Why had I told her ten minutes? I couldn’t concentrate on anything anymore. I sat at my desk staring aimlessly at my laptop, and when eight minutes had passed, I went into the kitchen.
Abby stood at my counter, staring at two cans without labels.
“Abigail?”
She didn’t move. “I’m trying to decide what someone like you is doing with label-less cans in their kitchen.”
“The small one is Italian peppers.” I walked to the counter. “The larger one holds the remains of the last nosy submissive who bugged me about my label-less cans.”
“Sign?”
“Sign.”
“Seriously,” she said, and her eyes were dancing, “what are you doing with label-less cans in your cabinets? Doesn’t that break about a hundred different rules of yours?”
I smiled, pleased she felt so comfortable in teasing me.
“The small one really is peppers from Italy. The larger one should be tomatoes from the same company. I ordered them online.”
“What happened to the labels?”
I thought back to the day the cans arrived—months ago. “They came that way. They probably are peppers and tomatoes, but I’ve been hesitant to open them and never sent them back. What if they’re pickled cow tongues?” I sighed. “I don’t have enough faith, I guess.”
Her expression grew serious. “All of life is faith. Just because something has a label doesn’t mean it’s always going to match the inside.”
Like your label, she was telling me.
“Trust me,” she said. “Sometimes it takes more faith to believe the label. Don’t be afraid of what’s on the inside. I can make a masterpiece with the insides.”
I can make a masterpiece with you, she meant—but I knew better.
Oh, Abby. You can’t. You just can’t.
Part of me wanted to believe her, so I cupped her cheek. “I bet you could,” I said, and saw in her eyes that she believed her words.
It was too much—I dropped my hand. “Now, what do you need my help with?”
She knew enough not to push it. Instead, she turned and opened the box at her side. “I want to do a mushroom risotto, but I can’t stir the rice and cook everything else at the same time. Can you stir?”
She really just wanted me to cook with her? “Mushroom risotto? I’d be happy to stir.”
She set out chicken broth and white wine next to the vegetables already on the counter. “You might want to take that sweater off. It’ll probably get hot in here.”
She wasn’t thinking we were going to . . .? In the kitchen?
I took the sweater off and draped it over the arm of a chair.
“I’ll chop up the mushrooms and onions,” she said. “You start the rice.”
The nonchalant way she said it. Her offhanded manner. Her command of the kitchen.
“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” I teased.
She cocked her eyebrow and put her hand on her hip. “It’s my kitchen.”
Her words surged through me, turning me on more than I could have imagined.
I shoved her against the counter and rocked my h*ps against her. “No. I said the kitchen table was yours. The remainder of the kitchen is mine.”
Her eyes grew dark, and I knew exactly what her plan was. The only question was, what would I do about it?
“Now,” I said. “What was that about the rice?”
I turned on the burner and readied the pan. Abby held up the bottle of wine.
“Yes, please,” I said, and she poured us each a glass before setting to work chopping the onions.
I added the rice to the pan, and stirred it a bit, coating the grains with olive oil. I poured in some wine from the bottle.
“You ready for this?” she asked, motioning toward the onions.
“I’m always ready.” I just wasn’t going to do anything about it. I shifted my hips. Damn my erection that thought differently.
She dipped under my arm and scraped the onions into the pan. “There you go.” Her ass grazed my c**k and I grew even harder.
Then she was gone, dicing mushrooms, while I was stuck in front of the oven, stirring. I glanced over to the chicken broth. Was it time to add some?
She noticed. “Want me to get that chicken stock for you?” Without waiting, she dipped under my arm again and got the pitcher. Her arm brushed me as she poured.
Fuck. What was the plan?
No sex. Not during the week. Right. Back to the plan.
Maybe she saw my resolve and gave up—she spent the next few minutes dicing the rest of the mushrooms.
Until one dropped to the floor and rolled to where I stood.
“Oops,” she said. “Let me get that.”
