Ropes and Lace | MM Romance PREVIEW

Chapter 9 - Entertain Me

"Holy shit, my tongue is having an orgasm right now."

I choke on the sip of orange juice I was drinking at that precise moment, reaching with frantic movements for a napkin when I feel the sticky liquid has seeped into my nostrils as well. And then, predictably, the round of rampant coughing erupts, my throat doing its best to handle the painful contractions and the burning slowly spreading through my larynx. Of course Elliot would say something so obscene to praise the simple dinner I prepared for him, of course. And not to mention his subsequent pornographic moan. Because an ordinary compliment, such as "it's delicious" or any derivative, would be too tasteless or monotonous for him.

Anger kicks in because the asshole knew full well what he was doing by dropping a bomb like that just the instant I raised the glass and positioned it over my lips. Though the genuine concern in his green-like-fresh-grass eyes, which I can detect even through my tear-fogged vision, softens me; even more so when he rushes to caress my back in soothing little circles and doesn't stop until my attack ceases, being able to breathe normally again. I excuse myself to the bathroom, wiping the mess from my cheeks, beard and a bit spilled on my shirt with a damp towel, and return to the kitchen with what shred of dignity I have left after this day so... strange.

I return to my seat next to him on one of the uncomfortable stools—because, apparently, luxury isn't equal to comfort—and place my elbows on the neat ceramic island, watching him with my eyelids half-closed and a frown between my eyebrows. Elliot stares back at me without hesitation; unafraid of my reaction or remorse for his earlier mischief, chewing another bite of the remaining chicken, mozzarella cheese, and ham rolls on his plate with deliberate delay. Seconds pass like that, in sepulchral silence, because at this height the typical sounds of the city don't filter through the colossal windows. None are willing to intervene first, a ridiculous battle that spreads so far that my nerves bristle like a frightened cat, and my stomach tenses with anxious anticipation.

Elliot swallows.

I squint more.

Elliot blinks innocently.

A vein in my forehead threatens to burst.

It's not until he guides the fork trapped between his thin, pale fingers with intentional slowness over another piece of food that my patience reaches its limit. I growl, frustrated and irritated. That's when I realize it's exactly what he wanted, because he grins with mischievous satisfaction and turns his feline body toward me, his knees pressing against my thigh, giving me his unwavering attention with an enthusiasm I shouldn't find hilarious. But there I am, trying with all my might to stifle the laughter that climbs up my neck and makes my chest shake like speakers playing heavy metal.

And so immersed am I in this absurd situation that I don't even question to the point of freaking out with my usual uncertainty, originated by induced insecurities and ingrained doubts, that for someone who was so reluctant to touch me just half an hour ago, now does so with mischievous freedom that baffles me. But that's a good sign, right?

Right?

"You did it on purpose," I accuse in a forced mumble, careful not to break my serious and offended façade.

"Did I?" He replies in a heartbeat, tilting his head as if confused and in the same tone I used, creating a private, closed atmosphere between us.

"You're evil," I immediately cringe at my childish comment, but it's a sincere statement that gains credibility when his sinful grin widens and he asks with palpable amusement:

"Am I?" And for some inexplicable reason, that causes a pleasant shiver to spread down my spine and warmth to flood my belly.

This man will be the death of me.