“Here? To the Hamptons?” I say, my eyes wide in amusement.
He chuckles slightly. “Yes. I mentioned before, I love it here. I dream of buying a modest home near the water and opening a small restaurant in town. Olivia would live with Uncle Joe and Aunt Becca, while she finishes high school. They have an excellent journalism program there. She’s already researched it.”
His face lights up at his revelation and, even though I’ve known him for only a little over twenty-four hours, I haven’t seen him glow like this since this morning, when he was preparing our Steak and Eggs Benedict.
“What’s stopping you?”
“Good question. How about Guilt? Fear? Uncertainty? ” He shrugs his shoulders. “Lack of self-confidence? You name it.”
“Sometimes we use excuses as a crutch that holds us back.”
“Or sometimes excuses prevents us from making a horrible mistake.”
I push my food around the plate, too engrossed in our conversation to eat.
Jonathan seems to notice. “Not that hungry either, huh?”
“Not really,” I confess.
“Great, then let’s go. I’d love to show you something.
Jonathan pays for our meal and we head back out to explore more of the Hamptons.
“So, I’ve toyed with the thought of selling for about a year now,” he says, as we walk along Main Street. “And I ran it across my aunt and uncle about six months ago.”
“And?”
“And, like you, they told me to follow my heart. Seems like no one will come out and tell me it’s a good or a bad idea.”
“Right. Well, it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks, does it?”
He smiles. “You’re quite sassy, aren’t you?”
“Not at all.” I wink.
He leads the way around a corner and we walk past a few shops and restaurants, finally coming to a halt in front of a small building.
“Here we are: my favorite spot to eat.”
“’Your favorite spot to eat?”
Perplexed, I stare at the building, in wonder, as it appears to be completely…empty—equipped only with a small real estate sign that says: For Lease. Contact Winfield Bank and Trust for More Information.
“Assuming it was mine, it would be my favorite place to eat,” Jonathan clarifies, with that happy gleam in his eyes—a look I’m growing super fond of.
“You want to buy this place?”
“Or lease it—like the sign says.” He points to the ‘for lease’ sign.
“Was it a restaurant at one time?”
“Yes. A bakery. The owners, who had been here for over ten years, packed up and moved their business to California four years ago. They’ve been trying to sell the place, but no one seems to be interested.”
I move closer, leaning into the window, taking a closer peek inside. “Or maybe, it’s just sitting here, waiting for Jonathan Knight to stake his claim.”
“Hmm. I’m starting to like your sassafras, Kennedy Prescott.”
He glances at his watch and a cool breeze blows right through us.
“We should probably head back to Brier Hill. It’s getting late, and we still have to ride back into the city,” he says, taking my hand.
By the time we step foot back in the manor, and into the kitchen, Aunt Becca is cooking up something that smells delectable.
“Hey, you two,” she says, setting the table, “I was wondering when y’all were gonna get back. It’s almost dark. You can’t possibly ride home this late.” She looks concerned.
“We will be fine, Aunt Becca. Especially if we leave right now,” Jonathan says, offering me a glass of water.
“Oh, well I prepared meatloaf and potatoes. I’m sure you’ve walked up an appetite.”
Aunt Becca is right. I’m starving. I never finished my salad during lunch, and the smell of her meatloaf is making my stomach growl angrily.
“Well, I am hungry,” I say, looking at Jonathan, assessing his reaction.
“Okay, Aunt Becca. You win. We’ll stay for dinner and then head back.”
“Head back? Jonathan, you two should really consider staying the night. I’d be worried about y’all on that bike so late,” she relays with high concern.
“I have no change of clothes here,” I interject.
“Oh my dear, no worries. We have a shop here at the manor for tourists. Didn’t Jonathan show you? It’s got all kinds of clothing: pants, dresses, bathing suits, undergarments. You can pick out whatever you need. On the house, of course,” she says, taking the meatloaf out of the oven. “And Jonathan has a bunch of his own clothes upstairs in his room.”
