For the past few days, things have finally started to feel normal again.

The diner's all fixed up and operating just like it used to. My other cooks aren't sick anymore so I can get back to doing what I love to do. Mom's not worried about me anymore and she's stopped insisting on coming in to "help."

And most importantly, I haven't heard from Blake in days.

Things are going pretty well with Reeve and I, too. Ever since that night at his apartment, I've felt closer to him than I have to anyone in a long while. Honestly, if I could swing it, I'd be spending a lot more time with him. That kiss we shared—not borne of desperation but attraction and affection and longing—has played through my mind again and again, and I'm eager for more. But with him working the night shift and me working all day at the diner, we haven't really had a chance to meet up, even at the gym.

Reeve's off tonight, though, and I'm making good on my promise to teach him to cook. I leave the diner a little early—mostly so we're not eating dinner at ten or eleven at night—and swing by the grocery store to get some ingredients since I know exactly how little food Reeve keeps in his fridge.

I load up my arms with about seven bags' worth of meat, vegetables, spices, and various other things we'll need and instantly regret my decision to make only one trip. By the time I get up to his apartment, I'm out of breath and I have to knock with the toe of my boot.

He opens the door, a smile on his face that turns amused when he sees I've loaded myself down like a pack mule.

"Didn't wanna make two trips, huh?" he asks, reaching to help me with a few bags.

"Never."

Relief floods my limbs as he lightens my burden, and we put all of the bags on his kitchen table.

"Looks like you brought enough to feed a small army," he says, looking through a couple of bags.

"I wasn't sure what all you had. Flour, butter, oil—a lot of this stuff you can keep on hand and use in the future."

The look he gives me is skeptical, but he helps me unpack everything just the same. "Picked up some wine. Wasn't sure what'd go best with whatever you're cooking, so I got red and white."

"Whatever you're cooking," I correct him, pointing a brand-new set of tongs at his chest.

That skeptical look comes out again, and I'm tempted to kiss him. It takes me a minute, but I realize I actually can now. Leaning up, I press a kiss to that half-frown of his, sucking his bottom lip into my mouth and earning a rumbling groan for my troubles.

"You'll do fine," I tell him. "Everybody can learn to cook. It's really not that tough."

He looks at the spread of things I've kept on the table. Two thick ribeye steaks, Yukon gold potatoes, some garlic, and brussel sprouts. A few odds and ends, too. Balsamic vinegar, beef stock, corn starch, and more.

"Jesus. You're gonna let me ruin a steak that cost $15?"

"The only way you'll ruin it is if you cook it past medium rare," I say, making a face. "But you're not going to do that because I won't ever cook for you again if you do. Got it?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "You’ve got a lot more faith in me than I do, but sure. Where do we start?"

I look at him, at his button-down dark gray shirt and slacks and I can just imagine both getting absolutely trashed.

"Go change. Unless you've got any aprons handy?"

"Fresh out," he says, turning to head off toward what must be his bedroom.

I watch him go, my gaze falling on his very nice, very firm ass. His muscles flex as he walks and I bite my lip, reminding myself I'm actually trying to accomplish something here aside from just jumping him.

I focus on getting things set up, and before too long, he comes back. This time in a Lexington Police Department shirt that hugs tight across his chest and shoulders.

"That's not distracting at all," I mutter.

Reeve snorts. "You're one to talk."

I look down at my own choice for the evening. A sleeveless Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers shirt that's been through the wash one too many times and a pair of tight black jeans. A devilish grin curves my lips, but I just shrug.

Sure, it was intentional. I'm not going to lie about that.

"All right. Ready to learn how to cook a steak?"

"Ready as I'm going to be," he says, going over to wash his hands without me even having to prompt him.

"The two most important things about cooking steak—the two things most people get wrong—are seasoning and temperature." I cut into the package with a paring knife and use the tongs to lay the steaks out on a wire rack over a sheet pan before patting them down with paper towels. "As far as I'm concerned, you can't over-season a steak. So I'll show you how to do one, and then you do the other."

"The one I'm going to have to eat, right?" he asks with a smirk.

"Exactly." I grin at him and reach for the salt and pepper, seasoning one side of the steak with a generous amount of both before turning it over and seasoning the other side. "Okay, now you."

He does the same, and I nudge his arm up just a little higher so he's getting a more even coating of seasoning.

