Fuck my life.
I clear my throat. “You okay there, darlin’?” I manage to say, my voice cracking like I’m going through fucking puberty again.
I try to begenuine, I really do. I feel my eye twitching with the strain to stay at face level.
She holds up a single finger. One elegant, desperate little gesture—wait—before her body’s consumed again by another sneeze-turned-moan that has me wanting to drop to my knees and prayor maybe beg her to stop before I embarrass myself in ways a grown man should never have to explain.
“Bla-black pepper,” she chokes out between sneezes. “I’m allergic.”
And just like that—clarity.
I look down at the pepper grinder in my hand.
Back up at her.
Back down to the pepper.
Glare at it like it’s trying to steal my girl—then like any rational man being emotionally held hostage by his own erection—Iyeetit. Full force launch it across the room, straight out the open window.
There. Gone. Problem handled.
Not the problem in your pants idiot. Sporting a damn pitch tent like I’m twelve and it’s my first time seeing boobs on cable. Please don’t look down. Please don’t look down. I mentally plead.
The air finally starts to clear. The sneezes slow, then stop. She’s breathless. A mess. Mascara smudged, lips parted, cheeks flushed like she just ran a marathon or had a masterclass solo orgasm against the kitchen counter.
I watch her dab at her eyes, embarrassed now, avoiding my gaze.
And me? I’m standing here with a dick harder than federal law allows, trying not to imagine what she'd sound like if I was the one making her lose control like that.
Yes, reader. I know, you don’t need to say it.
I’m about ten seconds away from finding my nearest “We listen, and we don’t judge” confession session.
“For the record,” I say, voice all husky and wrong, “that was,by farthe sexiest sneezing fit I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing.” The smile that stretches across my face is criminal.
She glares up at me, still sniffling. “Not funny. And there’s no need for you to look so pleased with yourself.”
I grin, no apology in sight. “I disagree. It was both deeply concerning and... tragically arousing.” I lean in a little closer, dropping my voice to a sinful whisper. “Pretty sure you owe me dinner after that kind of foreplay.”
She groans, rolls her eyes, but there’s that twitch at the corner of her mouth—the one she gives me right before she either hits me or kisses me.
God, I hope it’s the latter.
“You're impossible,” she mutters, but a small smile tugs at her lips.
“So I've been told.” I hand her a glass of water, which she accepts gratefully. “You should have warned me about your pepper allergy. I would've been more careful.”
I lie.
A big ol’ bold-faced smiling lie.
Because the simple truth is; the horny devil in me now wants to put a big-ass barrel of pepper in every fucking room of this house.
She waves a hand, totally unaware of where my mind’s now rolling around in the gutter.
“It didn't seem relevant until you were waving it around while making inappropriate comments,” she retorts after taking a sip from her glass.
“Ah, so the question is…” I lean in slightly, voice dropping low enough to make her swallow hard. “Was it the pepper that made you all hot and bothered, or the inappropriate commentary?”
