shade of pink. “Too bad because I forgot to eat lunch, so I’m actually starved for real food.”

“You got it.” I lean in and kiss the tip of her nose and then back away. “Here you go.” I hand her the container and silverware and then pull out the drinks and cups I brought.

“Is that sweet tea?” Her eyes go wide.

“Yep, and it’s homemade.”

“Shane Evans.” She sighs. “You really do know the way to my heart.”

She opens the lid, pours some sweet tea into a cup, and takes a sip.

“Oh my God.” She moans, taking another sip.

“Damn, Kins,” I say with a laugh. “Keep making noises like that, and I’m going to toss you on that pool table and eatyoufor dinner.”

“Maybe if you’re a good boy and eat all your dinner, you can have me for dessert.” She leans in and brushes her lips against mine. “But I can’t promise how sweet I’ll be.”

She smirks playfully, and stick a fork in me because I’m done.

Sour Kinsley was already a force to be reckoned with.

Sweet Kinsley captured my heart.

But sexy Kinsley … she just might be the death of me.

* * *

“My goodness, that Alfredo was delicious.”Kinsley sets her container down and leans back to rub her food belly.

“I’m glad you liked it. I know Italian is your favorite, so I figured you might.”

Kinsley smiles softly at me. “You’re like the perfect book boyfriend, only you’re real. You’re a good dad and a great cook. You have a noble profession and a cute dog, and you own your own house.”

“But …” I prompt because with Kinsley, there usually is one.

“No buts.” She shakes her head. “I just want you to know how amazing you are.”

“Amazing enough to get your number?” I joke, making her laugh.

“Not that amazing.” She stands and bends over to clean up, but before she can, I reach out and turn her around, pulling her into my lap.

She comes willingly, her thighs resting on either side of me.

“What will it take?” I ask, gripping the curves of her hips and scooting her toward me. “What will it take for you to give me your number?”

“I don’t know,” she breathes. “A number just feels so personal.”

“I got you off in the office of the health club. You can’t get more personal than that.”

“Giving you my number will lead to texting and phone calls, which will lead to talking and making plans and getting to know each other, which will lead to getting serious, and that will end in heartbreak.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I promise, curling my fingers around her nape.

“I know you won’t,” she says softly. “I’m more afraid of hurting you.”

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