Page 79 of Not That Ridiculous

He lifted his head and sniffed the air appreciatively. “Food? Did you cook for me?”

“Yes.”

I’d cooked. I’d cleaned. I, too, had showered and spiffed up. I wasn’t quite as well-turned out as Kevin was, but I’d made it out of my usual Saturday sweatpants and squeezed into some jeans that were far too tight to bust out in a public setting, but which I thought Kevin might appreciate.

I headed towards the kitchen and jerked with a gasp when Kevin’s hands landed on my arse.

That was a yes on the jeans, then.

He squeezed. “I am obsessed with your little butt,” he told me seriously.

At least he hadn’t called it fla?—

“It’s so flat.”

I sped up in an attempt to twitch my arse out of his grip but he wasn’t having any of it. “My butt is not little or flat,” I told him, and grunted when he slipped a hand around to press against my navel, snugging his hips up behind mine and then walking us forwards.

“It’s not big and round,” he said.

“It’s average. It’s an average butt.”

“Nothing average about you, Charlie.”

I disagreed, but if Kevin wanted to think I was special, I wasn’t going to talk him down. However, “I haven’t exactly got a pancake back there, you know.”

By then we’d made it to the kitchen. I thought perhaps he’d get distracted by the giant, cobalt-blue Le Creuset casserole dish filled with pasta and topped with browned and bubbling cheese, but to my surprise, he didn’t get distracted at all.

We were still on my arse, apparently.

He kept walking me forwards until I was pressed up against the cabinets. The macaroni cheese was in reach, and while Kevin tucked his chin over my shoulder to have a good look at it and take another deep, appreciative sniff, that was all the attention it got. His hands were now trapped between our bodies, and he flexed his fingers.

No, that wasn’t a flex, that was a pinch. I went up onto my toes and when I did, he tugged my hips back.

“Can I have a proper look?” he said.

“At...? My arse?”

“Yeah. I want to hold it.”

“You’re already holding it,” I pointed out, clutching the edge of the counter.

He tucked an arm beside mine and used his extra height to arch over me, laying his chest to my back.

“Bare,” he said, and nipped the skin of my neck. “I want to hold it bare.”

“All right,” I said. “But if I hear the wordflatone more time, the jeans are coming back up.”

“I won’t sayflatagain,” he assured me.

I rolled my eyes—hejustsaid it—then yelped when he nipped me again, harder.

“I saw that,” he said, taking my chin in his hand and directing my gaze to our reflection in the window. “I know it’s not flat, anyway.”

“That’s twice you’ve said it again, so I think the jeans stay up.” I choked when he flipped my button open and unzipped my fly dangerously quickly.

He tucked his fingers under the waistband, and didn’t go any further.

I pushed my arse back against him. “Well?” I said.

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