“I asked if it was okay if I called you a sin eater.”
The words land like a pair of sharp slaps. I close my eyes until I know I’m not going to lose it, take a deep breath, and meet his gaze. “Maybe not every day.” I buy a moment of respite by snatching one of the water chestnuts and eating it whole.
Once I can, I start talking. I tell him how the psychic thing wasn’t a lie, and how I’m working with Geordi to try and get my shit together and how Micah’s my new best friend.
“Should I be jealous?” he asks. The oven timer chimes and I jump up, leaving him in suspense.
“Ezra?”
“Nah,” I call from the kitchen, where I’m finishing a sauce made from pan drippings and plating a perfect roast pork tenderloin with baby potatoes and corn soufflé made from Grandma’s recipe. “He’s married, and his husband is intimidating enough that even I wouldn’t mess with him.”
I bring out the platter holding our dinner. His eyes get wide and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“You’re forgiven.” He rises, scooting the appetizer plate off to the side of the table. “I didn’t say that before, because I really don’t think there’s much to forgive. You are who you are, and I’m good with that.” He comes around the table, stopping close enough to wrap his hands over mine where I’m holding the platter. “And dude, I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me. Thank you.”
He leans in and kisses me.
From there, dinner is lovely. We talk about the hospital and whether I’ll return to the morgue versus working for Geordi instead. Apparently, SPAM is part of a larger network of agents who deal with the sorts of things they put in Marvel movies, and Geordi says I have a future there.
Go figure.
In turn, Damon tells me about what Mo found out about Sue Myhre and how McGraw is working on comparing DNA from Sue’s sister to samples taken from unidentified bodies in hopes of finding a match. He says the whole thing has inspired him to become a private investigator so he can track down missing persons, which I think is the coolest idea ever.
Our conversation winds down about the time we’re done eating. It’s not so much that we’ve run out of things to talk about as it is time to move things on to the real main course.
“It’s almost time for dessert.”
He runs the tines of his fork through the puddle of sauce on his plate. “Oh really? You got a layer cake or a plate of perfect chocolate chip cookies tucked away somewhere?”
My grin slides to a very naughty place. “Not exactly.”
“Hit me with it, then.” His smile echoes mine. “Not sure there’s anything you can say that’ll surprise me.”
I don’t answer him, at least not with words. Instead, I come around the table and push on his shoulders to make him scoot his chair back, then straddle his lap. I take hold of his face, palms against his cheeks, holding him steady for what I’m about to do.
He wraps his arms around my shoulders, as if he wants to hold me just as still. He feels good, strong, a solid object to ground myself with. He’s still out of my league—and yeah, on one level I wonder what the hell I can ever offer him—but then our lips crash together.
His mouth is soft, the swelling in his groin hard and getting harder. He tastes like that savory sauce and I scoot forward somy elbows rest on his shoulders and my hands rake through his hair. He’s smiling through the kiss, filling me with something close to joy. I want this. I wanthim, and if it takes hours spent with Geordi and his esoteric band of brothers, I’ll do it.
I break the kiss, only so I can move my lips over his eyes and his brow, light and teasing. He’s got one hand’s fingertips inside the waistband of my jeans, working their way down. His heat and his earthy scent drive me crazy and my hips move of their own accord. Rocking. Humping. Making what I want next very plain.
“We going to your bed this time?” The rawness in his voice pushes me higher.
“It’s a mattress on the floor of my closet.”
“That’s cool, as long as there’s room enough for both of us.”
Sighing, I ease away from him. “I wish sex could happen without such mundane considerations like where and how.”
That makes him laugh. “Well, if I bent you over the table, it’d put your face in that gorgeous corn stuff—”
“Grandma’s recipe.” I try for prissy and pretty much fail.
“Wherever it came from, it was delicious.” He stands, grabbing my hand and tugging me against his body. “Now show me where the goddamn bed is.”
I do.
He loses his shirt before we get to the closet door and his jeans stay in the doorway. I hurry to catch up, heavily distracted by his perfect pecs and his even more perfectly hairy chest. “Fuck me.”
