down from my hand: Freedom . As she whispers it to herself and then studies it in silence for a moment, I find myself hoping she doesn’t ask me about it. Not yet.
She puts my hand back on the butcher block.
“What’s your story?” She chooses an apple slice and starts nibbling on it.
Her and her goddamn nibbling. She knows how to get a guy to zoom in on her mouth.
I put my head down and focus on chopping. “There is no story. At least, nothing interesting. What’s yours? How did you end up dating a scumbag? And how long did it take for you to realize you’re too good for a guy like that? Did he cheat on you?”
I sure let it rip. I let it all out.
She stops chewing, swallows, and frowns. “Well, you certainly said a mouthful. No, Robert didn’t cheat on me. Why do you care? Are you speaking from experience?”
“What did Lauren tell you about me?” I put my knife down and lean against the counter. “And don’t bother denying it; I know Lauren very well. She talks about everyone and everything.”
“Yes, she does. She said you had to go into a treatment place for a while because you are—”
“Bipolar. Yeah. I went to the funny farm a few months ago.” She looks a little stunned at my choice of words. “What else?”
“Lauren said you were a ho in college,” she whispers apologetically. “Her words, not mine.”
“Shit.” I laugh in spite of the unflattering label. “I guess I deserve that.”
I shake off that weighted voice that keeps trying to pull me down. The one that constantly reminds me that I’ve blazed a trail of fuck-ups, and they don’t disappear just because I think I’m on the straight and narrow. I get back to the business of food and feeding my vegetarian houseguest. I slap together sliced apples, onions, Gruyere, mustard, and some butter on rye, and press the sandwiches on the griddle with the back of a spatula.
“Even if you were a womanizing, sexist pig, that sandwich looks good, and it smells divine.”
“Did Lauren say I’m a sexist pig?” I ask, astounded.
Holy crap. I still have that shitty reputation, and I’m not getting any action whatsoever.
“No, I added that part for fun.” She tilts her head and laughs. “Gotcha.” This ability of hers to let go and laugh uninhibitedly, her whole body shaking with delight, is pretty cute and too captivating for me.
“Nice. Real nice,” I say, plating her sandwich and handing it to her.
I lean against the counter again and watch her take a bite. Not a nibble, a big, slobbering bite with butter drizzling down her chin. Old Dylan is telling me to lick it off her chin. Or maybe it’s New Dylan because he’s got a thing for Emma. He wants to screw her, too.
“Oh, my God, Dylan. This is heaven,” she says.
That’s exactly what I’d like to hear you say to me in bed.
Ah, man, I need willpower for this damsel in distress. And she’s hardly in distress; she seems to hold her own just fine. Maybe I did blow this out of proportion so I could play the rescuer for a change. But what kind of guy breaks into his former girlfriend’s house? A piece of shit I’d like to pummel, that’s who, and that’s all I need is to get into another fight.
“I’m glad you like it.” I start eating my sandwich, sensing her eyes on me. “Let me get you a drink.”
It’s merely a good excuse to open both the fridge and freezer doors to chill down my cock. I grab two cans of seltzer and seriously consider throwing some ice cubes in my briefs. I crack a can open and hand it to her then polish off the rest of my sandwich in three bites.
“This is great.” She takes a swig of her drink. “Do you cook like this every day?”
“I can,” I say, knowing damn well I am trying to impress her and give her another reason to stay here.
“We should probably discuss this set up.” She puts her empty plate down next to her and leans forward with her hands gripping the edge of the counter.
I stash the cutting board and pans in
She puts my hand back on the butcher block.
“What’s your story?” She chooses an apple slice and starts nibbling on it.
Her and her goddamn nibbling. She knows how to get a guy to zoom in on her mouth.
I put my head down and focus on chopping. “There is no story. At least, nothing interesting. What’s yours? How did you end up dating a scumbag? And how long did it take for you to realize you’re too good for a guy like that? Did he cheat on you?”
I sure let it rip. I let it all out.
She stops chewing, swallows, and frowns. “Well, you certainly said a mouthful. No, Robert didn’t cheat on me. Why do you care? Are you speaking from experience?”
“What did Lauren tell you about me?” I put my knife down and lean against the counter. “And don’t bother denying it; I know Lauren very well. She talks about everyone and everything.”
“Yes, she does. She said you had to go into a treatment place for a while because you are—”
“Bipolar. Yeah. I went to the funny farm a few months ago.” She looks a little stunned at my choice of words. “What else?”
“Lauren said you were a ho in college,” she whispers apologetically. “Her words, not mine.”
“Shit.” I laugh in spite of the unflattering label. “I guess I deserve that.”
I shake off that weighted voice that keeps trying to pull me down. The one that constantly reminds me that I’ve blazed a trail of fuck-ups, and they don’t disappear just because I think I’m on the straight and narrow. I get back to the business of food and feeding my vegetarian houseguest. I slap together sliced apples, onions, Gruyere, mustard, and some butter on rye, and press the sandwiches on the griddle with the back of a spatula.
“Even if you were a womanizing, sexist pig, that sandwich looks good, and it smells divine.”
“Did Lauren say I’m a sexist pig?” I ask, astounded.
Holy crap. I still have that shitty reputation, and I’m not getting any action whatsoever.
“No, I added that part for fun.” She tilts her head and laughs. “Gotcha.” This ability of hers to let go and laugh uninhibitedly, her whole body shaking with delight, is pretty cute and too captivating for me.
“Nice. Real nice,” I say, plating her sandwich and handing it to her.
I lean against the counter again and watch her take a bite. Not a nibble, a big, slobbering bite with butter drizzling down her chin. Old Dylan is telling me to lick it off her chin. Or maybe it’s New Dylan because he’s got a thing for Emma. He wants to screw her, too.
“Oh, my God, Dylan. This is heaven,” she says.
That’s exactly what I’d like to hear you say to me in bed.
Ah, man, I need willpower for this damsel in distress. And she’s hardly in distress; she seems to hold her own just fine. Maybe I did blow this out of proportion so I could play the rescuer for a change. But what kind of guy breaks into his former girlfriend’s house? A piece of shit I’d like to pummel, that’s who, and that’s all I need is to get into another fight.
“I’m glad you like it.” I start eating my sandwich, sensing her eyes on me. “Let me get you a drink.”
It’s merely a good excuse to open both the fridge and freezer doors to chill down my cock. I grab two cans of seltzer and seriously consider throwing some ice cubes in my briefs. I crack a can open and hand it to her then polish off the rest of my sandwich in three bites.
“This is great.” She takes a swig of her drink. “Do you cook like this every day?”
“I can,” I say, knowing damn well I am trying to impress her and give her another reason to stay here.
“We should probably discuss this set up.” She puts her empty plate down next to her and leans forward with her hands gripping the edge of the counter.
I stash the cutting board and pans in
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