"Perfect. Now we need to let these sit for about a half hour, until they reach room temperature. That'll make it easier to get a nice sear instead of just cooking them in their own juices."

"So we just wait?" he asks, looking down at the steaks.

"We've got some other prep we can work on in the meantime, starting with roasting two heads of garlic. We'll use that for the steak and the mashed potatoes."

I show him how to do that, and again have him copy my technique on his own garlic. He cuts off the tip, oils, seasons, and wraps it up in aluminum foil like a pro and we toss them into the oven.

"Cleaning potatoes next. We want to use the skins on these—they're nice and soft and they'll be good in the mash. But they really need to be scrubbed clean, and we'll have to dig out any eye stalks or dark spots."

Reeve continues to follow my instruction, cleaning potatoes and putting them into a pot of water that we then put on the stove. I show him how to clean and halve brussel sprouts, too, and have him toss them in oil and seasoning to await their turn in the oven.

All throughout, I get a little handsier than necessary, helping to guide his knife cuts and even without any excuse at all, my hand just straying down his back. I can see the moment his breath hitches every time, and I start to get a little drunk on my power, even if I don't plan to exploit it until after dinner is done.

When it's time to put the steak on, I have to coax him into letting the oil shimmer in the pan.

"That's really fucking high," he says, eying the bright red burner.

"It has to be to get a good sear. Don't be surprised if there's smoke."

There isn't, thankfully. The steaks just give that satisfying hiss as they hit the pan, and I impart some patience into Reeve as we wait to turn them over until one side is brown and crusty. We repeat the process for the other side, then the heat goes down and out comes the butter and garlic to baste it. I supervise Reeve throughout this process, giving him a thumbs up.

"How do you know when it's done?" he asks.

"You get a feel for it once you've cooked enough steak, but for now: Meat thermometer." I present it to him, pulling the probe out of its casing. "145 is medium rare. Stick it into the thickest part of the steak."

They're a little under, and I have him pull them off the heat and rest them under some tented aluminum foil. They'll come up to temperature while we make the pan sauce. I show him how to deglaze a pan—which seems to fascinate him as much as it fascinates me—and we make a nice dark sauce from the frond.

Once everything's ready, we plate it up and it doesn't look half bad. Some of the brussel sprouts got a bit too charred and the mashed potatoes are a little smoother than I like them, but it all tastes great when we sit down to eat.

"Goddamn," Reeve exclaims, swallowing a bite of steak. "Hard to believe I had any part in making food this good."

I smile at him, pride filling my heart. I know it's a little Pixar of me, but I truly believe anyone can cook, and it gives me no small amount of satisfaction to see someone not only learn but appreciate what they've learned.

We eat and talk, both of us cleaning our plates. There's a point where I get full and just start sipping my wine and watching him as he thoroughly enjoys his meal. The expressions he makes, the soft moans make me wonder if he's that responsive in the bedroom, and I'm already thinking of acceptable ways to turn this dinner date into something more.

I must not be the only one thinking that way, because when I go to take care of my plate, Reeve comes up behind me. His hard body presses against mine and I fight every urge to press back against him as his hands skim up my sides.

"Don't think I didn't notice all that 'accidental' touching," he says, his voice low, breath warm against my ear.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, and I do indulge a little, pressing my ass back against him.

I get the groan I wanted, but he pulls back. Soon I understand why as his hands move to my hips and he turns me to face him. He kisses me, his lips tasting like wine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth. My hands go to his shoulders as one kiss turns into another and then another, a series of moments where our mouths are melded to each other, only breaking apart for a brief taste of air before we're back at it.

I'm horny as hell and I don't try to hide it, pressing close to Reeve. He uses the force of his body to push me back against the counter and I grind against him, my cock already straining in my jeans. I've wanted him for a long time, and now that I know there's more to him than just this gruff, closed-off guy who might be good for a hit-it-and-quit-it type situation, I can't help but want to experience all he has to offer.

"Why don't we take this to the bedroom," I suggest, drawing back to look at him.

His brown eyes are so dark they look almost black, and he nods. I reach for his hand and lead him that way. His apartment's in better shape than the last time I saw it, but I'm not sure I'd care what it looks like even if it wasn’t. As long as the bed is sturdy enough to hold us, that's all I need.

And even then, I can make due. Plenty of good wall and floor space in here.

I push him down on the bed and his eyes seem to darken even more as I climb on top of him. He's broader than my skinny ass, and my body fits perfectly against his. My mouth returns to his, our tongues teasing, and I use one hand to explore the broad plain of his chest, down to his well-formed abs. The muscles in his thigh jump a little as I move lower, on an obvious quest that ends with me finally getting a handful of his hard dick as it strains against his pants.

"Fuck," he moans, flexing up against my hand.

I rub him through the fabric, more than happy with what I can feel. He's a nice size, and if he knows how to use it, this'll be everything I've fantasized about and then some.

We kiss as I work the buttons of his jeans free, sliding down the zipper. He's wearing briefs, so I can't just pull his cock out like I want to. But the fabric is thin and I can feel the heat of him as my hand slides over the hard ridge of his erection, rubbing and squeezing in turn.

Reeve isn't passive beneath me, either. His hands move down my back and he grips my ass, giving my cheeks a healthy squeeze. I can't help but wish my pants were already off, so I could feel those big hands gripping my skin.

Since I'm in the best position to do it, I start the process, pushing up to my knees and flinging off my shirt. Reeve's heated gaze roves over my chest, taking in all of my ink, traveling down to my abs and the dusting of hair that disappears into my pants. He takes the opportunity to press his palm to the front of my jeans and I let out a breathy laugh, a wicked gleam in my eyes.

I move my hips, gyrating in a slow motion to rub my erection against his hand. He works with me, not against me, saving the most pressure for when I'm pressed firmly against him.

He surprises me though when his hands move to my thighs and he pulls me closer with a growl, my knees now on either side of his chest. My breath hitches as he goes for the buttons and zipper, and I bite my lip to keep from whimpering, wanting him to move so much faster.

He doesn't take my dick out of my boxers before he puts his mouth on me, and that combination of wet heat and the friction of my underwear makes me gasp. I move against him, wanting more, but his grip tightens on my thighs to keep me in place.

I can feel his lips, his mouth, even his tongue as he moves over my erection, but none of it's exactly what I want. Or so I think. The press of his tongue against the head of my cock makes me weak in the knees, the cotton providing just enough barrier to keep me from being too sensitive. He exploits this until he has me gasping, and then he finally undoes the snap on my boxers and grips my cock, taking the head into his mouth.

He sucks with a consistent rhythm, dark eyes looking up at me all the while. I use one hand to balance myself while the other moves over my body, sliding up my abdomen to my chest. I tweak one of my nipples and cry out, living for the hungry flash of his eyes as he watches me.

I lean back and roll my hips, flexing toward his mouth. One of his hands comes around the base of my cock and he squeezes, keeping me from thrusting as much as I want to. It's exactly what I wanted. This give and take, showing him what I need, pushing boundaries, having him take control as he gives me exactly what I crave.

But I'm not content to just leave things there. The more he sucks me, his mouth forming tight around my cock, his tongue swirling around the head, the more I want to do the same to him.

I pull back, ignoring his growl of protest, and climb all the way off the bed. I tug off his shoes, then his jeans, and finally his briefs. His big cock twitches under my gaze, and I'm practically salivating as I close my hand around the base and take him into my mouth.

I don't waste any time on preamble or teasing. I just relax my throat and take him to the root, removing my hand once I'm close enough. A deep moan vibrates through him and one of his hands fists in my hair as I hold myself there until I have to let up for air.

I suck him like it's my one purpose in life to do it, my lips moving over the smooth skin as I build to a rhythm, working the lower half of his shaft with my hand while I do. Eventually Reeve takes control here, too, holding my head in place as he thrusts upward. He doesn't try to choke me or anything, he just keeps up a steady rhythm, using my mouth in exactly the way I was hoping he would.

"Take your pants off and climb over me," he says, his voice roughened by want.

I release him—reluctantly—and kick my shoes off, wiggling out of my pants, hooking my fingers into my boxers to pull those down, too. My cock is painfully hard, and I can feel it pulse as I watch Reeve toss his shirt away.

I start to climb over him, wanting desperately for him to fuck me, but he stops my action.

"Other way."