She squeezed between me and the stove while I kept stirring and bent down to retrieve the mushroom, brushing against my thigh and then grabbing me around the waist to steady herself as she stood up. I knew exactly what she was doing.
But the plan, I reminded myself. Not during the week. But if Abby wanted it . . . No. Not during the week.
I argued with myself as the risotto simmered away. Thinking one thing and then deciding on another. Thinking that kitchen sex wouldn’t be so bad and then reminding myself that I needed to keep sex out of our weekday relationship.
Again, Abby must have somehow picked up on my hesitation, because she didn’t try anything else. Instead, she prepared the chicken br**sts and passed me the mushrooms once they were finished.
Then she stripped off her sweater, and I knew she hadn’t picked up on what I was thinking at all.
She lifted the pitcher of chicken broth again. “Need more?”
It was okay. I could resist her. “Just a touch.”
She had a white tank top on under the sweater. I stared at her as she poured broth into the pan—was she wearing a bra?
Somehow, she poured more broth on her than she got in the pan. And, no, she didn’t have a bra on.
“Damn,” she said. “Would you look at that?”
Her ni**les were hard beneath the thin white material. I wanted to taste them . . . wanted to taste her . . .
“I guess I need to take this off before the stain sets. It could be a problem.” She walked over to the sink and, damn it, took off her top.
My last coherent thought was to turn the oven and burner off so the house didn’t burn down. I strode across the floor and grabbed her by the waist. “I’ve got a bigger problem for you.”
She knew exactly what I was talking about, for her eyes dropped down to where my erection strained against the front of my jeans.
I picked her up and carried her to the counter, shoving anything in my way off onto the floor. Something broke as it hit, but I didn’t look to see what was—I didn’t care. Instead, I unbuttoned her jeans and jerked them off.
Fuck.
She wasn’t wearing panties.
I took a step back and shoved my own jeans off. “Is this what you want?”
Without waiting for an answer, I stepped close and she wrapped her legs around me.
“Yes.” Her hands snaked their way under my shirt and I ran my thumb over her nipple. “Please,” she said. “Please. Now.”
I slid my hands over her body, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Abby was in my kitchen, naked, on a Tuesday. This really wasn’t my plan. I didn’t want to push her. To confuse us.
“I didn’t want . . . I didn’t think . . .” I started, but her lips were on my neck.
“You think too much,” she whispered.
Damn straight. For the rest of the afternoon, I wouldn’t think.
I took her legs, spread them farther apart, and thrust into her. The angle was a bit off, so I shifted my h*ps and thrust deeper.
“Oh, hell, yes. More,” she said as I withdrew. “More, please.”
I pounded into her as she sat on the counter, pushing harder, wanting deeper. Trying to give her what she wanted, taking what she’d give me. Her head hit a cabinet and I slowed my movements.
She would have none of that. “Harder,” she begged. “Please, harder.”
“Fuck, Abigail.” I held her steady and pushed farther into her.
“Again.” She bit my ear. “Damn it. Again.”
Her words spurred me forward, and I worked my h*ps harder and faster. She felt so damn good. I wanted more. Wanted more of her. I angled my h*ps and hit deep within her.
“Yes,” she said, breathless, head hanging back. “Right there.”
Her talk turned me on even more. “Here?” I thrust, hitting the spot again. “Here?”
I knew I hit it, because she started whimpering. I worked my h*ps harder, driving us both toward our release, and slid my hand between us to rub her clit.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Almost there.”
I drove into her as hard as I could, forcing myself not to cl**ax until I could bring her hers.
“I . . . I . . . I . . .” she stuttered.
She tightened around me, and I thrust as deep as possible, releasing into her, my muscles shaking as I finally allowed my orgasm to overtake me.
I couldn’t talk for several minutes. Around us the kitchen was in disarray, the risotto cooled, and the chicken was probably overdone.
I couldn’t care less.
“Damn,” I said, after I found my voice. “That was . . .”
Incredible.
Amazing.
Wonderful.
“I know,” she said. “I agree.”
