Imperfect Bastard by Pamela Ann

before setting the contents on the coffee table in front of us.
    I wasn’t going to lie; I salivated like no other at the smell of perfectly charred steak and the thought of lobster mashed potatoes and creamed corn.
    “You weren’t joking when you said a full meal. You really go all out by getting my favorites, knowing t I won’t be able to say no.”
    He responded with a smug smile. “Oh, yeah, I’m bringing out the big guns, woman.”
    There was no doubt that he was. I wasn’t even sure the restaurants did delivery, but he had somehow managed it.
    “You’re bent on making me fat.”
    “I’m bent on making sure you enjoy the simplest things in life—the power of taste,” he emphasized. “It’s good to indulge once in a while.”
    The power of taste, my chunky ass. I smirked at him, irritatingly amused by him. Whatever. I was beyond delighted that he had chosen to feed me nothing but the best. He sure did enjoy spoiling me in his own way. It was a reminder of how things had been between us before. His thoughtfulness never failed to make my heart skip a few beats.
    “I’ll go ahead and get some utensils. What can I get you to drink?”
    “Diet coke. I’ll need to burp after all this.”
    “You bet.”
    He came back with my soda and a beer for himself.
    “Can I press play now?” I glanced at him, hoping we could watch and eat at the same time. There was no way I could properly eat without my mind running back to the Mikaelson. When I got obsessed with a new show, there was no stopping me, like with everything else in my life. It wasn’t a shocker, really.
    “Nice try. Like I could really stop you from pressing that button, babe, but thanks for asking.” He smirked before taking a big gulp of his drink.
    Without hesitation, I pressed the button on the remote, resuming where we had left off. Not that I was consumed by being cozy with Drew since the show was beyond entertaining, but when our hands crossed paths while forking a side dish, I couldn’t help blushing deeply. It was idiotic, yet it felt like home … and that last bit of revelation taunted me each and every time our gazes connected. It was as disconcerting as it was heartwarming.
    There was nothing left on my plate, not even a streak of lobster mash. I was half-expecting him to joke about my newfound appetite, but he didn’t seem to care.
    Once we set aside the empty containers, Drew decided to take my good foot and place it on his thigh, mindlessly massaging it with his thumbs.
    Okay, as interesting as the show was, my attention solely shifted back to the man. How could it not? He had been extra touchy since last night. I supposed touchy wasn’t the perfect term to describe it, because the bathroom scene had gone past “touchy” and more like a one-sided foreplay. Was it so wrong that a mere foot massage could ramp up a sex-starved woman like me? Hell, all right, I fucking wanted the man to just put me out of my misery. Instead, he was keen on these gradual brushes, gazes. and massages.
    If his intentions were to make me pant like a rabid dog, well say no more. I was panting, gasping, and gagging for it. I wanted to openly beg for more yet didn’t want to come off as desperate.
    Sure, I acted like quite the bitch when the mood struck me, but begging for sex was out of my forte, let alone trying to seduce a man. Considering my lack of sexual experience, how did one go about it without coming off tacky?
    “Drew …” I drawled, not knowing what to say next.
    “Hmm?” He barely glanced at me, his eyes trained on the screen.
    His side profile was a work of art. I admired it with a certain longing. My hands itched to touch it, trace it, caress it with my fingers… with my lips. I wanted to worship him, show him how good I could make him feel if he only gave me the chance. But last night had proved just how much he liked to be in control of the situation, so I somehow doubted I would ever know how it would feel to kiss him like I had often