Other…? Oh. A grin curves my lips and I turn around, my elbows resting on either side of his hips now as I take his cock back into my mouth. His arms wrap around my thighs and he starts sucking me at the same time, matching my rhythm, taking me deep.

It's almost too distracting, but I focus my efforts on him. At least until he shifts a little beneath me, his hands moving to my ass cheeks. He spreads me open, and a loud moan shakes through me as his tongue probes my hole.

He's not shy about it, and my legs buckle under his attentions. I'm forced to stop blowing him, just stroking him distractedly as he fucks me with his tongue.

I arch upward, enduring his attentions until I'm about to go out of my mind. Then I put my hand on his wrist and give it a squeeze to warn him before I get up, pushing myself off the bed completely.

My legs already feel like jelly, and I half-stumble over to the dresser, grabbing the box of condoms. I pull one out, tear it open, and hand it to him as I fish out lube.

"You sure you're ready for this?" he asks, and I watch him hesitate with the condom.

I know what he's actually asking. This is a big step, and I've only had casual, one-night hookups since Blake. It's nice of him to be considerate, but I'm practically vibrating with need.

"After the way you tongue-fucked me, you don't get to ask that question," I say, squirting some lube into my palm and rubbing it toward my fingers.

He laughs, and when I hand over the lube he applies it judiciously after sliding the condom down. Before he can change position, I climb over top of him, grip his cock, and start to take him inside myself.

"Fuck," he groans as the head of his cock breaches my hole.

I slide down further, my thighs wanting to quiver with the effort to restrain myself. I can feel him spreading me open, stretching me, filling me, and I let out a lust-filled moan, taking inch by inch of him until I'm flush with his pelvis.

I move then, rolling my hips, lifting off him and sinking back down. He feels amazing inside of me, and I'm able to angle it just like I like, my thighs and calf muscles burning as I ride him.

Reeve seems to know exactly when to take over in this, too. He grips my thighs, holding me up above him, and lifts off the bed, thrusting upward. At first his pace is slow, but it gets faster and harder and I give him absolutely no resistance.

But eventually he slows, and lifts me off him. The absence of him leaves behind an ache of loss that makes me gasp, and from Reeve's hissing intake of breath, I'm guessing he feels the same.

He doesn't say anything, just moves out from under me and over to the side of the bed, standing up. I get the picture and position myself on my hands and knees, but he turns me over, my back hitting the mattress.

His bed isn't tall enough for us to line up all that well, and I'm not exactly sure how he intends to do this until he wraps his arms around my thighs and pulls me to him, my legs hooking over his hips.

He positions himself and drives into me, filling me completely with one smooth thrust. I cry out in bliss, my moans turning into an endless, keening stream of sound as he pounds me, the force of his thrusts pushing me further back on the bed. The second I get too far, he pulls me back to him and starts the cycle over, and I'm just in heaven.

"Oh, fuck. Just like that," I plead.

I'm so close, in large part because—aside from that one question—Reeve isn't treating me with caution. He isn't treating me like I'm going to break at the slightest hint of force. He trusts my desires and trusts me to tell him if it's too much, and the sex is better than I could've ever imagined because of it.

I reach for my cock, jerking myself in time with his thrusts. I barely have to touch myself before I feel my balls tighten, my muscles seizing as my orgasm hits me hard.

"Fuck," Reeve growls, pounding me harder, racing toward his own release.

He slams into me one last time, his cock twitching and jerking as he comes, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips when it happens.

Both of us are panting, dripping with sweat. My legs feel like jelly and the only reason they're not splayed out on the bed right now is because Reeve is still holding them. He lets out a puff of breath and slowly eases me down, pulling out of me and taking care of the condom.

The second he's close enough, I grab him by the hand and pull him back onto the bed, kissing him deeply. There's so much I could say to express what that meant to me—how it felt to be given what I want, without fear—but I'm not sure I have the capacity for words right now. I just try to communicate it in the kiss instead, and as Reeve settles onto the bed with me and returns it, I think he gets the message.

With previous lovers, I've been eager to leave afterward, no matter how good the sex. But this time I feel deliriously happy when Reeve's arms come around me and he pulls me close. Our kisses turn lazier and lazier as exhaustion starts to take over, hands wandering the lengths of naked bodies.

There aren't any words between us. There doesn't need to be. And before too long, I drift off in his arms, feeling safe and wanted for the first time in a long time.