Out of Focus (Love in LA #3)

The only thing left to do is boil the spaghetti, but I’ll do that when he’s here so we can have it fresh. Pumpkin—the cat, of course, because I would never refer to myself in the third person or by one of Raf’s nicknames for me—has been in and out of the kitchen since I got here, and she’s been inching closer and closer each time.

Since I have nothing to do but wait, I go to the living room and look through his books. Sure enough, every single one of mine is there, including the new one he just bought. I dig through my bag for the Sharpie I always keep on-hand to sign copies when I see them at bookstores and pull out all my books. Without messing with the order he had them shelved in—chronological, by series, because he’s the perfect man—I open them up to the cover page.

Rather than just signing my name, I decide to leave him a personal message in each one. It’s surprisingly easy to come up with things to write to him, which I suppose makes sense since we know one another so well.

With fifteen minutes to spare, I finish signing and place everything back as it was. When I sit back on the sofa, Pumpkin jumps up next to me. She had been cautiously watching from the other side of the room, and as I wrote my messages, I said them out loud, sharing them with her as I went.

She purrs into the side of my leg and looks up at me with those striking blue eyes. Looks like we’re both starting to feel a bit more comfortable here.

42/

i want to taste you before anything else.

rafael

I walk into my house full of excited jitters. It smells amazing in here. “Hello,” I call out.

“In here.” Charlie’s voice comes from the living room. She’s sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the ottoman, and when I walk around the corner, I see Pumpkin is asleep on her lap.

“Holyyyyyyyy shit. How did you… When did she—” I’ve lost the ability to speak. The sight of Charlie on my couch with my cat has killed any brain cells I had left.

And then she goes and giggles. I’m a goner.

Standing behind her, I place my hands on her shoulders, and she rolls her head back to look at me, red hair fanning around her like a fiery halo. “Hey, firecracker.” I lean down to kiss her and feel her lips smiling against mine.

“Another nickname? Really?” She rolls her eyes, and I have to work overtime on not throwing her over my shoulder and taking her to my bed.

Instead, I lower my mouth to her neck and my hands to sit over hers where Pumpkin is still contently sleeping. “Admit it, you’ve grown to love my nicknames.” I nip at the spot below her earlobe, and her breath hitches. “You probably even have a favorite.” I leave a trail of kisses all along her neck.

Her giggle is music to my ears. A song I’ll never tire of. “Even if I did.” She turns so we’re nose-to-nose. “I’d never tell.”

“Brat.” I kiss her nose, and she laughs, startling Pumpkin from her nap. “Well, the snuggle was good while it lasted, I’m sure. But now it’s my turn.” I flip myself over the couch, my head landing on her lap as she squeals.

“You are insane!” She’s still laughing, hands lowering as the shock of my lunging onto her lap wears off.

“Nah. I just really, really like you.” I nuzzle into her, wrapping my arms around her waist. Her left hand lands on my hair, fingers combing it gently back and off my forehead. Her stomach chooses that moment to growl at me, and I shake with laughter. “Hungry, shortcake?”

“Well, I was so preoccupied with dinner that I forgot to eat lunch.”

“Hmm. Yep. Been there.” I lift my head, very reluctantly might I add, and kiss her stomach. “Let’s get you fed, then.” I jump off the couch and extend my hand to her. I don’t let her go until we get to the kitchen, and she beelines for the large pot on the stove, opening it up to stir it. It smells incredible.

“I just need to boil the pasta, so we can start with the salad while we wait if you’d like?” She twists to open the fridge door, but I take her by the waist and haul her to me.

“I think I’d like to eat something else while we wait, if that’s okay,” I say into her neck.

“Oh. W-what did you have in mind? What about the pasta?” She melts into my body, her head rolling back to rest on my shoulder.

“You’re gonna play coy?” I chuckle and watch as the goosebumps rise on her skin. She’s wearing a long skirt, and her T-shirt is knotted loosely at her waist. I slip my hand easily under the hem, and she gasps. “You, gata. I want to taste you before anything else. And I promise I’ll cook that pasta as soon as I’m done making you come.” I move my fingers under the waistband of her skirt, and she squirms against me.

Not willing to waste any more time, I flip her around, pick her up, and place her on the counter. I’ll take all my meals at the kitchen counter if they include Charlie.

Fifteen minutes later, Charlie’s had two orgasms, and my dick is doing its damnedest to break out of my pants. While she gets cleaned up, I get the pasta going, but I can’t resist having a taste of the sauce. All right, so I have more than just a taste; I have several. Whatever vegetables she put in this severely improved the flavor.

I’ve just finished sneaking another spoonful of sauce when I hear a tsk-tsk coming from behind me. “Patience, Machado.” Her tone is soft, that gorgeous afterglow making her skin look flushed. I love that I did that. She smiles widely at me as she walks closer and takes the spoon out of my hand, setting it down. “Based on the sounds you were making, the sauce is good?” Running her fingers from my chest to my abs and back again, she waits for an answer.

“It’s delicious, honey bun.” I clear my throat, which suddenly feels a little tight. “I think it’s better than mine.” Her nose scrunches, pure joy etched on her beautiful face, and I can’t help but run the pad of my thumb over those pink lips. I suck in a sharp breath that doesn’t seem to pull in enough air and clear my throat again, feeling a twinge of anxious energy making its way through my chest. “What, uh, what did you put in the sauce?” I can feel the sweat starting to build on my forehead, a familiar dread now climbing its way up my throat.

Charlie’s excitement is obvious as she starts going on about how she would normally never eat this thing because she hates the texture, and alarm bells start firing in my brain. I barely register any of the words, but one stands out among the others. Mushrooms. She’s still talking when I step aside and rush to the front closet, flipping a bin upside down to find what I need. I think she’s calling out to me from the kitchen, maybe closer, but I can’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears.