He guides me there and sits me down right in the middle.
“I thought about taking the batteries out of your smoke detectors,” I admit, looking up at him as he props a pillow behind my back. He’s my caretaker—my caretaker who smells like he just finished working out. I should hate it, but I don’t.
He laughs under his breath. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
He starts to straighten, but I grab ahold of his t-shirt and give life to an intrusive thought. “Let’s get freaky.”
I hold him steady, bent over me and crowding my space.
He smiles. “I was about to make dinner.”
“Dinner can wait. I can’t.”
He doesn’t pull away. “Haven’t you ever heard that anticipation is the greater part of pleasure?”
“That’s stupid.”
“I bet you’d be the kid in the experiment that eats the one marshmallow instead of waiting for two.”
“Maybe,” I say, letting go of his shirt. “But we’re adults. We can eat the whole bag if we wanted to.”
He leaves me so he can walk back toward the kitchen and start to prepare chicken.
He’s making chicken?! Who can eat poultry at a time like this?
“Daisy, you’re starting to scare me.”
I suppose I do look off, sitting there on the couch with my back straight and my hands flat on my thighs. I’ve been staring straight ahead, but now I make a conscious effort to lean back and cross my legs. There. I am now a casual houseguest.
“So I know the marshmallows were metaphors for sex, but do you actually have any? For an appetizer?”
“Tell me about your day,” he says, ignoring me.
“Good. Fine. I went to work. I’m a doctor, did you know?”
“No.” He plays along. “What’s that like?”
“I work with this guy. He’s hard to like. Everyone in the office thinks so.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s just the worst.”
“How do you manage?”
I turn and we lock eyes over the kitchen island. He’s busy sautéing and I’m busy imagining what it would be like if he bent me over that island and pulled up my dress.
“I just sexually assault him and that usually shuts him up.”
“Do you want green beans or asparagus?”
“Which cooks faster?”
“Green beans.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
A few minutes later, dinner is ready. It’s record timing—so quick, in fact, I’m not surprised that when I cut into my chicken, it’s pink in the center.
“Lucas,” I say, turning my plate to show him. “It’s not cooked all the way through.”
He looks up, half in a daze. “I guess I was in a bit of a hurry.”
My smile is hidden away as he stands to retrieve my plate along with his. He deposits them both on the kitchen counter, props his hands beside them, and shakes his head. He doesn’t move for a good few seconds before I interrupt.
“So dinner was great,” I tease.
My eyes light up as he stands and starts to tug off his t-shirt.
“But now I guess it’s time for dessert? Yup. I was thinking the same thing.”
“Not so fast. I still have to shower.”
“Why? Because you just worked out? Because you’re still a little hot and sweaty, and you have this masculine musk going on?”
He knows nothing. He is Jon Snow.
“Lucas,” I say, releasing a deep breath and circling the kitchen island toward him. “I’ve asked you politely to have sex with me. Now I only think it’s fair that you fulfill that request.”
He smirks. “Turn around.”
I do as I’m told and warm hands hit my neck. He holds them there, teasing me with a gentle kiss beneath my hair. I think he’s about to unzip my dress and get this party going, but then he speaks up.
“Actually, I enjoy making you wait. Let’s go to dinner first.”
Then his hands slip away.
I laugh, exasperated, and then twist around to face him. “Lucas, come on! All of a sudden you’re some kind of gentleman? You want to take me on a date?”
“Sure. Call it whatever you want.”
I have half a mind to strip out of my dress and force the issue, but even I have my limits.
“Fine. Luckily for you, I’m a cheap date. Just order a pizza. Meanwhile, I’m going to go shower.”
Half an hour later, I’m sitting with Lucas on his couch with wet hair, sporting a matching pajama set. It’s the most modest thing my mother has packed for me to sleep in and even then, it’s not much. The shorts are skimpy and the tank top offers little in the way of boob coverage. Lucas showered too and now he’s wearing nothing but flannel pants. The show we have on is boring, some cooking contest on PBS. Neither one of us makes a move to change the channel. I chance a quick glance over and his gaze is on me, burning across my skin. I think my outfit is getting to him, but what does it matter? The moment feels like it’s passed, because everything he’s done tonight seems to signal one thing: we aren’t having sex.
The doorbell rings.
“That’s the pizza,” I say, hopping up to answer the door.