Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

He’s thrown his wool overcoat onto a kitchen chair and put
on the oven mitts. The tight black short-sleeved T-shirt he’s
wearing shows off his impressive collection of tattoos and
muscles, so much so that I have to look away so he doesn’t
catch me gaping.
I step aside and let him grab the baking sheet with its
smoking, blackened cookies from the demon oven, then watch
in admiration as he calmly closes the oven door, hits the fan
button on the top of the range, and sets the baking sheet onto
the stovetop.
“Trash?”
“Under the sink.”
As the smoke gets sucked into the fan, he opens the
cabinet under the sink, pulls out the trash can, and grabs a
spatula from the crockery pot on the counter. Then he scrapes
all the burnt cookies off the cookie sheet into the garbage.
“You should use aluminum foil to line the pan. It makes
for easier cleanup.”
Maybe he watches The Food Network in between beating
up his boxing bag and flying through snowstorms and going
around being ridiculously sexy.
I say drily, “Thank you, Gordon Ramsay. I’ll be sure to try
that next time.”
He pauses for a moment over the trash, then returns the
empty cookie sheet to the stove, removes the oven mitts, and
tosses them onto the counter, and turns to me.
Approaching me, he says softly, “Interrupting me is one
thing that will get you taken over my knee, beautiful girl. Sass
is another.” He looks at my mouth and moistens his lips.
Can you faint and still be standing up?
Equal parts alarmed and turned on, I back up until my butt
hits the kitchen table. Then I stand there, wide-eyed. He
prowls closer and closer until we’re nose to nose and I’m
staring up into his eyes.
He’s silent. Waiting. Giving off heat like a furnace.