Must Date The Chef

|| 51.

Someone is watching me. I turn, my hand blindly reaches out for the firm arms that rocked me all night to seek protection. But I come up empty except for the soft surface I am resting on. My eyelids flutter open, I look down at my wandering hand, I am on my bed. I yawn, a tiny smile flits to my lips when my gaze lands on my watcher. Paul.

My fingers weave into his beard, I tug on it and his face contorts playfully. I exhale, my heart rams into my chest and I wheeze. A smile takes over his face, I give his arm a small squeeze and he winks. I missed this. I missed him. I missed us. No more fights. He pecks my lips, I bring his head down to repay the gesture on his forehead and lose myself at the sight of his earsplitting grin.

"Good morning," my eyebrows crease, "is it morning yet?" I ask in a voice thick with sleep. Casting one look around my room, I squint, the light pouring from the ceiling makes it hard to tell the hour of the day.

His left hand rests on my stomach with his right elbow propped on the pillow. Another yawn escapes my lips, he bops my nose and shakes his head in response to my question. I nod, a feeling of dread settles in the pit of my belly at the thought of telling him about my flight which is this morning, I purse my lips. We agreed on being open about everything, even the most irrelevant things.

After our argument and the long discussion that followed, I spent the minutes tucked in his arms, ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat until lethargy took over me. He must have carried me into the room, I can be such a baby but I am his baby; his big baby. Looking at him with a lazy smile, the butterflies in my stomach flutter when lines appear at the corners of his eyes as his lips pull into a grin. I love this big head.

Paul said a lot to me last night, almost too much. His calm tone and reassuring smiles didn't make it less painful to hear the talk but the bottom line is: I must be kinder with my words when upset. I trail a finger on his lower lip, lift myself to bite on the succulent flesh. I never meant to hurt him, I will never hurt him deliberately but he is right, I jump into conclusions too quickly and say a lot of cruel things out of anger.

"What will you do with the prize money?" I understand now what he meant the day we first talked about the show. He doesn't need the money, he can go years without working and still have enough to spend, unlike me.

Sparing him a glance, I pout and prop my chin on his chest, eager to hear his answer. He has a bit of fame now, more Instagram followers, most of which came after the show, the mini controversy and questions surrounding the need for the organisers to announce another winner. I purse my lips and raise my brows when he remains mute.

I never mean to stalk him but I always find myself on his page, lurking at the comment section of those pictures of us he uploaded. The comments are hilarious, I might have acquired a few haters who hide under the label of makeup artistes and dermatologists that give careless remarks about my skin and make up. Too bad for them, I have the man they so badly want and he is madly in love with me, a man who forgets he has the Instagram app as soon as he makes a post.

The man who named a meal after me and treats me right. I tug on his nipple and jut my lower lip when he pouts. They can keep talking all the shit they want about me, my skin is smoother than most of their careers.

Paul's head lowers to claim my lips, my arms go around his neck and I moan as his hand closes over my breast. I deepen the kiss which soon turns frenzy and gasp when he pinches my nipple. He takes that chance to thrust his tongue into my mouth, I climb on top of him and pull his lip between my teeth. He palms my buttocks, kneading the soft flesh, I whimper as I grind on him, eliciting rounds of sinful moans from him.

Placing my hands on each side of his head, I rotate my pelvis on his groin area and his hands relocate to my waist to keep me still.

I whisper, "You have not answered me." He shrugs, I plaster a fake frown. "You are not my boyfriend again," I smack his chest and he lets out a small laugh, "I don't like you."