He plucked an easy combination of strings that had the nerve to sound incredible. “Let me guess. This party is at the Third Shift?”
A reluctant smile tugged her lips. “Is there anywhere else in this town?”
His jaw went tight. “Is that prick going to be there?”
It took Jasmine a few beats to recall exactly which prick Sarge referred to. After all, she worked with quite a few of them. “Oh, Carmine?” She feigned nonchalance, playing with the tie of her robe. “Yes, he probably will.”
A darker, more complicated scale of chords, played without taking his gaze off her. “Are you going to invite me or do I just show up?”
Jasmine crossed her arms. “Oh, are those my two options?”
“Yeah.” He took a step toward her. “So pick one.”
Outrage stiffened her spine and released a fog of heat into her throat. It felt…phenomenal. She hadn’t been good and mad in a long time. There hadn’t been anything worth invoking her wrath. Now, though, she let the irritation trickle down into her fingertips, which curled themselves into fists. When satisfaction crossed Sarge’s handsome, stubbled face, Jasmine realized his aim had been to anger her. Why? “Is there a reason you’re pissing me off in my own kitchen?”
“Yeah.” He jerked the guitar over his head—sending his muscles dancing in mesmerizing patterns—and set the instrument down with a thunk. “I didn’t like the way you looked when I walked in here.”
Something heavy flipped over in her stomach. “It’s seven thirty in the morning. Were you expecting a flamenco dance?”
His full male laughter put a dent in her anger. “I wouldn’t turn one down.” He prowled toward the fridge and opened it, giving her an eyeful of his profile, complete with the fat, unsatisfied bulge in his underwear. Which she would clearly be thinking about for the rest of the day. “So, Paulie’s got breakfast covered. Can you wait while I make you lunch?”
Jasmine crossed her arms to hide her distended nipples. Since when did triple orgasm recipients get hot and bothered again after mere minutes? “You can’t just piss me off and then make me lunch.”
Smile playing on his lips, Sarge lifted his head, sending dark hair falling over his eye. “Why is that?”
“A sandwich is an easy way off the hook.” She pursed her lips. “Too easy.”
Good God, she was flirting with him. How had he managed to flip her mood around when she’d been mired in dread upon entering the kitchen? She was shameless and utterly self-destructive. None of that seemed to matter, however, when Sarge closed the refrigerator door and sauntered toward her. “If you don’t wait while I make you lunch…” He propped his hands on the counter, blocking her in. “I guess I’ll just have to bring it down to the factory later.”
“You can’t just walk in there. You’ll be mobbed,” Jasmine breathed. “Besides, we have a cafeteria.”
He came closer, crowding, giving her a mouthwatering whiff of man. “It’s not good enough for you.” His fingers teased the hem of her robe, forming goose bumps down her legs. “Go get dressed while I make you something.”
“Stop being so pushy.”
“Stop being so beautiful.”
There was no way around his magnetism. Not when they were both half dressed, the morning after sex so good she’d thought it impossible. Not when sincerity threaded his deep voice. Not when he was looking down at her like she might be the only other living, breathing person in the world. And maybe they needed to keep having the impossible sex because it was the only way to continue the human race. Really, it would just be for science. They’d be humanitarians.
I’m losing my damn mind. She lost it even more when he tilted his head and rubbed that bulge against the knot of her robe, side to side, in slow, devastating drags. “Let me feed you.”
“No.” Jasmine tried to back up, but there was nowhere to go, pinned between his big body and the counter, watching his abs flex as he rubbed against her. “The scales are too imbalanced here.”
“Why?” His expression mirrored the confusion in his voice. “Because of what we did in bed this morning?”
“What you did, Sarge,” she whispered, shocked to feel a flush climb her neck. Men did not turn her red. Ever. They didn’t immobilize her under a single look, either. Didn’t drape her insides in warm, sticky silk.
Jasmine’s thoughts were cut off when Sarge framed her jaw in one big hand, tilting her head back. “Baby.” He applied gentle pressure to her cheeks, forcing her mouth to open on a gust of breath. “Eating your * isn’t a chore, it’s a privilege.”
“Stop,” she tried to say, but it emerged as a moan. A moan that turned to a whimper when the hand not holding her jaw slipped between their bodies. Down, down, deft fingers making quick work of her robe tie and pushing it open. Sarge’s grip found the apex of her thighs, cupping her through cotton panties.