Jonathan shrugs his shoulders, “I’ll do whatever Kennedy feels up to. I invited her along, only to drop off the purse. I’m sure she’s got her heart set on getting back to the city.”
“Actually, I don’t mind. So long as I have something to sleep in and a fresh set of clothes to change into in the morning,” I say, thinking it may be kind of cool to stay the night in the manor. Plus, if I’m lucky, it will give me more time to continue to learn about Jonathan.
“Jonathan can take you to the shop. It’s closed now, but here is the key,” she says, removing a small key from her pocket, handing it over to Jonathan. “I’ll finish setting up for dinner and see you two back here in about twenty minutes?”
“Sounds good, Aunt Becca,” Jonathan answers.
At the shop, I pick out a pair of jeans, some socks, a Brier Hill Manor T-shirt, some panties, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. Jonathan repeatedly insists I can wear a button-down pajama shirt he never wears, so I don’t bother searching for anything to sleep in. After the three of us eat dinner, chatting about Brier Hill, Aunt Becca as a little girl growing up in Virginia, how she met Uncle Joe when she was a flight attendant, and how Jonathan needs a love life, Jonathan takes me upstairs, first stopping at his room to grab the pajama shirt, before he shows me to my room.
“Well, here it is; I hope it’s roomy enough for you,” Jonathan says, showing me into my room. “It’s got a bathroom in here. ” He opens the door to the bathroom. “Oh, and your clothes from the shop.” He hands me the bag of clothes I picked out.
“Thank you, Jonathan. I had a great time today.”
“Me too. And I’m sorry time got away from me. But it’s really your fault,” he says with a smirk.
“My fault? How so?” I ask, my arms defensively folded.
“It seems I lose all track of time when I’m with you.”
He’s flirting.
Damn him.
And why does he have to look so hot?
Why couldn’t he be the greasy-haired, toothless, brute I imagined him to be?
“Anyway, it’s getting late. I’ll leave you to get settled. If you need anything, I’m across the hall.”
Jonathan steps out and closes the door.
And I jump into the shower to cool off.
Chapter 19
I decide to text Sebastian after I’ve showered, dressed, and made myself comfy in the queen-sized poster bed. Letting Sebastian in on my whereabouts is probably a good idea, before he freaks out and calls the National Guard to search for me.
Me: Hi!
Sebastian: Hello, stranger. Working late?
Me: Um, well, I’m actually in The Hamptons. At Brier Hill Manor—Jonathan’s Aunt and Uncle run the place.
Sebastian: Say what? I’m confused.
Me: Long story, but I accompanied Jonathan (on his Harley, by the way) here to drop off Olivia’s purse. We got to touring the town and then became engaged in deep conversation. Before we knew it, it was late. His aunt suggested we stay the night and ride back to the city tomorrow.
Sebastian: I knew it. You’re totally going to pull your panties off for him tonight!
Me: Wrong.
Sebastian: I’m never really wrong.
Me: Look, it’s totally innocent. I’m in my room. He’s in his. Plus, this is all business, no pleasure.
Sebastian: Y
eah, right. I bet you 36 bucks you’ll end up in bed with Mr. Casanova tonight.
Me: Why 36 bucks?
Sebastian: Woman, it’s been 36 hours since you first met him, and tonight your panties will come off.
Me: Have a good night, Sebastian.
Sebastian: You too, cupcake.
Fifteen minutes later, I develop a mad craving for the sugar cookies Aunt Becca provided earlier. After pacing the cold, hard wood floor for less than a minute, I convince myself to head downstairs, in search of some.
After a quick peek in the floor-length mirror, I decide the pajama shirt Jonathan let me borrow is adequate attire as its length covers my bare thighs down to my knees.
Opening the door quietly, I look to the left, then to the right.
The coast is clear.
Not a single person—namely Jonathan—in sight.
Once downstairs, I find my way to the kitchen, enter through the swinging double doors, and turn on the light.
And…after about five minutes of rummaging, the cookies are nowhere in sight.
