Watching Damien Kingsley cook is a thing to behold. I sit giggling into my icy G&T as he gets every pot and pan going.
“Are you sure you don’t need my help?”
“Nope,” he says, “I’m all good.”
He brings the beer bottle to his lips and I watch as his neck contracts and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
Holy crap, that’s sexy.
Everything he does—bends, strides, reaches, stirs—is sexy. His muscles ripple or his shirt lifts up an inch or two. I’m a hot ball of turned on is what I am and I hold my glass to my forehead.
“You getting sick, Vivi?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.
“What?” I cough, my glass clinking as it hits the counter with a bit too much force. He wipes my little spill up with a towel he’s holding.
“Sorry, no. I was just hot for a minute there.” It’s partly true.
