A little more time, I tell myself. That’s all I need. A little more time to regroup, heal. And then I’ll be good. Just like new.

Until then, I’m sticking to the house. And there’s one place I find myself gravitating toward.

The kitchen.

It has become a living, thriving beast in the center of my once quiet and orderly house. There’s no ignoring the new heart of my home. It won’t let me. I constantly hear the sounds coming out of it: clanks, sizzles, muted thumps and bangs. A cacophony of sounds. It should annoy me, but it intrigues me instead. What tasty delights will come from those sounds? What new dish will bring me to my knees and make me beg for more?

Scents waft from the kitchen, dancing around the halls to find me and tickle my nose. Warm and comforting and mouthwatering. “Come closer,” those scents seem to say. “Come see what we have for you.”

Come.

How can I ignore that?

So I don’t. I follow the siren’s call and find the siren herself at the very center of activity.

Delilah moves with utter confidence in her kitchen—because it is unequivocally hers now. This is a prima ballerina performing a solo. Not a fast-paced, frantic dance, but slow and easy, controlled power in motion.

Knowing that she hasn’t yet noticed me, I simply watch her work, admiring the curves of her body as she reaches for a spoon to taste a sauce. The pink tip of her tongue flashes as she licks her lush top lip. Something hot and tight clenches low in my gut at the sight. Then she’s moving again, adding a spice to her sauce; a flick of her wrist controls the temperature on the stove.

My body remembers the feel of hers, the way she cuddled up in my lap for those few mindless minutes. I was surprised enough that she did it. I simply held her, afraid to make any move that might startle her away. She was warm and soft, her tan skin smelling of butter and cinnamon sugar. I wanted to sit there all night and breathe her in.

I wanted to let my hands roam over those plump curves and learn each one. It was an act of careful coordination to keep her from noticing just how much she affected me. It was worth the painful dick and the aching gut of lust because in that moment, she felt perfect.

She turns back to the center island and the cutting board there and sees me. The loose-limbed ease of her body dies. She’s all twitchy now, eyeing me like a feral barn cat as if I might try to lash out and catch her.

Tempting.