Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 262- devour you

She didn’t know how much time had passed, but eventually, she heard his breathing gradually calm. Then his hoarse voice spoke up.

"Do you want something to eat? I’ll make it for you."

After a long day, including coming home from work and everything that happened between them, neither of them had had dinner yet. His suggestion made her realize she was hungry too. But wait—he wanted to cook for her?

She remembered how much he hated the smell of cooking oil in the kitchen. Despite being a great cook, he never stepped into the kitchen. She really didn’t understand how he managed to hone such culinary skills without ever going near it.

There was one time when she had a small cold—not a serious illness, but enough for her to be irritable. She had been upset with him for moving in with her, so she had been trying to get him to leave by any means. She would try different ways to annoy him, hoping he would decide to go on his own.

On that occasion, she decided to take it up a notch and threw a tantrum, even pretending to go on a hunger strike. She rejected every dish the servants brought her, no matter how fancy or delicious, and even threw the bowls and plates on the floor in anger.

He stood at the bedroom door, arms crossed, watching her calmly. After a while, he turned and walked away. She, feeling smug, silently laughed to herself, believing that this would be the final straw to make him leave.

A while later, a servant came up to inform her that he was inviting her to dinner. She huffed in annoyance but kept up her act, storming downstairs with her usual sharp demeanor. But when she saw the table full of beautifully prepared dishes, all her resolve melted away. She forgot her plan entirely and ended up eating so much she almost couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t say a word, his expression as calm as ever, seemingly not noticing how hungrily she devoured the food. Once he finished, he went upstairs first. It was only then that a servant whispered to her that, despite his usual reluctance to enter the kitchen, he had personally cooked the meal for her.

As she sat there, the food felt like a fishbone stuck in her throat—she couldn’t swallow it, but she also couldn’t spit it out. She wasn’t sure how to feel, but there was a tinge of guilt mixed with a subtle sweetness.

Of course, after she’d eaten her fill and was nearly done recovering from her "illness" (which, truthfully, hadn’t been a real illness at all, just a mental state), he had his way with her that night. He hadn’t touched her while she was "sick," so that night, the intensity of what happened could be easily imagined.

She felt like she was going to die beneath him, her body trembling with exhaustion after repeated waves of pleasure. Her legs were sore, shaking uncontrollably, and she cried out, begging him to stop. But he wouldn’t relent. Instead, he laughed softly, kissing her earlobe, and whispered in her ear,

"I think I should tell you: it’s useless to keep throwing tantrums. Every time you act out, I’ll punish you like this."

After that, she became much quieter. She still had the occasional outburst, but it wasn’t like the early days when she’d throw a fit every few days. Gradually, she began to accept the reality of having him around.

But his cooking? That remained a one-time thing. No matter how much she begged him to cook again, he remained unmoved. Eventually, she gave up in disappointment.

So, when he said he was going to cook for her, she found it hard to believe. She turned her head, staring at him in surprise and with a seriousness that showed she was trying to figure out if he had lost his mind.

Her eyes were clear and bright, their gaze shifting like ripples in water, filled with surprise and a faint smile. Her cheeks were flushed, the warmth still lingering from his earlier kiss. James let out a groan, tossing her a lazy remark.

"If you keep looking at me like that, be careful I might really devour you!"

She quickly looked away, slightly embarrassed, and muttered irritably, "You wouldn’t dare!"

In an instant, he flipped over and moved closer, a wicked smile curling on his lips. His eyes seemed to hold a dark promise, as if he were about to devour her whole.

"I have plenty of ways to eat you, do you believe me?"

Bonnie instantly recalled all the embarrassing, heart-racing moments they had shared before. Panicking, she tried to escape toward the edge of the bed, only to almost fall off. Fortunately, his long arm shot out and caught her just in time.

Before he could get angry at her recklessness, she hurriedly said, "I want noodles!"

James’s face, which had been full of anger just a moment ago, suddenly shifted, a dark line appearing across his expression. He, a trained chef with a high-level culinary certificate, wasn’t the kind of person who could be casually asked to make noodles. Was she seriously asking for noodles? Was she really insulting his skills like this?

Moreover, he clearly remembered how she used to hate noodles. She would always complain that they had no taste and were like chewing on wax. So, with great reluctance, he pinched her delicate chin and forced her to look at him, asking once again,

"Are you sure?"

Was she deliberately tormenting him? Based on what he knew about her, she might just be doing this to make him suffer. Once he made the noodles, she’d probably find some excuse to criticize him and force him to make something else. He had been through many such torturous situations before, and though he always found a way to deal with it, her motives were clearly not pure.

"I really want noodles..." she said, sounding innocent.

Bonnie seemed almost apologetic. It was like the old "boy who cried wolf" story — it seemed like she was tormenting him, but in reality, this time she wasn’t. She really did crave noodles. She had mentioned before that her appetite had changed ever since she got pregnant, and lately, she had become obsessed with noodles. Carl had made them for her a few times already.

Seeing her genuinely innocent expression, James finally let go of her chin, stood up, and was about to go to the kitchen. But just as he stood and hadn’t yet turned around, he heard her laugh softly.

Following her gaze, he saw the childish cartoon print on his chest, and his brows shot up in irritation. He already disliked wearing clothes from other men, especially when they were as juvenile as this. It was totally not his style!

His style was "mature man," get it? Mature! Composed! Wise! Steady! The hallmark of a mature man was, of course, suits, shirts, and ties!

Bonnie lay there, watching him with a mix of amusement and mock annoyance. She laughed so hard that tears started to form in her eyes. Honestly, it was the first time she had ever seen him dressed like this.

Normally, he was always in a suit and tie. Even when casual, his clothes were refined and elegant. But this innocent, youthful look was something entirely new — and especially with the pure white color.

Though she had to admit, this look made him appear at least five or six years younger. She was certain that if he wore this outfit outside, no one would guess he was a man in his mid-thirties.