Page 16 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
And if my knee never works again? If I have to retire at twenty-seven and figure out who the hell I am without hockey?
It was worth it.
Because she’s alive and sleeping in my guest room for the foreseeable future.
And she doesn’t want to bone you, and you promised not to try to bone her,the inner voice helpfully supplies.
True, Inner Voice, but I didn’t make any promises about jerking off to thoughts of how nice her nipples looked in that bra…
I finish, coming with a soft groan all over the tile, then dry off and collapse into bed, spent in every way a man can be.
I sleep like the dead for a couple of hours. Then, I wake to the smell of something sugary and delicious and remember…she’s here.
She’s here, and for now that’s more than enough.
Chapter
Four
MAKENA
Come six a.m., I’m in Parker’s giant kitchen looting, pillaging, and dirtying every pan in his collection.
Maybe I should feel weird about that, but after what Dream Parker did to me in my sleep last night, I’m practically obligated to make myself at home.
And to banish that dream from my brain meat before my new roomie wakes up…
I whisk the ricotta with more aggression than necessary, doing my best to beat the lingering lust out of my system.
But every whip of the whisk makes my breasts bob lightly beneath my borrowed t-shirt, reminding me of the way Dream Parker cupped them in his hands as he pressed me up against this very counter…
“Do other people realize what a perverted chef you are?” he’d asked, his chest solid against my back as his thumbs teased lightly across my nipples. “I can tell you’re thinking filthy things about those eggs.”
“Who says I’m thinking about eggs?” I’d asked, pressing back against the thick ridge in his pajama pants. “Maybe I’m thinking about…French toast.”
He hummed low in his throat as one strong arm banded around my waist. “Your French toast is really good. Especially with the homemade lemon curd.”
I bit back a moan as his free hand slid from my breast down to my ribs, my fluttering stomach, the waistband of my sleep shorts… “It’s hard to make sexy banter about lemon curd. Curd isn’t a sexy word.”
“Sure, it is,” he whispered against my neck. “Turn off the stove, Makena. Right now.”
I reached out, twisting the knob with a trembling hand.
“Good curd,” he added, making me laugh.
“No,” I said as he shifted us both to the left, away from the still-hot burner. “That isn’t working.”
“Sure, it is.” He dragged my shorts and panties down, sending fresh heat rushing between my legs as he bared my pussy to the warm kitchen air. “Now be a good curd and spread your thighs. I need to fuck you from behind until you?—”
“Nope!” I announce to the empty kitchen, dropping the whisk with a clatter. I prop my hands on my hips, pulling in bracing breaths. “Absolutely not,” I continue in a mutter. “No more sexy replays. You can’t help what you think when you’re asleep. But you arenotasleep. You’re awake, and you’re wearing Mrs. Parker’s pajamas. ThesameMrs. Parker who used to give you forty bucks for watching her baby boy every Friday night.”
The ricotta stares back at me, unmoved by my perverted confessions.
But ricotta is a notoriously scandalous cheese. Any cheese that can go savory or sweet as easily as it can isn’t one you want to leave alone with your husband.
Or your wife.
“I wish I were gay,” I tell the cheese. “Or at least bi. Being straight is the worst.”
