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"I don't feel sorry for you, baby," he mutters, shaking his head. His eyes meet mine again, something soft swirling through the hazel depths. "You're a fucking warrior. I'm proud of you."
"Thank you." I clear my throat and take another sip of wine.
"This tastes amazing, but you didn't have to cook for me, sweetheart. You don't ever have to do a fucking thing for anyone that you don't want to do, got it?" His voice drops low, the heated words little more than a growl.
"Got it," I whisper, a little breathless, "but I wanted to do something to say thank you. You've been taking care of me all week."
"I appreciate it, but believe me, baby," he says, lifting his beer bottle to his lips as he relaxes a little. He winks at me, grinning. "Taking care of you is no hardship on my part."
I roll my eyes at him and shake my head, smiling. He still won't let me do anything for myself, but he is finally giving me orgasms again, so I'm not that mad about it. I'm not going to tell him that, though, since he still isn't fucking me, which I am still annoyed about. Instead, I go back to eating.
He chuckles softly and then does the same. The Hawaiian chicken and grilled veggies aren't fancy, but they are good. He eats every single bite of his and then goes back for more.
"How do you eat as much as you do and still look like that?" I ask, amused as he finishes off another chicken breast and the rest of the asparagus, and then leans back in his chair with a sigh.
"I work out or run seven days a week. I need fuel." He shrugs.
"You haven't worked out since you've been here," I point out.
He grins at me, winking again. "I've done nothing but work out since I've been here. Keeping you satisfied is a full-time job."
"Whatever," I mumble. God, he's cute when he's being playful. I'm not telling him that, though. No way. He's made me come with his mouth and his fingers about a million times in the last couple of days, but I need him inside me. His sexual no-go zone is frustrating as hell.
"Seriously though," he says, laughing at me. "I'm usually up a few hours before you are, baby. I work out, surf, or run while you're still dead to the world."
"You're the one who keeps me up so late," I remind him.
"Are you complaining?" He cocks a brow at me, smirking again.
"Yes." I glare across the table at him. "I think you're intentionally torturing me. I've been fine for two days now, but you still won't fuck me."
He refuses to take the bait. As usual. He simply shakes his head and smiles again when I growl at him. If he doesn't end this ridiculous standoff soon, I'm going to strangle him.
"Are you still set on going to your interview in Berkeley?" he asks.
"I think I have to, don't I? Isn't it frowned upon to accept an interview and then flake?"
"I don't know. I've never been to one."
"You've never been to an interview?"
"Nope." He picks his beer up and takes another drink.
I blink, my mouth falling open. "How is that even possible? Everyone goes on job interviews. It's like the number one rule of being an adult. You go on job interviews. How did you get your job?"
"My dad was a good cop," he says with a shrug. "And he was killed in the line of duty. I guess they decided to skip the formalities when I expressed interest in following in his footsteps. When I finished college, his former Chief called me in and told me to get my ass to the Academy. And I was recruited to the ATF after working with the gang taskforce for a few years."
"How…Why…" I don't even know what to say so I just give up with a shake of my head. I'm not in the least surprised to find out he was recruited, though. If he's as good at his job as he is at pretty much everything, why wouldn't they recruit him?
"I think I should go to the interview," I say after a minute. "It seems wrong to call and tell them I changed my mind."
"Will you come to LA immediately after?" he asks, staring at me over the rim of his bottle.
"Are you sure you still want me to? I'm just saying that things do not seem to be going well with your case right now," I hurry to add when a growl starts rumbling low in his throat.
"Things are going like they always fucking go when people like Guerrero and Francisco are involved," he mutters. He looks pissed off and stressed out again, a scowl on his gorgeous face.
"I have to be in LA on Monday for my interview with the Triton Agency," I say softly, hoping to distract him. "I'll probably drive up on Friday. That way I can start looking for an apartment before the interview and start trying to find my way around."
