by Shandi Boyes
My head lifts from the extensive food service menu when Hunter walks into the living room of our shared suite twenty minutes after we've returned. A grin curls on my lips when I notice he's back in his usual attire: jeans and a blue and black plaid shirt. His hair is wet and flopped to the side, and he smells freshly showered.
"Going to work?" I ask, vying to ignore the drumming beat of my heart from his invitingly wet appearance.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. Knowing my boss, he’ll be a while.”
I freeze. “Twice in one night? Lucky girl,” I mumble under my breath.
“You hungry?” Hunter jerks his head to the menu in my hand.
I nod. “You?”
He smiles while housing his black firearm in the drawer of the entranceway table. “Yep. But not for anything they are selling.”
He snatches the menu out of my hand and throws it onto the coffee table. “No pickles, right?”
I smile and nod.
"Alright. Let's get you fed.” His fingers fumble over the screen of his phone.
Not even ten seconds later, he returns his phone back to the pocket of his jeans. “Done.”
My brows meet my hairline. “Did you order us dinner or get directions to the closest deli?”
He runs his hand along the edge of his jaw, infusing the air with his scent I still haven't distinguished. "I not only ordered dinner, but I also arranged to have a case of Richart chocolates delivered for dessert and sold half a million in stocks."
My eyes bulge, but I maintain a silent front, incapable of articulating a response.
“I’m joking,” he jests, hurdling over the couch and slipping into the spare seat next to me. “I didn’t order the chocolates.”
I stare at him, more confused than ever. I really need to work on unlocking the many facial expressions of Hunter, as I can’t tell if he's joking or not. The groove in the middle of my forehead smooths when Hunter playfully tugs on a wayward curl of my wet hair. I’ve also showered and changed, wearing my standard attire; a pair of stretchy black pants and a loose T-shirt.
“Have you ever shopped online?” he questions, lifting his gaze from my beaming lips to my eyes.
I stare at him, in a sadistic jeering type of way.
He grins. “How many websites do you normally visit before you finalize your purchases?”
My lips quirk. “Depends. Sometimes one, but if it's an expensive purchase, I normally shop around to make sure I’m getting a good deal.”
“Well if you download my app, you'll never have to search for the best deal again,” Hunter states matter-of-factly.
“You develop apps as well?” I ask, astonishment in my tone.
He grins as he digs his cell back out of his pocket and opens an app. "Name one thing you really want right now, and I'll have it delivered within twenty minutes and at the lowest price guaranteed."
My eyes rocket to his. “No way. Are you serious?” Lucidity smacks into me. “Is that how you got my dress here so quick?”
Hunter waggles his brows as a chortling grin etches behind his shaggy beard. “Although don’t tell Melinda; she won’t be impressed with the loss of commission.”
“Serves her right,” I mumble under my breath.
He chuckles at my snide comment. I tap my index finger on my lip, trying to think of something I could order that will stump Hunter and the egotistical glint brightening his handsome face.
“A signed copy of The Weekend Romance by Rachel Maloney." My voice is weak, struggling to conceal the rush of emotions pummeling into me.
His grin enlarges as his fingers fly across the screen of his phone, unaware I’ve just assigned him an impossible task.
Not wanting to be the cause of his disappointment when he fails to procure my eccentric demand, I say, “Hold on, scrap that. Umm…”
My eyes scan the room trying to think of something unusual for an online order. My pulse quickens when I think of the perfect item.
“Schweddy Balls,” I squeak out, my voice high. “Vanilla ice-cream—”
“Loaded with fudge-covered rum and malt balls,” Hunter interrupts, his tone as playful as the cheeky grin on his sinful-looking lips.
The smile on my face turns cataclysmic. “It went to Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream graveyard back in 2011, so I don’t like your chances of getting it here in twenty minutes.”
“Done,” he states, his tone condescending.
I balk. “Bullshit,” I retort, shocking myself with my foul language.
