Page 27 of Not That Complicated

I winced. “I’m pretty sure first aid for a burned tongue is not to stick it in someone else’s mouth—mmph!”

He kissed me again, and whimpered. “Ow,fuck.”

“Adam.” I pressed my hand to his lips when he tried again and shook my head. “No,” I said. “Stop hurting yourself.”

He fumed silently, then removed my hand. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll kiss you without tongue.”

I gave him a sceptical look. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to control yourself,” I said. And I didn’t want him to hurt himself again.

“Let me try.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Adam squeezed my hips, which he was holding between his big hands, and lightly bumped his pelvis into mine.

We were both very clearly into it. And yet...

“Why are you here?” I said. “I thought maybe you came to taunt me some more, maybe to indulge in a spot more emotional torture as a nice way to relax after your workday. Now I’m thinking…?”

“Are you finishing that sentence? Because, Ray, trust me when I say I have no idea what you’re thinking. I can’t tell if you want to slap me or shag me. You like my face, I can tell that much. But a lot of people like my stupid face, so it’s not all that helpful.”

“You’re not too far off the mark,” I said, squirming out from between Adam and the counter. “I do want to slap you half the time.”

“And the other thing?”

I shot him a glare.

He returned it with a cocky grin.

“Where do you get your confidence?” I marvelled. “You’re not smooth. Two minutes ago, you were drinking from my tap like Mrs Hughes’s Westie, Dougal, drinks from the garden hose. Your t-shirt is soaked, you made such a mess.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I did it sexy.”

I didn’t even bother to argue. Yes. Somehow, he had indeed managed to make lapping water from the tap with his head all but stuffed in my sink sexy.

I sat at the table and sipped my hot (now lukewarm) chocolate with a deliberate display of caution.

“Can I have a glass of milk to soothe the burn?” he asked, then waved me down with a tut of irritation when I half-stood. “I can get it, Ray.” He leaned over and opened the cupboard where I kept my glasses, snagged one, and took it to the fridge to fill it with milk.

At the fearsome scowl on my face when he turned back to the table, Adam hesitated.

Firming his jaw, he strode over, kicked the chair out, and threw himself into it.

Neither of us spoke. Adam drank the whole glass in long, slow pulls, his eyes on me, and set it down with a clink.

“You have a milk moustache,” I said into the ringing silence.

“Come here and kiss it off.”

“Ew.”

He laughed at that, licked it away without even trying to be sexy—I mean, he still really, really was—and slumped.

“I came to apologise, Ray,” he said.

“For what?” I said. “For being an arsehole today? Or for being an arsehole last year?” I pointed accusingly at the cupboard. “It did not escape my attention that you know where the glasses are kept. You went straight there. I didn’t even have to tell you.”

Adam shoved his chair back and got to his feet. He stalked around the table.

Reaching down, he grabbed my chin and held it firmly as his eyes bored into me. From this close, I could see that the golden hazel had a thick black limbal ring around the irises. He slid his thumb along my jaw, and nudged my chin higher.

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