I gather my clothes and exit the bathroom. I toss my clothes in the hamper, take a deep breath, and head back into the kitchen. Pike is staring down at his phone when I enter. Thankfully, my presence pulls his attention away from his screen just long enough to catch what I’m wearing. He pauses, looks down, and then does a double take with an unexpected crease to his brow.
Satisfied, I turn away from him, hiding my smile, and go to the fridge to take out the milk for the tea.
When I turn back around, he has set his phone down and now his hands are clenching the counter, his eyes completely focused on me.
“What?” I ask as the tea kettle starts to whistle.
He doesn’t answer, but instead removes the kettle and turns off the stove. Once again, I reach for my mug and do the one thing I know will set him off. Slowly, deliberately, I uncap the milk and pour some into my mug.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to find him towering over me, chest heaving, hands fisted at his side. Huh, this very well might break him.
“Adding milk for my tea.”
His hands go to his head, gripping his hair. “Before—fuck . . . before you steep the tea?”
Hold it together, Cora.
Do not break.
I stifle my laugh, keep my smirk at bay, and say, “Yeah. Why wait when you can get a head start on making the tea?”
I reach for the honey, but that’s it—he steps in and places his hand over mine. His rock-hard chest presses against my back as he steps up behind me.
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” His voice is not amused. He’s irritated.
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I’ve hit a nerve.
“No. This is how I make tea.”
“You make it wrong.”
“There isn’t a right way to make tea,” I say, turning around to face him.
His body heat, his anger . . . they warm me up.
The perusal of his angry eyes over my chest ignites a flame deep within me.
And the step forward he takes, leaving no space between us, sparks my need for him again.
The brushes of his shoulder while we share a bed, the morning smiles he gives me when walking out of the bathroom, the distinct way he compliments how I look, even when I think I look my worst, they’re all compiling together, swirling around in my head and confusing me. Turning this burning desire I have for him into an absolute need.
“There is a correct way to make tea, you just need to be educated.” He steps away and sets up two mugs on the counter next to the stove, along with two tea bags and the milk, and that’s it. He then walks back to me, grabs my hands, and pulls me in front of the counter, closing me in by stepping up behind me.
I’m trapped, his burly chest keeping me in place, as one of his hands falls to my hip and the other lands against the counter.
He lowers his head directly next to mine, his breath tickling my cheek, and softly, he asks, “Are you ready to learn how to make a proper tea?”
Uh, no, I’m ready for you to push me up against the counter and screw me from behind.
When I don’t answer—because I’ve swallowed my tongue—he repeats, “Are you, Coraline?”
“Y-yes,” I say.
“Good.” His lips dance close to my ear. “You start with heating water in a kettle. Then, you pour water into the mugs three-quarters of the way.” When I don’t move, he says, “Pick up the kettle, Coraline.”
“Oh.” I’ve lost all control of the situation. I had him, I was doing so well, but one close encounter with the man and now I’m listening to every word he says. Performing as if he controls the strings to my limbs.
I fill the mugs and set the kettle back on the stove.
“Good girl,” he says, his thumb on my hip rubbing against my skin.
Yes . . . yes, that feels so good. Having a man touch me, but not just any man, this man. The one I’ve been lusting after for months. I really shouldn’t be pleased with his encouragement, but damn it, I am. And I’m more than pleased with his touch as well. His stroke. His mouth so close to my ear.
“Now put the tea bags in the hot water.” I do as he says, his voice rumbling over me, soothing my very soul. I jiggle the tea bags and he says, “Don’t.” The harsh tone pauses me. “Let them steep; don’t touch them.”
“Okay.”
When he doesn’t move away, I look back and ask, “Are we just going to stand here and watch it steep?”
“You can tell me about your day, since you didn’t say much to me during dinner.”