Hunter winks before swiveling his phone screen around to face me. My pupils enlarge when I see he has purchased a one-pint limited edition batch of Schweddy Balls for two hundred and thirty-eight dollars.
"Two hundred and thirty-eight dollars is not the best deal,” I mock.
“It's for an ice cream flavor that’s been defunct since 2011,” he disputes.
I giggle. “It’s probably out of date.”
My small giggle turns into a full-hearted laugh when Hunter says, “I don’t care if it’s covered in mold. For two hundred dollars, you’re going to eat every spoonful.”
In sync, our necks crank to the door when a doorbell rings through the suite.
Hunter’s eyes drop to the phone in his hand. “Wow, that’s a new record,” he utters.
Snagging his wallet off the coffee table, he heads for the door. My brow cocks when he walks back into the living room with a plastic bag in one hand and a bottle of Dr. Pepper sarsaparilla in the other. The grumbling of my stomach intensifies when the smell of creamy pasta and freshly baked bread ignites my senses.
Remaining quiet, Hunter moves his computer equipment, which is still scanning faces, off the coffee table, placing it onto the six seater table in the dining area. Once the coffee table has been cleared, he nudges his head, requesting for me to join him on the floor for supper. This is nothing out of the ordinary for us. All the meals we’ve shared the past few weeks have been on the floor in the living room of my rented cabin.
Smiling, I slide off the leather couch and sit on the ground next to him, propping my legs under my bottom. With a cheeky expression on his face, Hunter pulls out two Styrofoam containers from the plastic bag.
"Just remember, you can't judge a book by its cover. It looks disgusting, but it tastes so fucking good.” He slides a container with a Gray's Papaya logo on the top to me.
He watches me curiously as I lift the lid. “What is it?” I slightly gag.
It looks like someone’s stomach overloaded on mac and cheese and dispelled the excess pasta onto a hotdog.
“Trust me. It’s the bomb.”
I giggle over his eccentric pronunciation of the word “bomb.”
“A carbohydrate bomb.”
Hunter doesn't grace me with a reply; he just lifts the sticky mess from the container and inches it toward my lips. My mouth hesitantly gapes open, not eager to taste something that looks like it belongs in the bottom of a spew bucket.
“Come on, Paige. I know your mouth opens bigger than that,” he jests.
My mouth dangles open larger, more from the cheekiness of Hunter’s statement than his request. I pinch the bridge of my nose before taking a large bite of the unappealing feast. My mom always taught me that plugging your nose dulls your taste buds. I used to think she was fibbing just to force me to eat my vegetables at dinner, but after testing her theory on a Brussel sprout, I realized it had some legitimacy. Although I could still taste their horrid flavor, they weren’t as potent as normal.
He shakes his head at my eccentric behavior but remains quiet, waiting for me to express an opinion on his meal of choice. When the messy concoction hits my taste buds, my first response is hesitance, closely followed by shock.
Hunter cocks his brow when a deep moan rumbles from my stuffed mouth. “Good?” he asks.
I don’t issue a reply, too eager to devour another bite than spark a conversation. Removing the bun from his grip, I take another mouth-filling bite of the unique-flavored meal. I moan
even louder. My taste buds love it just as much the second time around.
“Told you.” Hunter flops onto his backside. “That shit is the bomb!”
For the next twenty minutes, we sit on the floor eating ourselves into a carbohydrate coma while sharing the Dr. Pepper sarsaparilla he ordered – minus any glasses. A smile tugs on my lips every time Hunter takes a swig before handing the bottle to me, not the slightest bit concerned our lips are sealing over the same rim.
Noticing only a mouthful of soda left in the bottom of the bottle, he kindly offers the bottle to me.
I screw up my nose and shake my head. “Google says the last 5% of a bottle is pretty much just backwash, so I’m good.”
He laughs. “So you’re saying your spit is in this bottle?”
“Not just mine, yours as well,” I reply, holding back a gag.
“Our spit combined? Sweet.”
