Pitbabe S2, Chapter 31 pg 6
Pitbabe S2, Chapter 31 pg 6
“I’m worried about myself. I don’t want to die.” The truth earns me a massive eye-roll. Babe clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed, but he hands over the knife willingly, probably because I just risked my life a moment ago.
“I just wanted to cook something for you,” the apprentice chef mutters, his full lips turning down, brows knitting together. My exasperation turns to pity. How far is he going to toy with my heart?
“You’ve been exhausted lately… I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Look at him.
Isn’t he afraid I’ll love him so much I’ll keel over?
“Do something nice? You’ve already stolen my heart,” I say with a grin, pulling my soon-to-be boyfriend into a hug, itching with affection. My worries and exhaustion melt away more than halfway just seeing his face. Babe made the right call coming here, because if we hadn’t seen each other before bed tonight, I would’ve missed this moment, and that would’ve been a shame.
“I knew you’d say something like that.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“It’s good… but can’t I do something for you for once?”
“Babe has already done a lot,” I said, pushing the supermarket bags on the counter aside before hoisting my talented chef up to sit in their place. Babe still had that pouty face but didn’t resist, even wrapping his arms around my neck. “Just this, and I’m already done for.”
“But I want you to eat something I made for once.”
“I’ve already eaten your cooking.”
“Eat my cooking… not me,” Babe shot back, seeing right through me. His index finger poked the spot between my brows, pushing lightly with mock annoyance.
“It fills me up just the same.”
“Eating me fills your heart, not your stomach,” he said, sounding thoroughly fed up, but the slight upward curve of his lips gave him away. I knew he loved this kind of talk, even if he’d never admit it outright. A guy like Pitbabe soaks up every sweet word in the world—except mine.
“So, will I get to fill my heart today?” I teased.
“Huh?” Babe narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. And no wonder—my hands were circling his backside. Only a fool wouldn’t notice they were being eyed. “What’s with you? Didn’t you say at lunch we should keep things separate?”
“Yeah, but you’re the one not keeping things separate.”
“What! My fault again?” he exclaimed, his voice pitching high. “I just came to cook for you, eat, and leave.”
“But you can’t cook.”
“Then let me try! I’ve been practicing.”
“No need. Cooking’s my job,” I said, coaxing him gently while one hand stealthily slipped under his dark t-shirt, moving with sly precision. “Your job, Babe, is to give me the energy to cook.”
“You and your damn cheeky talk,” he grumbled.
“What? Why’s that?” I laughed. “You should be blushing, Babe.”
“Nope. I’m annoyed.”
“Aw, come on, humor me a little.” Knowing I’d ticked him off, I quickly switched to pleading mode. Step one: I buried my face in the crook of his neck, nibbling lightly and licking slowly. Step two kicked in while step one was still in motion—my fingertips glided under the fabric, finding their mark and teasing it eagerly. Both the left and right targets got equal attention. “Didn’t you say you’d pamper me?”
“I’m trying to cook.”
“Fine, finish this first, then you can cook.”
“So you’re dead set on this, huh?”
“Yep,” I replied without hesitation. “Dead set.”
“You and your habits.”
Though he grumbled, Babe still indulged me as always. He leaned back, propping himself up with his hands, making it easy for me to lift the hem of his shirt. He even played along like a good boy, biting the edge of his shirt to hold it up without me having to ask.
Babe’s complaints seemed more for show, because the moment I replaced my hands with my mouth, the skilled chef arched his chest forward eagerly. One hand stayed braced on the counter, while the other reached up to ruffle my hair, tugging and messing it up. A satisfied hum vibrated in his throat, muffled since his mouth was still clamped on the shirt to keep it from falling and getting in the way of my feast.
His skin was smooth, muscles sculpted beautifully like a statue. But in reality, Pitbabe had crafted every inch of himself with his own hands. Wherever my lips roamed, I couldn’t resist nipping once or twice to satisfy the itch in my teeth. But looking at the bigger picture, I’d clearly gone well beyond a couple of bites. When I pulled back to admire my work, I saw the famous star’s body adorned with marks from me. As the artist, I found it immensely satisfying.
“How was today?” I asked, trailing kisses along the skin above his waistband. My hands worked to unfasten and tug his pants down, my goal crystal clear: to remove the barrier between us as quickly as possible. “Did you stay home all day?”
“You’re asking that now?!” Babe made a face, probably thinking my question didn’t suit the moment. But I didn’t see it that way. Isn’t this the perfect time to catch up on the day’s events?
“Can’t I ask?” I shot back. “I want to know what you were up to today.”
“You’re asking questions while pulling off my pants. Are you actually curious?”
“Of course I am.”
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