Page 92 of Into These Eyes
“Forget it,” she says, as if she’s read my mind.
My eyes shoot to hers. “Sorry?”
“You look like you’re about to attack me. Which, of course, would be the only way you’re getting any more, since this is the last one.”
As she takes another bite, her eyes shine with a teasing challenge. A challenge I can’t resist. Playfully, I lunge at her. She lets out a little squeal as she flees, her footsteps pounding down the hallway.
Chuckling, I turn back to the remaining lasagne, knowing without a doubt that if I chase her and catch her, I’m going to fuck up everything, because I won’t be able to keep my hands off her. And I need to know with one hundred percent certainty that she wants me to touch her.
Right now, I can’t figure out if she’s completely oblivious to how seductive she is, or if she’s deliberately driving me crazy. Either way, I refuse to do anything to screw this up.
When she returns a few minutes later, I’m in the middle of scrubbing the lasagne pan in hot, soapy water.
“Guess you lose,” she says, wandering up beside me, her head tilted. “You gave up way too easy.”
I stop scrubbing the pan, my heart thudding. “What do you think would’ve happened if I’d caught you?”
She blinks, her cheeks darkening, as if it’s only just occurred to her that her little challenge would require physical contact.
Her eyes dart away, the corners of her lips twitching. “I suppose you would have … eaten my peach.”
Jesus. There’s no way she’s talking about fruit. She’s not only surprised me with her cheeky subtext, she’s pushing me to my limit. And I fucking love it.
“But,” she continues, “I won. I’m the one with the lingering taste of that peach on my tongue. Not you.”
Wild images of my head between her legs rocket through my brain, making me grateful I’m already leaning against the cupboards beneath the sink so she can’t see my growing hard-on. Grinning at her, I can’t help but tease, “If I had the taste of that peach on my tongue, wouldn’t that make us both winners?”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly before she lets out a huff of a laugh. “I don’t see how.”
As I watch the blush creep down her slender neck, I’m damn sure she knows exactly how. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“You know, seeing you happy like this,” she says, her voice dropping to a softer tone, “I … well, it’s wonderful. I hope living here is helping with that.”
When she pushes away from the counter, I mumble under my breath, “It’s all you.
Later, as we sit side-by-side at the breakfast bar, I notice her stealing glances at me while we eat. Or is she noticingmestealing glances ather?Hard to say, but the next time our eyes meet, I decide to confront her, my curiosity too damn strong to contain.
“Did you see me?” I ask. “Before I got in the pool?”
Her eyes skitter back to her food. “Sure. You were mowing the lawn.”
“And?” Staring at her profile, I swivel my stool in her direction and wait until she looks at me. “No lying, remember? Your rule.”
Our eyes lock just before her gaze drops to the left side of my chest. Damn. She definitely saw me.
I should be angry. I’m sure she would be if it were the other way around. Problem is, my dick seems to think the idea of her hiding inside, checking me out, is pretty hot. I’d love to know what she thought.
Still staring at my chest, she says, “You have a tattoo.”
Clever little diversion on her part, steering me away from the fact she saw me naked to the one thing I don’t want to talk about.
Swivelling back toward my meal, I let out a dismissive humph, hoping that’ll discourage her from further questions on the subject.
“I could only see that you have one, not what it is.”
“Good,” I say a little sharper than I intended. From the corner of my eye, I see her open her mouth, but whatever question she had doesn’t come. Instead, she concentrates on jabbing different salad ingredients onto her fork before adding a bite of lasagne.
Eager to leave that topic behind, I ask, “You working for the rest of the night?”
