Page 14 of Feastin' with Fire
"That's one way to put it," she agrees, a small smile playing at her lips.
I try not to stare as she eats, but it's a losing battle. Every movement she makes—tucking her hair behind her ear, licking her spoon, stretching slightly in her seat—draws my attention like a magnet.
"Thank you," she says when she's finished, pushing her empty bowl away. "For the food. For everything. And happy thanksgiving!"
"It's just chili," I repeat, but we both know that's not what she's talking about, “Happy thanksgiving for you, too.”
She stands, and the shirt rides up again, giving me a brief glimpse of simple white cotton panties before she tugs it down. The flash of white is enough to send another jolt of heat through me, and I have to turn away, busying myself with clearing the dishes.
Chapter 8 - Lily
I tug at the hem of Jimmy's shirt, suddenly aware of how much I might have just exposed. Did I make him uncomfortable? He's turned away, busying himself with the dishes, shoulders tense.
Standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but his shirt and my panties, I realize how forward this must seem. I didn't intend to come off as if I'm throwing myself at him. I literally have nothing else to wear. But the way he's pointedly not looking at me sends a confusing message, especially since...
My eyes drift down to the front of his jeans, and holy fuck. There's an unmistakable bulge there, straining against the denim. And it's not just large. It's actively throbbing, pulsing visibly even as he tries to angle himself away from me.
My pussy clenches in response, already embarrassingly wet. I press my thighs together, trying to relieve the building pressure, but it only makes things worse.
Is he doing this on purpose? Showing me what I'm missing? No, Jimmy doesn't seem the type to play those kinds of games. He's been nothing but respectful. Maybe he was looking at porn on his phone while I was in the shower? But that doesn't fit either. He's too straightforward, too honest for that kind of deception.
Which means... he's turned on. By me.
The realization sends another flood of wetness between my thighs. A man like him—powerful, confident, ruggedly handsome—is aroused by me. By my body, which has only ever been criticized.
"You okay?" Jimmy's deep voice breaks through my thoughts. He's still focused on the dishes, his back partially to me.
I blink, realizing I've been standing motionless in the middle of his kitchen. Why did I get up again? I can't even remember.
"I'm fine," I say, my voice higher than normal. "I just... I wanted to help with the dishes. It's the least I can do."
"Not necessary," he says gruffly. "You're a guest."
"I insist." I move toward him, drawn like a magnet. "Please. I need to feel useful."
He doesn't argue further, just shifts sideways at the sink, clearly trying to hide his arousal from me. I step up beside him, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. For a moment, I imagine dropping to my knees right here on his kitchen floor, taking him in my mouth, showing him just how grateful I really am...
I push the thought away, horrified at myself. What is wrong with me? This man offered me shelter out of kindness, not because he wants me sexually.
I grab a towel and start drying the dishes he's washed, working alongside him in silence. For a moment, everything seems normal. Just two adults doing a mundane household task. But then he turns his head, shooting me a glance so intense, so fierce with barely contained desire that my legs actually wobble beneath me.
Our hands touch as he passes me a bowl, water splashing over both of us.
"Sorry," I murmur, my voice trembling. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he says, his voice strained. "But maybe we're standing too close."
"I'll give you some space," I say, starting to step back.
"Don't." The word comes out like it's been ripped from him. "Fuck." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it deliciously mussed. "This isn't your fault. I'm just having... trouble... with such a gorgeous woman standing next to me."
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "Gorgeous? Me?"
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. "Are you serious? Have you looked in a mirror?"
I shake my head, genuinely confused. "I don't understand what you see in me. I'm the one who's having trouble standing next to you without feeling... troubled."
"What do you mean by that?" He's fully facing me now, no longer trying to hide the massive bulge in his jeans. It's even more impressive head-on, thick and long and just a few inches from ripping right through the denim.
