Misconduct

I peeked over my shoulder, still leaning down to the stove, and saw Tyler standing on the other side of the counter with his eyes nowhere near mine. His forearms rested on the island, and his head was cocked to the side as his gaze swept over my bottom and down my legs. And since he’d torn away my underwear last night, I wore nothing underneath.

I grabbed the pan and straightened, smiling as I placed it on top of the oven.

“How’s business?” I asked, using a knife to cut the large omelet in half.

“I’ve still got a bit to do,” he answered, and I heard him pouring coffee, “but I’m not allowed to touch you until it’s finished, so I’ll get it done quickly.”

I twisted my head around to narrow my eyes on him.

He must’ve seen the question in my eyes, because he laughed to himself. “On the rare occasion I have something I’d rather be doing instead of work, I have to bargain with myself,” he explained, and locked his gaze on mine. “And I can’t put my hands on you until I’m done with my work. That’s the bargain today.”

I smirked. “We’ll see,” I taunted.

He arched his damn eyebrows at me and set the coffeepot down.

I slid half an omelet onto a spatula. “You like omelets, I hope?”

“Yes,” he rushed out, sounding relieved as he slid onto the stool. “I’m starving. You didn’t have to do this, but thank you. It looks great.”

He immediately started digging into the omelet, and I had a hard time not watching him as he ate everything on his plate and downed his glass of orange juice, quickly pouring himself another. The fruit and biscuits in front of him disappeared just as fast, but I, on the other hand, had to force myself to take bites, because I was having more fun watching him wolf down his breakfast.

He kind of ate like he screwed. In the moment, it was the only thing he needed, and while it was happening, it was the only thing he was thinking about.

His hair was devoid of any product and fell casually to the side, while his jeans hung loosely, just above the curve of his ass. I set my fork down, hungry but not for food anymore, as my heart rate picked up, and I devoured him with my eyes.

“Easton,” he growled, making my name sound like a warning. “I mean it. I need to work.”

I snapped my eyes up to see him sipping coffee and staring ahead, a hard expression on his face. He knew what I’d been thinking.

“Can’t keep up with the appetite of a twenty-three-year-old?” I teased.

He looked affronted. “You’re going to pay for that.”

Oh, I hope so.

I was half tempted to put more effort into distracting him. I liked making him angry.

But I decided against it, realizing it would divulge to him how much I was enjoying his company.

I let my eyes trail down his thick, corded forearms, wide chest, and toned stomach, almost wishing Tyler were twenty-two again. Maybe if I’d slept with the cocky asswipe he’d been in his youth, I wouldn’t have grown to like him as much as I had already.

He was still an asshole, but it came off endearing most of the time, and he completely turned me on. He was also patient, as eager to please me in bed as he was to please himself, and confident in what he wanted.

And today that was me.

I cleared my throat and tried to continue eating. “Are you sure you’re not expecting anyone home today?” I asked.

“I just called Christian to check in,” he assured me. “He’s a hundred twenty miles away and already out fishing for the day.”

I winced and returned to my fruit.

“What?”

I looked up at him, not having meant for him to see my reaction.

“Ah, well…” I searched for the words. “I guess it seems boring. For me anyway,” I added.

“I agree.” He nodded, surprising me. “I’m not much of a country boy.”

I grinned to myself, happy to hear that I hadn’t offended him. Or maybe happy to hear we had that in common, as well.

I’d never been interested in hunting or fishing, although I didn’t think I’d be averse to camping and hiking if I ever got the chance to try them.

Reaching over and grabbing the iPad, I laid it on the island between our plates.

“I’d say the wilderness you brave is far more dangerous, anyway,” I commented, gesturing to the Times-Picayune article I’d found about him online.

He rolled his eyes at the headline: Marek and Blackwell Vying for Senate?

“You investigated me?” he accused, eyeing me playfully as he repeated my words to him from last night.

I licked my lips, trying to hide the smile. “I know how to Google,” I retorted.

I brought up the notes I’d made on the iPad, shoving it over to him as I hopped off my stool and began clearing dishes.

“What’s this?” he asked about what I’d written.

“I made some notes on your platform,” I told him, clearing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.

While the food had been in the oven, I’d scanned some articles about him and browsed around his website, taking a look at random press conferences he’d given concerning news in his company or his interest in running for senator.

“Who writes your speeches?” I asked.

“I do.”

My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t turn away in time. He’d seen my face.

“What?” he asked, sounding defensive.

I dried off my hands and faced him, wondering how I would tell a man as insistent and stubborn as Tyler Marek that he kind of stunk at something.