I jump as if accustomed to taking orders, and Nero smirks as if he finds my submissiveness addictive.
My thighs quiver, either in excitement or worry, when he lowers his eyes to my slinky pants. “If you want to keep your shirt, I’m fine with that, but you need to lose your pants.” When I hesitate, he raises his eyes to my face, his gaze lingering on my breasts for two lazy, lust-filled seconds. “No one eats candy with the wrapper still on.”
I angle my head and arch a brow, confused.
He said we were going to go bite for a bite, lick for a lick.
Why do I need to be naked for that?
I’m afraid the whisky-yuzu savarin will be dry when my smarts kick back on.
Nero doesn’t want to go turn for turn on the treats I baked.
He wants to eat me.
The knowledge alone starts an inferno. For now, it is contained in my lower stomach. I don’t see its containment lasting long.
Just standing across from him, panting and wet, I feel my temperature rising. My skin is scorching, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
I’m seconds from combusting.
Tremors race down my limbs when I hook my thumbs into the waistband of the pants I dug out of the back of my closet with purpose. Roy said the manufacturer was wrong for making them for people “my size” and that the only time I was permitted to wear them was when working out in the garage with the roller door closed.
I went grocery shopping in them this morning and didn’t consider testing their elasticity before rummaging through the bottom of an industrial freezer, seeking my favorite flavor of ice cream.
My fupa could have been showing, and I couldn’t have cared less.
I didn’t endure a single scold, not now or this morning, and the remembrance is addictive.
“One minute.” I hold my finger in the air to amplify my request before pivoting on my heel, the elastic in my pants snapping against my skin from the brisk removal of my hand.
Most women about to be devoured as if they’re dessert would run to the bathroom to freshen up.
I bolt for the refrigerator.
I haven’t had ice cream in years, and since the idea of being bitten down there scares me, I pick a meal that will require as many licks as it does nibbles to devour.
My nipples pebble against the thinness of my shirt when I return to Nero’s half of the kitchen. His watch isn’t icy. It’s so searingly hot that any part not awarded the attention of his hooded gaze feels cold.
Nero moans when I place the tub of ice cream onto the section of the counter he cleared away before I stab my thumbs into the waistband of my pants. My ass jiggles and my breasts bounce when I pull the slinky material to my knees.
My fumble as I struggle to remove the rigid material is usually when I’d dive for the covers to hide my inflamed cheeks. Something stops me this time.
Or should I say, someone.
Nero watches me like I’m performing onstage. He’s casually dressed in jeans, a white crew neck shirt, and black boots, but he is the essence of suave. He is a beautifully orgasm-inspiring man, and he knows it.
His smirk announces this, not to mention how he grabs his crotch to outline the massive bulge unconcealed by the zipper in his jeans when I finally get my pants to cooperate with my plan.
He’s so cocky my confidence should falter in his presence.
It doesn’t.
I want to be wantedby him.
Consumedby him.
Fuckedby him.
