Emma’s gaze rises to stare at something in the distance before flitting back to me. “And if you think I’m not plopping my ass in the middle of your bed the second I get home and demanding you tell me this story, you’ve forgotten all about how we became friends in the first place.” Then without ceremony or even a goodbye, she ends the call.
Quinn recovers from her fit, cuddling the pillow to her middle and looking at me with such naked joy it makes my stomach clench.
I’m growing addicted to having her look at me this way. It’s a problem on any day ending in Y, but on the heels of a direct reminder that I’m about to have to go almost a week without seeing it…
I shake my head before those thoughts can take root. I have plans for tonight, and I’m not going to let Emma—or myself—get in the way of them.
Quinn bounds from the couch, skipping over to me and planting an arms-thrown-around-my-neck, smacking kiss on my mouth. “Where were you?”
I bookend her hold by looping my arms around her waist. “I had to get stuff for dinner.”
“I thought we were having tacos.” Quinn abandons me to scope out the grocery situation.
“Did you honestly think I could still have tacos after the Post-it you left stuck to my computer monitor this morning?”
Quinn bites down on her tongue, the tip peeking out when she can’t contain her grin any longer. “I thought that was some of my best work.”
I shake my head with a roll of my eyes. She would think that about her You are the only meat for my taco note. Hell, she even added a little sticker of a taco on it for good measure.
“You know I dig your crazy.” I start to close the distance between us.
“Is that so?” She slides a foot across the floor in one giant step toward me.
“Mmmhmm.” I back her into the counter, caging her in with my arms and nuzzling the curve of her neck. “But I’m not eating tacos tonight.”
She tips her head to the side, giving me more space to work with. “Why not?”
I nibble along her soft skin, keeping my lips pressed to it, and say, “Because eating dinner with a boner isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“You say tomato, I say to—”
The rest of her smartass comment cuts off with a gasp when I bite down, sucking on her fluttering pulse point.
“Blame yourself, Red.” I drag my teeth along her skin. “Because now any time I eat tacos, I’m going to think about stuffing your pussy full of my cock.”
Quinn throws an arm up. “Check, please.”
She’s a nut, but it’s my favorite thing about her.
It takes a Herculean effort not to lift her onto the counter and follow through on that statement. Eventually, I manage to step away from her to get back to my original plan.
Quinn snuggles in close, watching over the curve of my biceps as I pull out all the ingredients for her abuelita’s enchiladas recipe.
“Enchiladas?” she exclaims.
“Yup.”
One arm banded behind my back, she stretches the other out, tapping the tops and picking up the container of chili powder. “This is Abuelita’s brand of choice.”
I nod. “It is her recipe.”
Quinn goes silent, and I angle around so we’re face to face. “How…” she trails off.
“I texted her and asked.”
Her eyes bug out. “What?”
“I gotta say, she’s much hipper than my gramps when it comes to texting. Did you know her GIF game is on point?”
Quinn gives me a Who do you think taught her? eye roll. “We’re going to ignore the fact that you must have snooped through my phone to get her number and cut straight to the important question.”
My mouth hitches at her attempt to sound serious, but the glimmer in her dark eyes gives her away.
Folding my arms across my chest, I lean back against the counter, adopting a position to match her tone. “And what’s that, Red?”
“Why risk a bilingual inquisition”—she holds up a hand to stop any comments—“and before you try to lie and say that woman didn’t ask you a million and one questions before she gave up the goods, just remember”—she arches one of her dark brows—“I talk to her every day. I know there’s no way that didn’t happen.”
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I unlock it and pull up the text thread. Sure enough, above the recipe is a litany of questions. What I don’t tell Quinn about is the twenty-minute phone call that also took place. That’ll be our secret for now.
Tucking my phone away, I hook an arm around Quinn and maneuver her until she’s standing in front of me, her back to my front. “Remember when I showed you how to play pool?”
She hums, rocking back into me, my semihard dick more than on board with things heading in that direction, but my grumbling stomach tells him to slow his roll.
“I thought maybe you’d want to show me how to do something you’re incredible at.”
Her weight sags against me, and I kiss the top of her head, hugging her to me tighter.
“I love this idea.” She spins in my hold, looping her arms around my neck again and rising up onto her toes. “And I know just what you need to conquer the kitchen.”
There’s a whisper of caution out in the distance. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
Quinn winks, then prances toward the pantry, opening the door with a similar flourish. Her dark gaze licks across my body, heating my blood hotter than the oven I’ll need to preheat.
“Strip, Superman,” she orders, emerging with her apron dangling from her finger.
“I said nothing about this being strip cooking, Red.” I eye her cautiously. “That’s just not sanitary.”
Quinn’s eyes fall closed with a shiver. “Mmm, but that visual, though.”
I don’t strip naked, but I do remove my shirt before donning the apron. Sure, I know I don’t have to, but it makes her smile, and I like making Quinn smile. Having watched her cook more times than she probably realizes, it’s easy for me to follow her orders while she flits around the kitchen like a pro.
At one point, I’m so distracted by how radiant she is here in her element, I almost clip the tip of my finger off while chopping onions. Thankfully I only nick the skin.
My distraction only increases by a thousand when Quinn lifts my hand to inspect the damage, then sucks the abraded tip into her warm mouth.
Every brush of her arm along mine as we work side by side…
Every sweet kiss of approval to my bare shoulder blade when I follow a direction correctly…
Every playful hip bump…
All of it adds to the lust in my system until it feels like I’ve gone from a simmer to a rolling boil. By the time Quinn bends over to put the pan in the oven to bake, I’m about ready to snap.
When I take her hips against mine, she yelps, and I grind into her, growling out, “How long?”
“Fifteen minutes,” she answers breathily.
I spin her around, one hand hooking around her knee to lift her to me, and then her phone rings with a FaceTime call.
“Mierda.” Quinn’s head falls forward until her forehead rests on my chest. “It’s like that woman knows we were about to defile her precious enchiladas.”