I lifted her from the countertop and set her on her feet. The drawer next to the oven held fresh towels, so I took one out and gently cleaned her.
Incredible, amazing, and wonderful, yes. But it couldn’t happen again.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I hummed that night as I cooked dinner. Maybe being snowed in for a few days wasn’t the worst thing in the world. So far, things were going well. Abby and I had watched a bit of television earlier in the afternoon. When we got bored of news and weather, we went into the library. Abby sat in front of the fireplace and I sat at my desk—pretending to work, but really reading a collection of Shakespeare quotes. Apollo followed us wherever we went, and Abby and I took turns taking him outside.
I was going to open one of my label-less cans. I would close my eyes, hope for the best and, if all went according to plan, make a delicious marinara.
Abby sat behind me at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of red wine. I was surprised she’d decided to be in the kitchen while I cooked. Normally, she stayed in the library.
When I picked up the can opener, she rose onto her toes behind me to peek at the contents of the can. “Just checking,” she said.
Label-less cans—who would have thought they could entertain and keep our attention the way they had? I set the opener down and slowly lifted the lid.
“Tomatoes,” we both said when the red fruit came into view.
“Drat,” she said. “I was hoping for pickled cow tongue or some incriminating body parts.”
I forked a tomato. “Rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”
“No.” She dropped back to her heels. “It’s better to know.”
It’s always better to know. Tell her, my inner voice nagged.
“You’re right,” I said. “And it’s going to make us a delicious supper.”
I poured the tomatoes into the waiting sauté pan. The smell of juicy tomato joined the aroma of browned onion and mushroom. Abby didn’t return to the table, standing behind me instead. I glanced over at the countertop, seeing her there, remembering the words she’d spoken as I took her.
Harder. Please, harder.
“Smells good,” she said, looking over my shoulder again.
If I turned around, I would have her n**ed in less than ten seconds.
“Go sit down,” I said. “I’d like to have one hot meal today.”
She didn’t move. “Breakfast was hot, and lunch was hot.” She paused for a second. “At least the part before lunch was hot.”
Abby stood at my counter, staring at two cans without labels.
“Abigail?”
She didn’t move. “I’m trying to decide what someone like you is doing with label-less cans in their kitchen.”
“The small one is Italian peppers.” I walked to the counter. “The larger one holds the remains of the last nosy submissive who bugged me about my label-less cans.”
“Sign?”
“Sign.”
“Seriously,” she said, and her eyes were dancing, “what are you doing with label-less cans in your cabinets? Doesn’t that break about a hundred different rules of yours?”
I smiled, pleased she felt so comfortable in teasing me.
“The small one really is peppers from Italy. The larger one should be tomatoes from the same company. I ordered them online.”
“What happened to the labels?”
I thought back to the day the cans arrived—months ago. “They came that way. They probably are peppers and tomatoes, but I’ve been hesitant to open them and never sent them back. What if they’re pickled cow tongues?” I sighed. “I don’t have enough faith, I guess.”
Her expression grew serious. “All of life is faith. Just because something has a label doesn’t mean it’s always going to match the inside.”
Like your label, she was telling me.
“Trust me,” she said. “Sometimes it takes more faith to believe the label. Don’t be afraid of what’s on the inside. I can make a masterpiece with the insides.”
I can make a masterpiece with you, she meant—but I knew better.
Oh, Abby. You can’t. You just can’t.
Part of me wanted to believe her, so I cupped her cheek. “I bet you could,” I said, and saw in her eyes that she believed her words.
It was too much—I dropped my hand. “Now, what do you need my help with?”
She knew enough not to push it. Instead, she turned and opened the box at her side. “I want to do a mushroom risotto, but I can’t stir the rice and cook everything else at the same time. Can you stir?”
She really just wanted me to cook with her? “Mushroom risotto? I’d be happy to stir.”
She set out chicken broth and white wine next to the vegetables already on the counter. “You might want to take that sweater off. It’ll probably get hot in here.”
