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“That’s a lot of assumptions.” I squinted at him. “And why would you be naked? You’re wearing clothes right now.”
He leaned against the counter, watching me like a damn hawk. “Go on then. Cook.”
I turned back to my cutting board, resolutelynotthinking about the fact that Elliot hovering over me made me feel like I was performing a high-stakes high wire act over a pit of hungry—and possibly very angry—alligators.
I had just finished dicing the tomatoes when Elliot sucked in a sharp breath.
“What?” I asked.
Elliot pointed. “Your fingers are way too close to that blade.”
I scowled. “I know how to use a knife, Elliot.”
He shook his head, stepping in and wrapping his arm around me to place his hand atop mine, the one holding the knife. With his other hand, he shaped my fingers. “Use the blade. Let it do the work. Move the veggies, not the knife. This hand works as a guard.”
He was too close, too warm, too distracting.
“El,” I whispered, not trusting my voice. “I’ve got this.”
“Not without supervision, you don’t.”
I huffed, but my face felt hot.
Elliot smirked, clearly enjoying himself, especially the way his body pressed against mine.
Damn, if I didn’t feel a tingle down below—and that wasnota Gordon Ramsay thing to feel while wielding the finest Japanese steel Target had to offer.
That night, I made bruschetta. Okay, fine, it was basically toast with shit on top, butImade it without burning or blowing anything up. Even Elliot was impressed.
Then we ordered pizza.
Man cannot live on bruschetta alone.
Nearly a week after Elliot was released from the hospital, we tried to be physically intimate. I wanted him naked so bad I could taste it, and he was so horned up I thought he might shoot all over me before we got his clothes off—which was an adventure all its own, considering how sore his ribs and foot and arm, and basically everything, were.
In fact, we didn’t just try that once. We tried several times. We were men on a mission, damn it.
But Elliot’s ribs proved too sore, and even though he gritted his teeth and tried to pretend it wasn’t a problem, I could see the pain on his face when he moved the wrong way. And there was no way in hell I was going to let him push through it just because he was stubborn . . . and hornier than a teenage boy with his firstPenthouse.
So, we figured it out.
There were slow, teasing kisses on the couch, hands wandering but never pressing too far.
There were lazy mornings tangled together under the sheets, with Elliot’s hand on my back and my nose tucked into the crook of his neck.
There were nights I stayed up reading while Elliot slept beside me, his fingers curled around mine like he couldn’t bear to let go, even as he dreamed.
And if my body ached with wanting him,reallywanting him, I didn’t complain.
By the end of the second week, Elliot was starting to go stir-crazy. I found him standing in front of the window, arms crossed, staring out at the driveway like he was considering making a run for it. Homer sat beside him, tail limp, eyes fixed on some squirrel or rock or whatever caught the furry little demon’s eye.
I leaned against the doorframe. “You good?”
Elliot sighed dramatically. “I hate not working.”
I smiled wryly. “I know.”
Elliot turned his head, glaring. “I really,reallyhate being bored.”