Page 40 of His to Teach

“Food first,” I tell her.

She smiles sleepily at me. “And second?”

“Second?”

“After food.”

“Then bed.”

Her eyes glint a little. “Hmm.”

I raise my eyebrows. “The thought of my bed only warrants ahmm?”

She flushes, looking down. “I thought you might…you know…take me to your playroom.”

I fight a momentary battle between laughing and getting aroused as hell at the thought of her in a playroom. In the end, my laughter wins. “I don’t have a playroom here. And you need food. Come along.”

I slip an arm around her, figuring she’ll need the support to get more than a few steps toward the kitchen. And, to be honest, because I just really feel like touching her again. I grab a cashmere throw off a chair as we pass and wrap it around her shoulders. She makes a contented little sighing sound and for some reason that makes me half-hard again.

The urge to take care of this woman, to protect her and make her always that content, is overwhelming.

I deposit her on one of the bar stools in the kitchen and set about making us a late dinner. “Grilled cheese okay?”

“Grilled cheese is perfect.”

I notice her looking around while I cook, taking in my kitchen. “This is really nice,” she murmurs. “I would kill for a kitchen like this.”

“You cook?”

She shakes her head. “Not much. But I love to bake.”

I picture her here, an apron the only fabric on that gorgeous body of hers, making me cookies while I watch and try to cop a feel. The image is so clear it almost seems like a memory. Whichdoesn’t make any sense because I don’t bring women to this kitchen. Don’t bring them to this house. Not ever. Tonight is an anomaly.

So when, exactly, am I expecting her to bake me fucking cookies?

“What about you?” she asks. “You put this kitchen to good use?”

“I enjoy cooking.” I place the buttered side of the bread on a frying pan then slap down a few slices of cheese. “Usually a little more sophisticated than this. But I’m in a hurry tonight.”

“I don’t need food that badly.”

I look up at her over the pan. “I need your body again that badly.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh.” I watch her throat as she swallows, as the color of her skin changes, gets redder. God, what other body parts I want to make turn red. “You can…again?”

I smother a snort so I can fix her with my steeliest gaze. “Yes, Harper. I can.”

She stares up at me with those huge brown eyes, so innocent with that blush on her cheeks, and I think of a hundred ways I could defile her. Steal that innocence away and make her mine.

I take a steadying breath and turn back to the frying pan, flipping one of the sandwiches.

She clears her throat and when she speaks again I can tell she’s trying to sound unaffected by my words. “So, you enjoy cooking. And expensive scotch. And international travel.”

I raise my eyebrows and she fidgets some more with the edge of her blanket. “I saw a few travel guides in your living room. They looked well-used.”

I shake my head at that. “If you were coherent enough to notice the books on my shelves, I’m not sure I did my job thoroughly enough.”

I lift the sandwiches from the frying pan and slide them onto two plates. I deposit them on the counter in front of her and pour us each a glass of water before joining her. “Eat,” I urge as I climb onto the stool at her side.