Abigail

Jesus holy Christ, then all the saints above combined!

The door had swung open and my brain just packed its things, said you’re on your own and disappeared into mush at the sight before me.

Finnegan Wolfe in a suit was devastating. Finnegan Wolfe in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up was a problem. Finnegan Wolfe in low-slung grey sweatpants with no shirt on, his entire torso on full display was a freaking public safety concern.

Goddamn.

The sweatpants hung low at his hips, showing off that defined V leading into his pants. I wanted to know where they were, to see where they were.

The light from the chandelier caught every line of muscle, every ridge of his abdomen, the tattoo on his arms rippling sexily as he walked towards me with a mug in one hand. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands falling over his hardened stony face.

My nipples tightened. Heat pooled in my lower belly and I pressed my thighs together under the sheets hoping my face didn’t say, "I would like to lick your abdomen, if you please"

He stopped beside the bed, towering over me.

Up close the smell of him hit me harder and my mouth watered.

His eyes roamed over me slowly. How long had I been out cold?

"How are you feeling?"

I sat up straighter, my cheeks heating up in shame.

"Better," I flashed him a smile, resisting the urge to tug my bottom lip under my teeth.

"Thank you. I’m sorry about the whole ... thing?"

Would he ask me what it was about? I hoped to God that he wouldn’t. I didn’t want to have that conversation with him at the moment. No, I wanted to lick the ridges on his abdomen.

He held the mug out. "Here’s tea. It’ll help you feel better." He set it in my hands, his fingers brushing briefly against mine. My pulse skyrocketed. "How do you feel about chicken?"

I took a sip of the warm tea, licking my lips as I glanced back up at him.

Those emerald eyes darkened, his jaw clenched so tight a nerve ticked in it. "I love chicken."

His abs clenched visibly as reply. God, would he shove me away if I reached out to touch them.

The blank look was back on his face.

"You seem to have recovered sufficiently," his voice came out slightly deeper than before. "You can walk to the living room yourself."

"Oooh, Were you going to come carry me?"

"Don’t be ridiculous," He scoffed, turned on his heels and stormed to the door.

I pressed my lips together to stop the smile tugging at it. Gosh, he was adorable.

I finished the tea and set the mug on the nightstand. Something smelled so good. Did he order the chicken already? My eyes scanned the room for my purse and the little thing sat on the reading chair in a corner.

Sliding off the bed, I stalked to it to fish out my phone. It was six seventeen PM. I had passed out for about four hours. I pulled up Annette’s name on the contact list and called her but she didn’t pick up so I left her a voicemail.

"Annie hon, it’s me, I’m fine, don’t panic, I had a... a thing, and I’m at Finn’s apartment, don’t make it weird. I’ll be back soon."

I hung up, slid my feet onto the cool marble floor and followed the delicious scent out into the living room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were on two walls, a deep sofa in charcoal color like most of the furniture were.

Through the open archway to the kitchen was where the smell was coming from. I stood in the living room entrance, entrance.

Finnegan was bent over the oven. Those sweatpants doing criminal things as he leaned, pulling a tray out with mittens on both hands.

His muscles flexed under all that ink as he straightened and set a whole roasted chicken on the counter.

The smell hit the entire room even harder. Herbs, spices and garlic made my stomach growl.

He picked up a carving knife and began shredding it.

"That smells incredible,"

He stiffened slightly when I stopped beside him, but didn’t look up, the knife slicing through the tender chicken. "Sit down."

"I’m fine standing." I leaned in slightly to look at the chicken.

My tits pushed against his arm and I bit back a moan at the feel of his naked arm between my breasts. "You cooked this yourself?"

"Evidently." He bit out.

I gaped at him in disbelief. "You made roasted chicken?"

"Stating the obvious is a poor habit, Miss Kellerman,"

We were back to formalities even in his house? "I thought you were going to order something when you asked how I feel about chicken."

His face scrunched up as if he were offended. "I don’t order food in my own kitchen."

I could hardly believe it. I couldn’t cook to save my life and the great, ice-cold, billion-dollar Wolfe was standing in his own kitchen, in sweatpants might I had, making roasted chicken.

He cut a small piece and pushed it toward the edge of the board. My fingers snatched it up and put it in my mouth.

Holy smokes!

I moaned, dropping my head back as the flavours burst all over my tongue.

"What the hell?" I groaned, meeting his green eyes. "You should have opened a restaurant. I would work for you at a restaurant. I would be a very dedicated and enthusiastic employee at a restaurant if this is what you were cooking, damn!"

I reached for another piece as he cut it and he moved the board slightly out of my reach. I reached further, my fingers closing around it anyway. "Now come on, be cool, I’m a guest in your home."

"You’re a nuisance," he grumbled, but he cut another piece and pushed it towards me.

I stuffed my face, giggling as I ate. I closed my eyes again and a small sound of pure pleasure slipped from my lips. When I opened them his eyes were on my mouth. His breathing had changed, growing labored.

I held his gaze and reached for the piece he was cutting, letting my fingers graze the counter close to his.

Chicken juice ran drinker down my lips and down the corner of my mouth.

His eyes followed, a look of hunger glinting his orbs. Before I could say a word, his mouth touched the corner of my lips giving it one slow, hot lick.