Heat slides through my veins, warming my pussy when he lifts the bottle to his mouth and downs the remainder of the soda with a deep moan. His Adam's apple bobs up and down in an erotic way, quickening my pulse. When a bead of pop shimmers on his top lip, an overwhelming desire to crawl into his lap and lick it off his plump lips smashes into me. For every second that passes, my restraint falters more and more. I can imagine how delicious Hunter's mouth will taste. Creamy goodness from the pasta, sickly sweet from the soda, and a taste that belongs solely to him because he's unique in every possible way: his smell, his look, and his personality.
A groan rumbles from my lips when Hunter runs his hand over his mouth, gathering the small droplet of soda my tongue was begging to lap up. With my fantasy crashing to oblivion, I lock my eyes with his.
His curious eyes bounce between mine. “You alright?” The smoothness of his voice adds to the dampness of my panties.
“Uh huh.” I swallow to relieve the dryness in my throat.
While he gathers our rubbish, I battle to calm the crazy pulse surging through my body. Earlier today, I rationalized to Pepper that my attraction to Hunter may be based on being isolated at Bronte's Peak. Tonight, I realized it isn't. Not the slightest. My eyes absorbed hundreds of well-dressed, handsome men at the gala this evening, but my interests never wavered from the smooth chocolate voice in my ear. He's different from every other guy I've met. Not just his appearance, but his personality as well, and I really like that about him.
Just as Hunter dumps our trash into a bin in the entranceway, a ringing cell phone shrills from his jean pocket. My breathing levels when I realize it's the ringtone on his ancient “work” phone. Delving his hand into his pocket, he pulls out his cell. His eyes lift and lock with mine as he flips the screen and presses it to his ear.
“Hey, Hugo,” he greets, his tone jovial.
I release the breath I'm holding in, grateful he seems carefree. I've noticed the past few weeks that Hunter's moods swing toward the negative after he takes a call on that phone. My relieved breath is quickly redrawn when a fretful mask slips over his face, and he scrapes his hand along the edge of his jaw.
“Alright, I’ll go and check on him,” he mutters, his tone concerned.
He disconnects the call without issuing a farewell to his caller. I remain quiet, watching his throat work hard to swallow.
After a short period of contemplation, Hunter says, “Are you alright if I leave you here for a few?”
I nod. “Yeah, sure. Is everything okay?” I ask, my tone reserved. I don’t want to force him to open up to me, but I’m worried about the unease clouding his eyes.
"I'm not sure," he replies. "Hugo asked me to go and check on Isaac. Something is going on between him and Izzy."
My eyes dance between his. “Did you want me to come with you?” I offer.
The darkness of the cloud in his eyes lightens from my offer. “Thanks for the offer, but Isaac’s a pretty guarded man, so he wouldn’t appreciate an audience. I’m also not too sure what I’ll be walking in on.”
He gathers his pistol from the entranceway drawer and houses it in the back of his jeans. I pace closer to him while nodding. Most men I’ve met are guarded.
Hunter takes a step closer to me. He's standing so close, the scent of garlic from the creamy sauce on our hotdogs filters through my nose. “Are you sure you’re alright staying here by yourself?”
“Yep. I’m going to write,” I reply with excitement in my voice.
All day I’ve had a truckload of storylines bouncing around in my head, dying to be let free. But not wanting to be rude, I left my laptop stored in my suitcase instead of on my lap where it really wanted to be.
He smirks at my excitement. “Alright, I’ll see you in a few.”
My pulse quickens when the lips I'd been fantasizing about earlier incline closer to me. Unable to harbor the desire to find out if his lips have their own unique taste, I adjust the tilt of my head, forcing his lips to land smack bang on mine. A hiss of air escapes his mouth, fluttering my lips with the flavor of the meal we just shared and a tangy citrus scent.
