“I’m okay!” Lailah hollered back.
I turned around from my place on the sofa to see her moving about in the kitchen like a chaotic housewife. Wrapped in a frilly pink apron—given to her by Grace as a housewarming gift when Lailah had moved in here—she darted from the refrigerator to the stove and then back to the counter where her recipe book rested. Then, she just repeated the process.
Placing my head on the back of the sofa, I grinned. “Positive?”
She stopped mid-step and turned to see me watching her from the couch. A quirky smile spread across her face. “Maybe. Okay, you want the honest truth?”
“Of course,” I answered, my head perking up to listen.
“I am in way over my head,” she groaned. “Thanksgiving dinner—even for two people? It’s hard! I’m not sure what I was thinking.”
I laughed, rising from the sofa to join her in our massive kitchen. I never understood why Roman had selected such a large place for me to live in when I arrived back home. I knew he was outlandish, having a place several floors above us that was twice the size of ours, but when I’d entered this house for the first time, all I had seen was empty space.
With Lailah here, it finally felt like a home.
“Can I please help you now?” I begged. “I know men are supposed to sit around, watching football, on this particular holiday, but I’d much rather spend time with you.”
“Even if I put you to work?” she asked.
“I have many fond memories of the two of us in kitchens,” I said, remembering a similar situation much like this where we stood around a large metal counter and attempted to cook a meal together. It hadn’t been a date—at least, I hadn’t planned it that way—but it was the first time I’d seen her as something more than just a girl whom I owed a debt.
“I think your culinary skills have greatly improved since then,” she commented.
“Thank God for that.”
She put me on potato duty while she began assembling the apple pie.
“Remember when we went apple picking last fall?” she asked.
I watched her carefully measure out the cinnamon and sprinkle it over the heaping bowl of apples.
“Yeah. You were so excited that we ended up coming home with an entire bushel.” I laughed.
She gave me a doubtful look. “It was not that many. Maybe half. But I kept thinking about that last night as I was doing my last-minute grocery shopping, and I stopped to pick these up. I was enthralled with the entire process of apple picking—the cute little baskets, the fresh air and freedom to pick as many as you wanted. I remember feeling like that a lot during that first year after my recovery. I don’t ever want that to end.”
I stopped mid-potato and set the peeler on the counter. “Then, don’t. Just because you’ve been apple picking doesn’t mean it can’t be just as exciting and wondrous the second or third time around.”
“I know.” She smiled and moved toward me. Her hands were covered in cinnamon and sugar from mixing the apples together, and she had a mischievous look on her face.
My eyes followed her fingers as they slid up my arm and finally disappeared around my nape of my neck, leaving a sticky trail of sweetness behind. She reached my mouth and watched as I parted my lips and licked the sugar off her fingertips.
“Some things just keep getting better,” she whispered.
“Lailah,” I warned, gripping her hips hard.
Smirking, she placed the tip of her pointer finger on her satin lips, and as her lips closed over it, sucking the remnants of sugar with gusto, the last shred of control I had snapped.
My hands tightened around her waist before lifting and turning to hoist her onto the counter.
“Temptress,” I growled. Not giving her a single second to respond, I slammed my lips on hers, demanding everything she’d just offered.
Food was forgotten as clothes were shed, and bodies were joined. Every thrust reminded me that I was the luckiest man alive. Every kiss told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and every moan that escaped her lips echoed my heart that beat solely for her.
Everything I had was hers, and I willingly gave it to her, over and over again.
“It’s a good thing no one is coming over.” She giggled, looking at the mess in our kitchen.
“Well, it would be an interesting story to explain.”
It was well past midnight, and somehow, we’d managed to send bowls, food, and flour flying in every direction. Our lovemaking had been dirty and intense, causing a serious delay to dinner plans.
“So . . . pizza?” I asked.
She moved about the kitchen in nothing but my T-shirt. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “You order, and I’ll attempt to make some sense of all of this.”