Damn.
And they were so darn scrumtious too.
Feeling defeated, I make my way back toward the stairs and up.
As I face my bedroom door, trying hard to open it unnoticed, Jonathan opens the door to his room, which incidentally, is across from mine.
I freeze, unable to either open my door and run in, or turn around and face Jonathan.
“Ms. Prescott? Are you alright?”
I nod yes, unable to speak.
I don’t even want to look at Jonathan because—well because I don’t want to pay Sebastian thirty-six bucks.
“Was that you I heard a few minutes ago? Were you looking for something?” he says, sounding as though he’s chewing on something.
“Cookies. I was searching for cookies,” I say, my back still facing him.
“These cookies?” he says, and I immediately turn around to find Jonathan holding a plate full of cookies.
“Yes! Those cookies. May I have some?”
“Sure, you can.” He walks toward me, then pauses, holding back the plate, as if it’s some sort of bargaining chip. “You wanna join me for a bit? My room is pretty large. Plus I have Netflix. We can stream a movie.”
My contemplative eyes switch between the plate of cookies and the innocent look on Jonathan’s face, and I make up my mind.
I want cookies.
And a movie.
Jonathan’s room is impressively larger with a huge 50-inch TV, a king-sized bed, a cozy electric fireplace, and a sofa / love seat combo.
“Where would you like to sit? The bed or the sofa?” he asks, seeming to want me to feel comfortable and at ease.
I survey the room and notice the TV is on a wall parallel to the bed. Even if I felt more comfortable on the coach, I can’t see the TV screen unless I’m on the bed.
“Well, I can only see the TV from the bed.”
“Okay. Well, can I trust you on a bed next to me?” he jokingly asks.
“Absolutely not,” I retort, confiscating the plate of cookies as I trolley on over to the bed.
After perusing through two dozen movies, we both settle on Chef, viewing it on his bed, with two pillows between us, clearly identifying his side and my side.
A few hours later, I open my eyes, quickly realizing I’d fallen asleep in the middle of the movie. I look over and see Jonathan lying on his back, looking so peaceful, fast asleep. I could probably watch him for hours, with the soft glow from the TV’s blueish screen acting as the only light source, illuminating the room like a moonlit sky.
I really should get up and go back into my own room.
But I feel safe here.
Like I belong here.
Careful not to disturb him, I reach over Jonathan, to retrieve the remote control to try to turn off the TV.
And of course in doing so, his eyes open, just as my arm moves over his chest. Fail.
We stare at each other for a moment and then, without much of a warning, Jonathan lifts his head up toward mine and kisses me, his hands holding the back of my head softly but steady.
I feel hot and cold at the same time, and all I can think of is how much I don’t want him to stop. He turns me onto my back, moving his body in-between my bare thighs, and our kissing gets deeper and more stimulating as his tongue purposefully traces my upper lip.
As his lips move down my neck, sensually kissing their way down my chest, my stomach, and to my navel, he slowly unbuttons my shirt. Chills race up and down my spine, and I can feel my breaths quicken as his mouth discovers my panties. His hands grip my breasts and he traces my nipples until they are as hard as I imagine his erection to be. His hands move from my breasts to my thighs and then covertly to my panties as I feel them being slowly pulled off.
At first, I think I need to tell him to wait, this all may be moving at the speed of light. Never in my life have I skipped from first base to…home base. But through his kisses, I’ve suddenly lost the ability to think straight, like someone else has taken over.
His mouth, warm and smooth, moves from my waistline to my inner thigh. He pauses, looking up at me as if waiting for me to grant him permission. I run my fingers through his hair and smile, revealing my consent. His lips continue the charitable offer of more sensational pleasure as they find my happy place, and I moan, getting lost in absolute delight. My hands move from his hair to grip the sheet beneath me, as if doing so will help me hold my body steady—but I give in as his lips, fingers, and tongue work together on a mission—a powerful threesome up against my soft—
“Oh my fucking gosh,” I shout, losing myself. My body shakes and quivers as the orgasm seemingly takes over, robbing me of my sexually timid inhibition.
