Page 61 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1
I close the laptop but leave it running as I help Hank set the table. The sense of security I feel—having my research back and being here with them—wraps around me like a warm blanket.
Hank serves me first, heaping a generous portion onto my plate, his fingers brushing mine as he places it before me.
“Eat up, luv,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, filled with something that curls low in my stomach.
Gabe pours water instead of wine, the clear liquid catching the light as it fills my glass. His eyes meet mine over the rim, a silent challenge sparking between us.
The first bite catches me off guard.
I expect something good—Hank isn’t the type to do anything halfway—but this? This is exquisite. The pasta is perfectly cooked, coated in a rich, velvety sauce that lingers on my tongue, layered with flavors that whisper of patience and precision. Garlic, herbs, a hint of something smoky. It’s restaurant-quality, the kind of dish that takes years to perfect, the kind I’d never expect from a man who can break bones as effortlessly as he prepares a reduction.
I take another bite, slower this time, letting it roll across my palate. Hank watches me, his expression unreadable, but there’s something almost smug in the way his lips quirk.
I shake my head. “You burned bacon this morning,” I remind him, pointing my fork in accusation. “The bar was set low.”
“Like Gabe,” Hank fires back smoothly, smirk deepening. “I was distracted by fucking you.”
The bluntness of it sends a bolt of heat straight through me. Notbeing with me. Notmaking love. Justfucking me. Raw. Unapologetic. Like sex is as natural to them as breathing, like there’s no need to pretty it up with flowery words.
I realize suddenly—it’s always like this with them.
No whispered sweet nothings. No carefully curated language meant to soften the edges of what we do together. They don’t hesitate. They don’t tiptoe. They don’t pretend.
It should be jarring. Maybe it would be with anyone else.
But with them? It makes my stomach flip in a way I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.
Gabe chuckles, tossing a lazy glance at Hank. “You got a real way with words, man.”
“Did I lie?” Hank forks a bite of pasta into his mouth, watching me with a knowing gleam in his eyes.
I press my lips together, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
But the heat in my cheeks gives me away.
I twirl a bite of pasta onto my fork, lifting it to my lips. The moment it hits my tongue, warmth spreads through me, rich and complex—the kind of flavor that lingers, unfolding in layers. I blink, caught off guard by how damn good it is.
Hank watches me, waiting, and my silence stretches.
I take another bite, slower this time, letting myself savor it. The sauce is bold, the perfect balance of heat and depth, coating the pasta like silk. Every ingredient feels intentional, precise. Like everything he does.
“You’re…” I shake my head, setting down my fork as I stare at him. “You’re a killer and a chef?”
Gabe snorts. “That should be his tagline.”
Hank leans back in his chair, arms folding over his broad chest. “You think I’d let you eat anything less than perfect?”
I should’ve known. Hank doesn’t do mediocre. Not in the field, not in the bedroom, and apparently, not in the kitchen.
A shiver runs through me, completely unrelated to the food.
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. “You keep surprising me,” I admit.
“Good.” His gaze darkens, amusement flickering behind something deeper.
Throughout dinner, I catch myself glancing at the laptop, eager to dive back into my work I thought might be lost forever.
Conversation is sparse, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and soft sighs. The tension from earlier, the sharp edges of need and possession, has softened into a comfortable simmer, but beneath the surface, the undercurrent is still there, thrumming.Hank’s gaze wanders over my throat, my collarbone, places Gabe’s mouth claimed only hours before.
