“Yeah? Because I can bring you there over and over and over again.” His voice is a low, primal baritone, causing my pulse to spike as his fingers play with the waistband of my skirt. “I don’t need much time to refuel. I also give extra treats to my pets who are good and do what I want them to.”
“Is that so?” I clutch the cool granite behind me, trying to exercise the control he’s stripping me of. “What kind of treats?”
“Ah, I can’t divulge that information.” A grin tweaks his mouth, his eyes flashing mirth. “You need—no, strike that—you will experience it firsthand.”
Beeeeeeeeep . . .
I almost mistake the sound of the microwave for the flatlining of my heart.
As though he didn’t have his fingers halfway to my “happy place,” wasn’t seducing me like a pro, and didn’t nearly have me hopping onto the counter—legs spread and ready for treats—Brock takes a measured step back, his grin holding steady. I pull in a pissed-off breath as he retrieves the popcorn from the microwave and pours it into a bowl. He watches me intently, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Open your mouth,” he says, nearing me again. “I want to give you something.” Though his voice is a whisper, the beautiful command in it stabs my ears.
Hands clutching the counter tighter, I stare into his eyes, my heart going nuts as I instinctively obey him.
With a triumphant smile, he places a piece of popcorn onto my tongue. “Does that taste good?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and chew. “You are talented. You’ve mastered the art of popcorn making. I foresee doing anything you want for those treats of yours. Anything.” I swipe my tongue across my lips for effect.
I get the reaction I’m aiming for.
Expression flaring with need, Brock watches me close my eyes in mock pleasure. When I open them, his gaze devours mine, stroking between my breasts and mouth. I flip him a wink, turn around, and traipse into the living room, leaving him hanging this time.
I’m also a pro. He just doesn’t know it yet.
I can’t help but giggle when I hear him groan. I deposit myself onto the couch, my own triumphant smile spreading as Brock wanders into the room like a lost, lonely child. Holding the bowl of popcorn, he grins and positions himself in front of me. I nearly lose my breath as he leans over me, stretches his arm, and rests his hand on the back of the couch just above my shoulder.
Oh God. His lips are within kissing distance. If I move an inch, I’ll hit the mark.
Like a true Southern belle, I bat my lashes and stare at him. “You have to give me your secret recipe. I mean, honestly, you’re going places with it, and I feel the absolute need to be included in your success.”
He cocks his head to the side, his grin broadening. “I’m all for partnerships.”
“So it’s a deal, then?” I try to concentrate on the smell of the buttery popcorn instead of his musky cologne. “I must warn you. I’d require fifty percent if we were to enter into a partnership.”
He raises a brow, his hand staking claim on the nape of my neck. “Fifty percent’s not cheap. But it’s me who must warn you, I’ll make you work very hard for that half.”
“How . . . hard?” A spark of excitement blooms in my stomach as I watch his eyes catch my innuendo.
“You have no fucking idea how hard.”
“Oh, but I think I do.” With a husky laugh, my gaze falls to his arousal beneath his jeans.
“Open,” he says, staring at my lips.
The heated cadence in his voice pulls me further into his spell, extinguishing my good friend mutiny. I once again obey his words. What the hell? Talk about the power of sexual deprivation. It’s been close to three months for me, and my body’s about to go bat-shit crazy if it doesn’t get what it needs to maintain a sense of normalcy.
Exquisite warmth slides up my spine as Brock places another piece of popcorn on my tongue. Our gazes lock, flames flickering in our showdown, but before either of us can take an uneven breath, the sound of Brock’s cell phone slices through the air. His movements still, his body straightening.
“This is a joke, right?” I ask, honestly pissed off.
Brock sighs, a frown pinching his forehead. “I have to get it.” He touches my cheek, sets the bowl on the coffee table, and turns.
Dumbfounded, I watch him move across the living room to snatch the stupid phone off the kitchen counter. Anger punches me in the gut, my blood boiling. I’m about to yank the phone away from him, jet out to the balcony, and toss the fucking thing into the bay. I’ve decided the plan’s brilliant and go to act on it; however, my attention lands on an unopened DVD box set. The first season of Happy Days essentially saves Brock’s cell from a watery death.
Time warp. Now his texts make sense.
I can’t help but smile as I stand and pluck the several discs containing the only good memories I’ve experienced from the towering entertainment center. Brock’s kept his word.
Popcorn, Red Bulls, and Mrs. Cunningham.
Charmer.
I can’t say I’ll keep mine. There’s no way I’m singing for him again. Impatient, I glance around and locate the remote, deciding to open up the box and pop in the first episode. Just as I reclaim my seat on the couch, and Happy Days’ infamous “weird” melody streams from the speakers, Brock once again graces me with his presence.
With his hand buried in his hair, he casts me a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry.” He sits next to me, sliding his arm across the back of the couch. “I was waiting on a call.”