Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
“Cook?” She throws a puzzled look up at me.
“You want to please me, right?”
“Yes.” She nods, a genuine smile curving her plump lips as she rubs some of my spend on them.
“Good girl.”
Chapter Five
Sophia
Ithought I loved cooking.
But, I love cooking for Chance a million times more.
He has an amazing set-up here, but hardly any ingredients. Still, I manage to dance around and create two amazing small dishes for him. The generator is still on, so there’s minimal lighting, but all the essentials still work.
The storm has passed, and the shutters are open, and everywhere I look there is a view out to the dark ocean or the greenery surrounding the house. It’s paradise, even in the dark of night.
I wiggled my ass and teased him while I cooked, and I love the way he looks at me. I’m still sticky with his cum, and my own, but I’ve never felt more beautiful.
“It’s ready,” I announce, prouder and more nervous about what I cooked today than anything I’ve cooked for critics.
It’s like I can see us like this, years in the future. Me cooking as he watches, making a home together.
He’s rough and demanding, but also more aware than I would have ever expected. When I barely nick my finger cutting up a lime, it’s like he’s about to have LifeFlight choppered in.
“That’s blood!” he yells, grabbing my wrist and yanking me toward the sink, whisking the knife away from my other hand like he’s disarming a hitman.
I roll my eyes as he shoves my hand under the running water, tossing the knife on the counter as he pulls open a cupboard and starts rummaging. “Chance, it’s barely even a cut. You don’t think I’ve cut myself before? I’m a chef for God’s sake. Losing a finger is practically a right of passage--”
“When? How many times? I want dates and times and the names of anyone—”
“It’s a hazard of the job.” I’m trying to pull my hand out from under the water, but I’m also giggling as he brings out a first aid kit from the cupboard and slams in on the counter so hard it pops open, releasing bandages and Neosporin all over the place. “Honestly, I’m fine. Look, it’s not even bleeding anymore.”
I finally get my hand out from under the water, and sure, there’s a little bead of red forming in the tiny cut, but it’s embarrassingly small.
Chance shakes his head. “Unacceptable,” is all he says as he man-handles me into staying still while he applies peroxide, antibacterial cream and finally a band-aid, then watches my finger intently. For what, I’m not sure. In case it’s been severed and is about to fall off or something, I guess? “From here on, you tell me what to do and I do it. You don’t touch that knife.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” He picks up the knife, and I’m not actually sure if he’s ever used one before. At least not for cooking. He’s holding it like we’re on some secret mission.
I reach out to take it back. “Okay, this isn’t going to work, I can’t—”
“Tell me what to do, baby,” he says, snatching his hand out of my reach. “Instruct me and I’ll do it.”
So I do.
Somehow, we figure out a way, and I’ve gotta say it’s probably the most intimate I’ve been with anyone, ever. I’m literally such a control freak in the kitchen that anyone who’s worked for me for more than a month develops a nervous twitch whenever I look over their shoulder. But with Chance, I figure that shit out. I instruct, and he follows, not questioning why I’m asking him to do what he’s doing, or what the dishes are that he’s preparing.
It’s like we’re one. He’s the hands and eyes, and I’m the brain. And it comes together, until finally I order him out of the kitchen while I plate up and add the finishing touches, promising that there is no more knife work to be done.
And when I walk through, carrying the meal we prepared together, nothing could be more perfect.
“Bring it here, baby.” He points to the long table in front of where he sits at the head. “I want you to feed me.”
“Really? Feed you?” I crinkle up my nose as I head toward him, holding a plate in each hand.
“You need another spanking to convince you to do as I say?”
I shake my head, but a tingle down low and a rush of warmth says otherwise.
“Sit.” He takes the plates from my hands and nods again to the table in front of him. “You, there, legs open.”
I open my mouth to question and protest, but he shuts it down with just a look. My heart patters around in my chest as I swallow and climb onto the top of the wooden table as he watches.