Must Date The Chef

|| 27.

I wake up with an urge to pee. Trying to get out of the bed proves futile with the arm around my waist. I push the blanket off, my fingertips run up and down Paul's arm in hopes to wake him but the bundle of muscles only tightens his grip on my small frame. Under a different circumstance, I might have found this funny or cute but my bladders are threatening to explode.

"Paul." My lips move to his ear. "Babe."

Out of ideas, I proceed to lick his lips and his eyelids flutter open. I forget about my body's need as I stare into his brown eyes clouded with sleep and he flashes me a smile. He blinks, some of the confusion clears and I shiver as the bedcover is pulled off completely when Paul stretches.

"I want to pee," I tell him when his arm returns to my waist. He nods, his lips move into a pout and I start shaking my head. "No, no kissing. I have morning breath."

His face falls, I let out a defeated sigh and peck him on the lips before rushing out of the room amidst his protest for another kiss. A giggle escapes me as I lower myself onto the toilet seat and massage my cheeks, they ache from smiling too much but I can't think to be any other way around him except glad and high-spirited. He makes me happy and his excitement for more of my kisses has my heart melting in a pool of affection. We should have started sooner.

I finish my business, brush my teeth and spend the next few seconds in front of the mirror checking myself out. I know he has seen me barefaced but I still want to look my best when wearing his T-Shirt with nothing else underneath. The plan was to finish what we started during the day but other things had to get in the way. My nipples harden at the thought and my eyes shut briefly as an image of his mouth closing over them flashes through my mind.

A throbbing starts between my legs, using my hand to fan myself, I let out a low whistle as I am reminded of the feel of his palms and mouth on my body. His fingers slipping in and out of my wetness with ease. Those hands are suited for more than kitchen work, they are efficient and experienced in matters of female anatomy and should be included in his résumé.

Placing my hands on the sink, I stare at my reflection and sigh, we are yet to have sex but I know what those hands and plump lips are capable of. I don't know why or what's holding him back. He is taking things slow, too slow for what I am used to.

I yank the durag off my head, I can already picture myself posing with it in my mom's jeans and crop top. Thanks to it, the top of my hair is still laid back. I sprinkle water on my baby hairs, pretend it's gel as I twirl a strand around my finger and lay the edges.

Water drips from the curtain separating the bathtub from the toilet, I eye the heater. Paul was still on his phone when I got back to the room, I slept off to his grunts and forced replies to the person on the other end. He must have forgotten to turn it off after bathing. Pressing my legs together, a wistful moan escapes me, I had pictured us doing so many naughty things in the shower but his call had eaten up all the time.

After a final check in the mirror, I saunter out of the bathroom to the kitchen. As the boss, I can take today off again and also grant him a pass. But it won't speak well of our new relationship and I don't want the gossip mill I tried so hard to avoid in Madiba to start here. My first stop is his fridge, maybe I can prepare breakfast for us so we can go to work together. I giggle.

Skipping the frozen meals in Tupperware, I bristle with excitement as my eyes land on the carrots, green peas on the last layer of the fridge. Spaghetti here I come, the only food anyone close to me will let me cook on my own. It's my forte. Well, I can also make pap and smooth swallow of any kind but I will need a volunteer to make the soup.

A quick trip to his store, I return with a pack of spaghetti. I jam my hands together, the smile on my face spreading as I retrieve a pot. This will be good, right? Right. I am the greatest spaghetti maker of my time. I rub my hands on my shirt, the jitters from trying to cook for a professional chef finally making an appearance. What if he doesn't like it? I hush the negative thoughts, he must like it, he will like it. He has to like it.