So, yeah. Somewhere in there, I didn’t connect that “making us dinner tonight” really meant “cooking up a storm in the kitchen.”
I stand in the doorway, feeling a little heat tease over my skin as I eye him.
Shit.
Some men make dressing up look hot as hell, Kratos included. Other guys look super sexy in workout clothes or playing sports.
Also Kratos included.
But I’m not sure I’ve ever really taken a second to watch a man cook or move around the kitchen with surgical precision. And now I’m wishing I had before. Because holy wow.
It’s hot as fuck.
He’s in black jeans and a white t-shirt, a small towel slung over his shoulder and a chef’s apron tied around his waist, slung low on his hips. Behind him, various pans sizzle. The knife in his hand is a blur as he dices something with vicious efficiency on the kitchen island. And another hot little tingle teases through my core as I watch the blade glint and slice.
It probably shouldn’t be this sexy to watch a man wielding a lethal blade. But maybe it’s that I’ve got first-hand knowledge of other ways he’s good at using a knife.
He pauses, his eyes snapping to mine like he’s just realized I’m standing there. His gaze drags over me, and I shiver as the hungry glint ripples through them.
Okay, so, maybe that look is exactly the reason I chose this dress—a short, flirty, Latin-inspired thing, in black. The halter neck ties at the back, the hem is cut on a sharp angle, slicing diagonally up from mid-calf on one side almost all the way to my hip on the other. I don’t need a bra under it. Coupled with the heels, I already feel hot.
But when he looks at me like he wants to devour me like this, I feel downright scorching.
“You like?” I grin, twirling a little.
Kratos says nothing. But his jaw grinds, his eyes flashing pure lust as he drinks me in.
“You said you were cooking Spanish tonight.”
“And you certainly did bring the spice,” he growls quietly.
I blush as I step into the kitchen. My teeth rake over my bottom lip as I survey the scene in front of me.
“You…seriously cook.” I laugh, shocked at the array of dishes being prepped. “I mean, I knew you cooked, but…”
“You thought I was bad at it.”
I giggle again. “No. I’ve just never had your cooking.”
“Tonight, that changes.”
I shiver as his hand slides over my hip, spinning me a little before he leans down to kiss me. When he pulls away, he turns to flip something sautéing on the stove that smells like shrimp. Then he reaches over to the speaker on the counter. He switches from James Brown to a sultry, Latin tango before he turns back to the stove again.
“I do love listening to James Brown when I cook,” he murmurs over the sizzle on the stovetop. “But if we’re doing a theme tonight…”
I grin, watching him flip, and turn, and dice. My hips begin to sway with the slow thud of the music. My eyes drift shut as I start to dance. I can sense his gaze on me.
My eyes fly open, and blush deeply when I see Kratos leaning against the counter, eying me with a dark, hungry look.
“What?” I blush, biting my lip.
“You,” he growls.
“And here you thought ballet dancers could only pirouette in tutus?”
He grins. “Never once crossed my mind.”
I flush as our eyes lock.
“You’ve never seen me dance before, have you?”
“Yes, I have.”
I roll my eyes. “When?”
He lifts a shoulder. “All the time, actually.”
My brow furrows. “No, you haven’t—”
“I watch you dance almost every day.”
Something tightens in my chest and my pulse beats a little quicker, a little hotter.
“What?”
He shrugs, turning back to the stove with his tongs. “You’re very good.”
My skin heats as I watch him scrape sliced steak from a cutting board and into a pan full of spices and onions.