She wasn’t thinking we were going to . . .? In the kitchen?
I took the sweater off and draped it over the arm of a chair.
“I’ll chop up the mushrooms and onions,” she said. “You start the rice.”
The nonchalant way she said it. Her offhanded manner. Her command of the kitchen.
“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” I teased.
She cocked her eyebrow and put her hand on her hip. “It’s my kitchen.”
Her words surged through me, turning me on more than I could have imagined.
I shoved her against the counter and rocked my h*ps against her. “No. I said the kitchen table was yours. The remainder of the kitchen is mine.”
Her eyes grew dark, and I knew exactly what her plan was. The only question was, what would I do about it?
“Now,” I said. “What was that about the rice?”
I turned on the burner and readied the pan. Abby held up the bottle of wine.
“Yes, please,” I said, and she poured us each a glass before setting to work chopping the onions.
I added the rice to the pan, and stirred it a bit, coating the grains with olive oil. I poured in some wine from the bottle.
“You ready for this?” she asked, motioning toward the onions.
“I’m always ready.” I just wasn’t going to do anything about it. I shifted my hips. Damn my erection that thought differently.
She dipped under my arm and scraped the onions into the pan. “There you go.” Her ass grazed my c**k and I grew even harder.
Then she was gone, dicing mushrooms, while I was stuck in front of the oven, stirring. I glanced over to the chicken broth. Was it time to add some?
She noticed. “Want me to get that chicken stock for you?” Without waiting, she dipped under my arm again and got the pitcher. Her arm brushed me as she poured.
Fuck. What was the plan?
No sex. Not during the week. Right. Back to the plan.
Maybe she saw my resolve and gave up—she spent the next few minutes dicing the rest of the mushrooms.
Until one dropped to the floor and rolled to where I stood.
“Oops,” she said. “Let me get that.”
She squeezed between me and the stove while I kept stirring and bent down to retrieve the mushroom, brushing against my thigh and then grabbing me around the waist to steady herself as she stood up. I knew exactly what she was doing.
But the plan, I reminded myself. Not during the week. But if Abby wanted it . . . No. Not during the week.
I argued with myself as the risotto simmered away. Thinking one thing and then deciding on another. Thinking that kitchen sex wouldn’t be so bad and then reminding myself that I needed to keep sex out of our weekday relationship.
Again, Abby must have somehow picked up on my hesitation, because she didn’t try anything else. Instead, she prepared the chicken br**sts and passed me the mushrooms once they were finished.
Then she stripped off her sweater, and I knew she hadn’t picked up on what I was thinking at all.
She lifted the pitcher of chicken broth again. “Need more?”
It was okay. I could resist her. “Just a touch.”
She had a white tank top on under the sweater. I stared at her as she poured broth into the pan—was she wearing a bra?
Somehow, she poured more broth on her than she got in the pan. And, no, she didn’t have a bra on.
“Damn,” she said. “Would you look at that?”
Her ni**les were hard beneath the thin white material. I wanted to taste them . . . wanted to taste her . . .
“I guess I need to take this off before the stain sets. It could be a problem.” She walked over to the sink and, damn it, took off her top.
My last coherent thought was to turn the oven and burner off so the house didn’t burn down. I strode across the floor and grabbed her by the waist. “I’ve got a bigger problem for you.”
She knew exactly what I was talking about, for her eyes dropped down to where my erection strained against the front of my jeans.
I picked her up and carried her to the counter, shoving anything in my way off onto the floor. Something broke as it hit, but I didn’t look to see what was—I didn’t care. Instead, I unbuttoned her jeans and jerked them off.
Fuck.
She wasn’t wearing panties.
I took a step back and shoved my own jeans off. “Is this what you want?”
Without waiting for an answer, I stepped close and she wrapped her legs around me.
“Yes.” Her hands snaked their way under my shirt and I ran my thumb over her nipple. “Please,” she said. “Please. Now.”