Elation swamps me. Even though Hunter doesn't increase the intensity of our kiss, he doesn't pull away either. We stand still, completely motionless in the middle of the foyer with our lips joined and our hands fisted by our sides. I don't know how much time passes. I'm too busy fighting the urge to run my tongue along the seam of his mouth to keep time. Although our kiss is as basic as an innocent schoolyard peck, it's still heart-stopping. It's our very first kiss.
Only after enough time passes that our lips have nearly become one does Hunter pull back. His massively dilated eyes bounce between mine, reflecting a range of emotions. Shock and apprehension are there, but the one making me giddy is the yearning. I just hope it isn't there because of his lack of female contact the past few weeks.
I know from experience he's a sexually motivated creature, but ever since our friendship formed, his female visitors have become extinct. I'm not sure if all contact has ceased to exist, but he certainly doesn't bring them back to his glass house anymore.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Hunter’s voice is deeper than usual.
When I nod, he leans in and places another kiss on the edge of my mouth. My laughter vibrates on his lips when he mutters, “Not going to pull another fast one on me?”
I draw back and peer into his eyes. “It’s no big deal. Friends kiss friends on the lips all the time. It’s only once tongue gets involved does it cause issues.”
I'm so full of shit. If the hot trickle of desire dampening between my legs isn’t enough of a clue to my deceit, the galloping of my heart is a surefire indication.
A bolt of lightning shoots through my pussy, aiding my eagerness when Hunter responds, “So I could have been tasting your lips the entire time I’ve been friends with you?”
The smug grin on his face enlarges when I nod. “If you wanted to?”
My heart beats wildly when he says, “Fuck Isaac. I think a night in is on the cards.”
I laugh, even with my insides twisting in excitement. “Go and do what you need to do.” I nudge him toward the door. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
I'm not going to lie; I love that he seems hesitant to leave.
Once he slips behind the door, I bolt back into the living room, eager to FaceTime with Pepper.
I’ve only just finished relaying every event that has happened the past twelve hours to Pepper when a doorbell buzzes into the room.
Pepper inhales a quick breath. “Do you think it's Hunter?”
“Why would he ring the doorbell?” I ask through scrunched brows.
Pepper shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”
“Do I look okay?” I check my hair and face in the small video of me in the top corner of my phone.
"You look gorgeous! Go get him," Pepper replies.
After air kissing Pepper farewell, I place my phone on the coffee table, leap off the thick woolen rug, and head for the door. The pulse between my legs thrums more the closer I get to the entranceway. My excitem
ent is short-lived when I swing open the door to find a bike messenger in a super tight pair of bike pants and a reflective vest standing in the hallway. His outfit is so tight I can see every detail of his body. Every. Single. Detail.
“Hi,” I greet him, unsureness in my voice.
After the bike messenger finishes absorbing my flushed expression, wide eyes, and panting chest, his gaze shifts down to a clipboard in his hand.
“Paige?” he asks.
“That’s me,” I reply, smiling.
Storing his clipboard under his arm, his hand digs into the backpack resting at his side. “I’m sorry it took us longer than quoted, but your order was a hard one to fill.”
A small giggle spills from my lips when he hands me a one pint serving of Schweddy Balls ice cream with a silver catering spoon dangling on the top. I giggle loudly when I read the gift tag attached to the spoon.
Eat this.
Hunter.
“A man of many words,” I mumble to myself.
I return my eyes to the bike messenger. “Thank you,” I praise with delight heard in my high tone.
My interests pique when the bike messenger holds his index finger in the air, requesting a minute before he goes digging through his bag again. My nose gets a twinge when he pulls out an item covered in brown paper and twine. I can tell from the shape alone that it's some type of book.
A rush of moisture forms in my eyes as my heartrate climbs astronomically. Juggling the ice cream and spoon in one hand, I attempt to open the package with my other.
“Thank you,” I mumble to the bike courier when he removes the ice cream from my unstable grip.
Through shaking hands, I untangle the twine and tear a large section of brown paper away from the middle of the parcel. Tears prick painfully in my eyes when a familiar oceanside cover of a first edition copy of The Weekend Romance comes into my vision.
