Page 119 of Fighting For Light
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Later that day, after Cordi called Mom, the dress designers came to the house. I gave her space and went to finish the rocking chair in the garage. She’s not very excited and self-conscious about everything right now, but she could wear a burlap sack, and she would still be the most stunning woman I have ever seen. If Mom has it her way, my brothers and I will be in custom, bespoke suits, and Cordelia’s dress will be nothing short of one-of-a-kind. It will be the talk of the town.
The designers finally leave, and I finish the last piece to the rocking chair.
“Kai!” Cordi calls.
I peek my head out around the garage door. “Gem!” I yell.
She laughs and rubs her belly.
“What do you want for dinner? Make it interesting because, for some reason, I want peanut sauce.”
I chuckle and hit the button for the garage door, hiding the book I ordered for her behind my back. “That’s random.”
She shrugs and turns around. “I’ve learned to just go with the craving.”
“Well, this should give you some ideas, then,” I say, holding the book out to her.
Her eyes sparkle, and she reaches for it.
“Oh my gosh! I love her! You know I follow her blog like it’s my favorite book. You liked that one recipe I made of hers a while ago. I knew she had a cookbook but never thought to get it.” She hugs the book to her. “Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her, washing my hands in the sink. “Okay, tell me what I need to chop.”
She shakes her head and points to the stairs. “No, go shower so you don’t get sawdust in our food,” she commands.
I click my heels and salute her. “Yes, ma’am.” I spin on my heel, and she sneaks up on me, hitting my butt with the book. “Hey, hey, you’re giving me ideas that have nothing to do with peanut sauce, wife. Tread carefully.”
Her eyes spark again, only they are full of longing, love, and that feral look she gives when she wants to ride me like she owns me.
“Food first,” she says breathlessly.
I wink and run up the stairs to take the fastest shower of my life.
By the time I get downstairs, she has her ingredients out and a cutting board with an onion sitting on it. “Can you cut the onion? You know they make me cry.”
“I only like it when you cry because you can’t take any more of me,” I whisper in her ear before nipping it with my teeth. She shudders, and her cheeks flame red. I gather her dress in my fist and slide my hand up her thigh.
She bats me away. “Focus on the onion, sous-chef.”
“Yes, chef!” I work on chopping the onion while she works on her peppers.
“Can you put the meat in the skillet? I can’t even look at ground beef, otherwise I’m going to puke.”
I kiss her temple and slide my hand over her ass. “Yes, I can, chef, “ I tell her roughly.
I chuckle and start cooking the meat up in the skillet.
“You love riling me up, don’t you?” she asks.
“You already know the answer to that.”
She gives me a look with those pretty blue bedroom eyes, and I wish we made PB and J’s and called it a day.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” she says, pouring the chopped veggies into the skillet.
“You’re good,” I mutter against her skin.