I slid my hands over her body, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Abby was in my kitchen, naked, on a Tuesday. This really wasn’t my plan. I didn’t want to push her. To confuse us.
“I didn’t want . . . I didn’t think . . .” I started, but her lips were on my neck.
“You think too much,” she whispered.
Damn straight. For the rest of the afternoon, I wouldn’t think.
I took her legs, spread them farther apart, and thrust into her. The angle was a bit off, so I shifted my h*ps and thrust deeper.
“Oh, hell, yes. More,” she said as I withdrew. “More, please.”
I pounded into her as she sat on the counter, pushing harder, wanting deeper. Trying to give her what she wanted, taking what she’d give me. Her head hit a cabinet and I slowed my movements.
She would have none of that. “Harder,” she begged. “Please, harder.”
“Fuck, Abigail.” I held her steady and pushed farther into her.
“Again.” She bit my ear. “Damn it. Again.”
Her words spurred me forward, and I worked my h*ps harder and faster. She felt so damn good. I wanted more. Wanted more of her. I angled my h*ps and hit deep within her.
“Yes,” she said, breathless, head hanging back. “Right there.”
Her talk turned me on even more. “Here?” I thrust, hitting the spot again. “Here?”
I knew I hit it, because she started whimpering. I worked my h*ps harder, driving us both toward our release, and slid my hand between us to rub her clit.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Almost there.”
I drove into her as hard as I could, forcing myself not to cl**ax until I could bring her hers.
“I . . . I . . . I . . .” she stuttered.
She tightened around me, and I thrust as deep as possible, releasing into her, my muscles shaking as I finally allowed my orgasm to overtake me.
I couldn’t talk for several minutes. Around us the kitchen was in disarray, the risotto cooled, and the chicken was probably overdone.
I couldn’t care less.
“Damn,” I said, after I found my voice. “That was . . .”
Incredible.
Amazing.
Wonderful.
“I know,” she said. “I agree.”
I lifted her from the countertop and set her on her feet. The drawer next to the oven held fresh towels, so I took one out and gently cleaned her.
Incredible, amazing, and wonderful, yes. But it couldn’t happen again.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I hummed that night as I cooked dinner. Maybe being snowed in for a few days wasn’t the worst thing in the world. So far, things were going well. Abby and I had watched a bit of television earlier in the afternoon. When we got bored of news and weather, we went into the library. Abby sat in front of the fireplace and I sat at my desk—pretending to work, but really reading a collection of Shakespeare quotes. Apollo followed us wherever we went, and Abby and I took turns taking him outside.
I was going to open one of my label-less cans. I would close my eyes, hope for the best and, if all went according to plan, make a delicious marinara.
Abby sat behind me at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of red wine. I was surprised she’d decided to be in the kitchen while I cooked. Normally, she stayed in the library.
When I picked up the can opener, she rose onto her toes behind me to peek at the contents of the can. “Just checking,” she said.
Label-less cans—who would have thought they could entertain and keep our attention the way they had? I set the opener down and slowly lifted the lid.
“Tomatoes,” we both said when the red fruit came into view.
“Drat,” she said. “I was hoping for pickled cow tongue or some incriminating body parts.”
I forked a tomato. “Rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”
“No.” She dropped back to her heels. “It’s better to know.”
It’s always better to know. Tell her, my inner voice nagged.
“You’re right,” I said. “And it’s going to make us a delicious supper.”
I poured the tomatoes into the waiting sauté pan. The smell of juicy tomato joined the aroma of browned onion and mushroom. Abby didn’t return to the table, standing behind me instead. I glanced over at the countertop, seeing her there, remembering the words she’d spoken as I took her.
Harder. Please, harder.
“Smells good,” she said, looking over my shoulder again.
If I turned around, I would have her n**ed in less than ten seconds.
“Go sit down,” I said. “I’d like to have one hot meal today.”
She didn’t move. “Breakfast was hot, and lunch was hot.” She paused for a second. “At least the part before lunch was hot.”
