Page 107 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

“But I—”

His head snaps up, and he levels his gaze with mine. “I practically forced water down your throat when you were drunk. Do you really want to fight me on this?”

I read him loud and clear. I’m not getting out of this room until I’ve eaten that entire omelet and he’s watched me do it.

And if I won’t do it, he’ll make me.

How can he be so sweet one second and so damn demanding the next?

I never know which version of him I’m going to get.

The nice, friendly Kane or the Kane who looks at me like he wants to devour me from the inside out and would gladly take me over his knee if I were to dare disagree with him.

I curse myself for wishing he’d mark my thigh with his fingertips, but not as much as I hate how quickly he pulls his hand away.

I decide trying to leave again wouldn’t be a smart move and I have no choice but to wait for him to finish cooking.

The tension slips away as the minutes tick by, and relief washes over me. I can breathe properly again, and it’s because I can breathe again that the smell of burnt food immediately tips me off.

“You need to flip it,” I tell him.

He doesn’t listen, shrugging off my advice. “I have it under control.”

“I’m serious! Flip it, or it’s going to burn.”

It isn’t long before I take matters into my own hands, leaping off the counter and pushing him out of the way with my hips so that I can take his place.

That he lets me do, but not without regaining his position in front of the stove. Standing a few steps behind me, he cranes his head to look over my shoulder. I swipe the spatula out of his hands and flip the omelet myself.

Just as I expected, the other side is burnt, but not so burnt that I won’t be able to eat it.

The dark chuckle fanning the nape of my neck tells me I just made a mistake. “Well, shit. I can’t even make an omelet right.”

My legs seem to weigh a thousand pounds all of a sudden, and I keep my eyes straight ahead of me, poking at the omelet with the spatula.

My pulse rises when Kane moves forward, the feel of his chest against my back making me question everything. I can feel his body heat envelop me from behind, and I try to play it off like I didn’t even notice.

His breath crashes along my neck once more, and I stiffen up. Now, you listen up, you good-for-nothing body. Don’t you dare shiver, or I’ll—

Stupid idiot.

It’s his delicious smell, his presence, the feel of him against me. The mix is too much to handle, and my arms break into goose bumps, my upper body shaking… and it’s not because of hunger.

It’s getting harder to pretend nothing’s happening, and when he reaches out to push my red hair off my shoulder, I wonder if I should call him out on it.

I open my mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a sharp gust of air as he presses himself into me.

I feel something.

Something hard.

And I’m officially off my rockers because I don’t recoil or push him away, heat settling into the lower part of my stomach.

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand curls around my hip and applies pressure, pushing me against him so that our bodies are molded together.

I expect him to release my waist, but he doesn’t. His grip is almost painful, but I don’t want him to let go.

And when his cold hands slide under the hem of my shirt, little zaps of electricity shoot through my spine.

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