He was standing at the stove, shirtless, wearing only a black apron and a pair of loose pants that hung low on his hips. His back muscles moved every time he stirred the food, and the smell of spices filled the room. You leaned against the counter, watching him without meaning to. He noticed.

He turned slowly, holding a spoon with something hot and savory, that damn smirk curving his lips.

“Hungry?” The way he said it made it sound like more than food.

You reached out, but he brought the spoon to your mouth himself, watching you too closely as you tasted it. Then, he leaned in, voice dropping like silk over steel—right against your ear.

“I’ll feed you first...” His hand slid across your thigh, firm and warm. “Then I’ll eat you later.”

His breath was warm against your skin, his fingers lingering just long enough to make you ache for more. And then he pulled back, eyes gleaming.

“Now be good, and wait while I finish.” He turned back to the stove, his apron moving as he walked. “You’re gonna need all your strength later.”