He kind of ate like he screwed. In the moment, it was the only thing he needed, and while it was happening, it was the only thing he was thinking about.
His hair was devoid of any product and fell casually to the side, while his jeans hung loosely, just above the curve of his ass. I set my fork down, hungry but not for food anymore, as my heart rate picked up, and I devoured him with my eyes.
“Easton,” he growled, making my name sound like a warning. “I mean it. I need to work.”
I snapped my eyes up to see him sipping coffee and staring ahead, a hard expression on his face. He knew what I’d been thinking.
“Can’t keep up with the appetite of a twenty-three-year-old?” I teased.
He looked affronted. “You’re going to pay for that.”
Oh, I hope so.
I was half tempted to put more effort into distracting him. I liked making him angry.
But I decided against it, realizing it would divulge to him how much I was enjoying his company.
I let my eyes trail down his thick, corded forearms, wide chest, and toned stomach, almost wishing Tyler were twenty-two again. Maybe if I’d slept with the cocky asswipe he’d been in his youth, I wouldn’t have grown to like him as much as I had already.
He was still an asshole, but it came off endearing most of the time, and he completely turned me on. He was also patient, as eager to please me in bed as he was to please himself, and confident in what he wanted.
And today that was me.
I cleared my throat and tried to continue eating. “Are you sure you’re not expecting anyone home today?” I asked.
“I just called Christian to check in,” he assured me. “He’s a hundred twenty miles away and already out fishing for the day.”
I winced and returned to my fruit.
“What?”
I looked up at him, not having meant for him to see my reaction.
“Ah, well…” I searched for the words. “I guess it seems boring. For me anyway,” I added.
“I agree.” He nodded, surprising me. “I’m not much of a country boy.”
I grinned to myself, happy to hear that I hadn’t offended him. Or maybe happy to hear we had that in common, as well.
I’d never been interested in hunting or fishing, although I didn’t think I’d be averse to camping and hiking if I ever got the chance to try them.
Reaching over and grabbing the iPad, I laid it on the island between our plates.
“I’d say the wilderness you brave is far more dangerous, anyway,” I commented, gesturing to the Times-Picayune article I’d found about him online.
He rolled his eyes at the headline: Marek and Blackwell Vying for Senate?
“You investigated me?” he accused, eyeing me playfully as he repeated my words to him from last night.
I licked my lips, trying to hide the smile. “I know how to Google,” I retorted.
I brought up the notes I’d made on the iPad, shoving it over to him as I hopped off my stool and began clearing dishes.
“What’s this?” he asked about what I’d written.
“I made some notes on your platform,” I told him, clearing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.
While the food had been in the oven, I’d scanned some articles about him and browsed around his website, taking a look at random press conferences he’d given concerning news in his company or his interest in running for senator.
“Who writes your speeches?” I asked.
“I do.”
My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t turn away in time. He’d seen my face.
“What?” he asked, sounding defensive.
I dried off my hands and faced him, wondering how I would tell a man as insistent and stubborn as Tyler Marek that he kind of stunk at something.
He watched me, and I gave him an apologetic smile. “No offense,” I inched out, “but your speeches are lacking. You’re about as heartwarming as a meat locker.”
His back straightened and his chin dipped, and for a moment I thought I was in for another spanking.
“And your online presence needs work,” I added. “You’re kind of dull.”
His eyes narrowed. “Get in my lap. I’ll show you how dull I am.”
I rolled my eyes, ignoring his threat as I circled the island and came to stand at his side.
“Here, look.” I tapped the screen, bringing up his social media.“Your Twitter followers.” I pointed to his number and then brought up another profile. “Mason Blackwell’s Twitter followers.”
I eyed him, hoping he saw the huge difference. Mason Blackwell had five times as many followers, but he didn’t have nearly the influence of Tyler Marek.
Tyler owned a multimillion-dollar worldwide corporation. So why did he come off looking like a hermit?
I went on, scrolling through the iPad, pointing things out. “You tweet – or the person you hired tweets – once every other day. And it’s boring,” I told him. “Retweets of articles, ‘have a nice day everyone,’ Blah.”
Tyler looked up, clearly not appreciating my attitude.