My first orgasm. Ever.
And it was fucking hot.
I lay underneath him, legs trembling as Jonathan’s lips move unhurriedly from south to north, eventually finding my breasts, my neck, and then my open mouth.
I can feel his erection trying to escape from the opening of his pants, and he moves his mouth over to my earlobe and softly whispers, “Was that your first orgasm, Ms. Prescott?”
Was I that fucking obvious?
“Yes,” I admit, feeling no shame whatsoever. I clearly doubt I’m the only woman in New York who has never had an orgasm. Right?
“Another first? I’m beyond honored, Kennedy.” He kisses my neck and my mouth before saying, “I suggest you brace yourself. There is a hell of a lot more where that came from.”
Chapter 20
Some prudishly suggest a woman shouldn’t hook up with a man before the two reach their third date.
And now, to that bullshit, I say why not get sex out of the way even before the first date? This way you’ll know, in a flash, whether or not he’s worth dating.
After all, there is nothing worse than investing time and sometimes money choosing all of the right outfits, enduring the senseless small talk, trenching your way through dates one, two, and three, only to discover on date four, the guy you imagined would knock your socks off in bed, is a total fucking dud.
And I haven’t at all come to this grandiose epiphany because I had sex with Jonathan last night—before we’ve even had anything close to a third, let alone, a first date.
But, for the record, Jonathan Knight is totally worth dating. Probably worth marrying too. He unmistakably knocked my socks off, clear to California.
Sunlight hasn’t quite made its entrance through the window shades, but I know it’s dawn because I can hear birds chirping in the distance. Jonathan’s steady breathing and rhythmic heartbeat keep me in a lull-like trance as I lie wrapped in his arms—while he sleeps soundly. We made love several times last night…and early this morning.
Wait, did I say made love?
Typical woman, mixing feelings with sex. Which is precisely why some suggest not to hook up with a man before the third date.
I mentally give my conscience the finger—didn’t I give that trol
l the next century off?
Although, she’s sort of right. How can I not mix feelings with sex? He gave me my first orgasm…and plenty more after that. That alone is worth developing feelings for, right? I admit, Jonathan is only the third man I’ve ever had sex with. And compared to those before him, no other man has been selfless enough to please me first. Not even Garrett, with whom I thought I was so madly in love.
The odd thing I can’t quite wrap my dizzy head around is why Jonathan has seemed to have made me groggy since I laid eyes on him. His looks? Abso-fucking-lutely. But it’s far more than that. He’s been the electric jolt needed to jumpstart my heart again.
Thoughts of our conversation about his goals, hopes, and dreams, roll vigorously through my mind, and I ponder ways I can help Jonathan.
Perhaps he should sell. Turn the page on the city—move onto a new chapter for him and Olivia.
But where would that leave me? Will he turn the page on me, as well?
It’ll serve me right, especially since he hates the real me.
Regardless, I agreed to help him improve his image and reputation…even if that means helping him conclude what’s best for him, his sister, and Knight and Daze.
I create a mental checklist of the pros and cons of Jonathan setting up shop here in The Hamptons, and so far, the pros list seems a lot longer. The property he showed me that’s for lease seems a reasonable size for a small restaurant and, albeit business operations here undoubtedly have seasonal fluctuations, it may be easier to manage.
Jonathan shifts a bit, and I place my leg in between his, admiring the bulge I see underneath the thin sheet covering us both.
God, he’s sensually fierce.
The kind of guy women read about in those racy romance novels.
He strokes my hair and I lift my head off his chest to face him.
“You’re awake?” I ask.
He smiles, rolling over on top of me, now nestled in-between my legs that are perfectly straddled around him. “I had this steamy dream I made love to a beautiful woman all night long. Oh wait. I did make love to a beautiful woman all night long.”
We kiss and the only thing I can concentrate on, before he eases himself inside of me is, he said he made love to me…
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 11
