“I think you’ve punished her well enough, Plus, your food is beginning to burn,” he adds, or rather, snorts, so Dylan looks up with a dizzy gaze like he is drunk.
“What?”
I also cast a glance at the cooker, and see that our dinner is indeed at risk. I turn around, place a temptingly wet kiss on Dylan’s mouth and ask him carefully: “Is it normal if the sauce is beginning to turn black?”
This seems to bring Dylan to his senses, and he pulls his hands back from under my sweater.
“f**k it. The truffles!” He steps away from me and turns towards the dish with a worried face. He removes it from the stove and carefully stirs it with the wooden spoon. “This is all your fault,” he says with a frown, feigning anger, but I don’t believe him for a moment. “Now I’m damn sure to go to culinary hell.”
