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Authors: Zahra Girard
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kitchen. I'm the kidnapped housewife, he's the kidnapping killer, and it works. Lifetimes probably already made something like it into a movie.
Onions and garlic sizzle in olive oil. Once they're browned, I throw in the rice.
I stir it in the olive oil for a bit until it has some color, then, one ladleful at a time, I add some chicken stock while stirring frequently. Twenty minutes later, I add in the asparagus, some squeezes of lemon juice. Ten minutes after that, in goes a boatload of parmesan.
To top it all — seared scallops.
It's good.
"Dinner's done, honey," I call out. It's sarcastic, but, hey, the domestic stuff is fun. And cooking's a stress-reliever, too, which I can still use right now even though I'm feeling more at-ease around Ryker.
That image of him going ' Pew pew pew ' to the policeman is something I'll never forget. And never not laugh at.
"This smells delicious," he says. There's a note of appreciation in his voice that makes me beam.
He sounds a lot less stressed, and I saw him more than a couple times look up from ESPN to check out what was going on here in the kitchen.
I get him a plate, load it up with risotto, and top it with four perfectly-seared scallops.
One bite later, he's smiling and grunting in appreciation. That smile just lights me up. I feel proud .
"Jessica, you're the best hostage I've ever had. I may just keep you around once this is all over."
"As your kitchen wench?"
"Among other things." He grins and winks.
That grin is rakish, his green eyes devour me, and I feel every part of me start pulsing with heat. I'm probably smiling too, but, at this point, I've had so much to drink I can't really feel my face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RYKER
I don't know what to make of this woman.
Jessica Roan. What kind of puzzle are you? And just what are you doing to me?
She pushes every single one of my buttons. And when she should be terrified, she's smiling instead.
And when I should be able to pull the trigger and put a bullet in the head of some worthless punk like Mr. Hero, instead, I'm putting one through his shoulder and practically sending him on his way with some cookies and a gentle pat on the ass.
All because of her. Because one look from her has me as gentle as a pussy cat.
And god damn that woman can cook.
The smells. The scent gets deep inside me, filling me, and reminding me that I haven't had a home-cooked meal in nearly a decade.
The first plate she gives me disappears in a second. I mumble something complimentary to her. Then I wolf that shit down, go back for seconds, and contemplate thirds while drinking my umpteenth glass of scotch on the couch.
She's sitting across from me, also on seconds, and looking at me expectantly.
Other than flirting a bit when she serves me, I'm quiet. Well, not so much quiet, as I am fully occupied eating her food. Which should speak for itself, but I don't begrudge Jessica for wanting to be told that her food is delicious.
"That was good. Real good. Where'd you learn to cook like that?"
She is beaming. There's a blush that settles on her cheeks and chest, just above the incredible cleavage she's showing with that little black dress of hers. It's eye-catching and I shift in my seat, doing my best to cover up the tent my hardening cock is raising in my pants.
"I've been mom and dad to my little brother since my Sophomore year of college. Getting a teenager to eat a home cooked meal is probably the quickest way to learn how to make something taste good."
"So, you've been doing it all on your own?"
Jessica nods, then takes another bite. "Mostly. He helps, too. We take care of each other. I don't think either of us would have made it without the other. Life can be really hard when you only have one family member left. But, it's just my luck that now I might find out what it's like to be totally alone in
Onions and garlic sizzle in olive oil. Once they're browned, I throw in the rice.
I stir it in the olive oil for a bit until it has some color, then, one ladleful at a time, I add some chicken stock while stirring frequently. Twenty minutes later, I add in the asparagus, some squeezes of lemon juice. Ten minutes after that, in goes a boatload of parmesan.
To top it all — seared scallops.
It's good.
"Dinner's done, honey," I call out. It's sarcastic, but, hey, the domestic stuff is fun. And cooking's a stress-reliever, too, which I can still use right now even though I'm feeling more at-ease around Ryker.
That image of him going ' Pew pew pew ' to the policeman is something I'll never forget. And never not laugh at.
"This smells delicious," he says. There's a note of appreciation in his voice that makes me beam.
He sounds a lot less stressed, and I saw him more than a couple times look up from ESPN to check out what was going on here in the kitchen.
I get him a plate, load it up with risotto, and top it with four perfectly-seared scallops.
One bite later, he's smiling and grunting in appreciation. That smile just lights me up. I feel proud .
"Jessica, you're the best hostage I've ever had. I may just keep you around once this is all over."
"As your kitchen wench?"
"Among other things." He grins and winks.
That grin is rakish, his green eyes devour me, and I feel every part of me start pulsing with heat. I'm probably smiling too, but, at this point, I've had so much to drink I can't really feel my face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RYKER
I don't know what to make of this woman.
Jessica Roan. What kind of puzzle are you? And just what are you doing to me?
She pushes every single one of my buttons. And when she should be terrified, she's smiling instead.
And when I should be able to pull the trigger and put a bullet in the head of some worthless punk like Mr. Hero, instead, I'm putting one through his shoulder and practically sending him on his way with some cookies and a gentle pat on the ass.
All because of her. Because one look from her has me as gentle as a pussy cat.
And god damn that woman can cook.
The smells. The scent gets deep inside me, filling me, and reminding me that I haven't had a home-cooked meal in nearly a decade.
The first plate she gives me disappears in a second. I mumble something complimentary to her. Then I wolf that shit down, go back for seconds, and contemplate thirds while drinking my umpteenth glass of scotch on the couch.
She's sitting across from me, also on seconds, and looking at me expectantly.
Other than flirting a bit when she serves me, I'm quiet. Well, not so much quiet, as I am fully occupied eating her food. Which should speak for itself, but I don't begrudge Jessica for wanting to be told that her food is delicious.
"That was good. Real good. Where'd you learn to cook like that?"
She is beaming. There's a blush that settles on her cheeks and chest, just above the incredible cleavage she's showing with that little black dress of hers. It's eye-catching and I shift in my seat, doing my best to cover up the tent my hardening cock is raising in my pants.
"I've been mom and dad to my little brother since my Sophomore year of college. Getting a teenager to eat a home cooked meal is probably the quickest way to learn how to make something taste good."
"So, you've been doing it all on your own?"
Jessica nods, then takes another bite. "Mostly. He helps, too. We take care of each other. I don't think either of us would have made it without the other. Life can be really hard when you only have one family member left. But, it's just my luck that now I might find out what it's like to be totally alone in
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