“Think of blackberries,” I murmur, and Kitty giggles. I capture her mouth with mine, and her giggles turn to a slight gasp and moan, and I swear she melts into my arms. She tastes sweet, and I can’t get enough. We shift on the bed until she’s beneath me, her jeans-clad legs around mine. Less clothes would be ideal, but right now, we’re so perfect together that I don’t want to interrupt this. I deepen the kiss, feel her fingers in my hair pulling me closer. I could lose myself in her, in her kiss.
When we finally part, we’re both a bit breathless.
“Why is it like this?” Kitty asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But it’s amazing.”
“It is.” And then she kisses me again, and we’re tugging at clothes, taking advantage of our privacy, of the closed door. Once her shirt is off, I break the kiss and bend to her breasts, pushing down her bra so I can tongue her nipples. I take my time, first one and then the other, then again, loving as she arches against me, her nipples pebbling. She’s unbuttoning my shirt as best she can, tugging it away, but I don’t stop. I trace a line down her stomach, to the waistband of her jeans, undoing the button, pulling down the zipper, tugging them down. She squirms and tries to help and I manage to take them off, tossing them to the floor. And she’s there before me, utterly ravishing. Her lips are swollen, parted, and she’s looking hungrily at me. I hook my fingers in her panties and tug them down her legs. Once free, she parts her legs for me and I make my way back up, taking tiny tastes and nips of her skin as I go. I pause above her dark curls, dropping a kiss there, watching her.
“Don’t stop,” Kitty says hoarsely, reaching out to me, her fingers brushing my cheeks, then sliding into my hair. I rest my hands on her thighs, my thumbs resting on the hollows of her inner thighs, lightly stroking. The skin is damp, and I part her lips there, bending to taste her.
She’s better than blackberries, better than any of the fruit in the greenhouse. I lick and tease her and she gasps and quivers and I can’t get enough.
Just as she seems to be coming toward orgasm, I leave her sex and move upward once more. She accepts my kiss with hunger, and before I know it, she’s moved, putting me beneath her, pushing my shirt off my shoulders, unhooking my bra. She pulls it off, throws it away, takes my breasts in her hands, bringing them together and up, her thumbs moving over my nipples, bringing them to peaks. She tastes one, then the other, echoing my earlier movements, until her teeth graze them and she sucks hard. I try to keep from making too much noise, but I know that I did groan before I could stop myself. She nibbles at me, and though I’ve never come from it before, I just might now. She’s nudging my thighs apart with her knee, and it doesn’t take long before she’s pulling my jeans down and off, my plain black briefs with them.
She cups my sex with her hand, her fingers resting against me. “Tell me what you’d like,” she says, bending forward to drop a kiss on each nipple. I put my hand over hers, pressing her fingers past my curls, into me. She moves her thumb over my clit and her fingers inside me press into my most sensitive spot. I see stars behind my closed eyes, and I’m coming before I can stop myself. It’s so quick, so easy, so unexpected. The orgasm washes over me, leaving tingles and a hum throughout my entire body.
When I finally open my eyes, Kitty is hovering above me, stroking my sex still, gently, triggering little sparks.
“You haven’t come yet.”
“No,” Kitty says, “but I’m close from just seeing you come.”
“Are you?” I slide my hand down her hip, in between her legs. She’s drenched, and my fingers slide into her easily. I can feel her tightening around my fingers, and I stroke her as her hips rock against my hand. Her head drops to my shoulder, her breath heating my neck. She’s making little gasping noises, and it’s making me wet for her again, and I want more.
“Don’t stop,” she says, reaching down to rub her clit as I stroke her. “More.”
She’s tightening, clenching, quivering around me and she lets out a breathy Oh as she comes, stiffening against me briefly before she sags, boneless. We’re sweaty and breathless, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
* * *
I don’t want to move, but I don’t want to crush Lucy. I reluctantly shift off her, but she holds me close, and I settle in next to her, our legs entwined.
“That was incredible,” Lucy says. I nod against her shoulder. A glow catches my eye and I lift my head to see her alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s getting late. I don’t want to go, but I don’t think I should stay overnight. What would her mother think?
I shift, starting to get up.
“Don’t go,” Lucy says, catching my hand. “It’s late. Stay.”
“I don’t want it to be awkward.”
“It won’t be. Trust me.”
I settle back down with Lucy, though I can’t imagine how it won’t be awkward in the morning. “Your mom won’t be mad?”
Lucy shakes her head. “Not at all. Not that I do this often,” she adds. “Or at all. But she likes you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to see me with someone.”
Being with her is a new idea, but it’s one that I like. I can picture us together, spending time together. Cooking. Eating. Curled up in bed together like we are now. I want to take her to my place too, to cook her a fancy meal, have a romantic night.
I tell her my plan, and Lucy kisses me. “You cook all the time?”
“I…well, I used to,” I reply, realizing as I speak that I haven’t truly cooked in a very long time. I keep meaning to, but coming home so late from work, I have no energy for it. Cooking tonight, with her mom, was the first time in so, so long. I want more of that, want to be creating.
“You should do it more often.”
“I should.”
“Have you ever considered working at a restaurant?” she asks. “A really nice one?”
I shake my head. Never. It wasn’t even an idea when I was growing up. A good job, a steady one, after a full university education. The expectation had never wavered. Cooking was an indulgence, if anything. Working in the restaurant was a stopgap job, shift work to fit around my classes.
“I’ve always wanted a restaurant,” she says, “even though my dad’s family struggled to move on from the restaurant in town to do something easier.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t know much about restaurants, and there’s the farm to look after. We have help, but it’s still hard work. A restaurant is full-time work and then some.”
I lie back against the soft mass of pillows, looking up to the slanted ceiling and its delicately patterned wallpaper. I can imagine Lucy bringing in a case of vegetables, imagine myself prepping and cooking, and even imagine her mom joining us. Restaurants are a lot of work. One of my first corporate clients was a restaurant owner who had franchised his operation. Supply orders, staffing, liquor, licenses…it was overwhelming.
“It really is. There are so many things to worry about, so much to do. What sort of food would you have?”
“A mix of things,” Lucy replies. Her fingers move through my hair, caressing, a movement that seems unconscious. “The restaurant my family ran had mostly heavier fried foods for their Chinese section, and then stuff like hot turkey sandwiches and fries. You’d be lucky to get a salad or anything green. I’d make a nod to those, of course, because they’re classic, but I’d stretch the menu, make it more interesting. Challenge people with things like bird’s nest soup, maybe. Or with lotus root salad. Give them new flavors to go with the old. Ginger beef for the diehards, though.” She chuckles. “Even though it was invented in Calgary.”
“It was?”
“Not a classic dish at all, but a good one.”
“I’ve always liked it. Take-out Chinese is more of a staple than I’d like to admit.”
“How come?”
“No time to make my own.”
“You work a lot.” She tweaks a lock of my hair to show tha
t she’s not judging. Her voice is gentle.
“I do.”
“Maybe I should come distract you with blackberries more often,” she teases. “Or maybe we should open up a restaurant together.”
“It’d be crazy.”
Lucy chuckles again. “But a fun crazy.”
Even as we doze off, I can’t stop thinking about it. Cooking tonight was so much fun, and I wish I could do it more. I know I could run a restaurant, but I can’t change careers. Not now. I’m too close to my goal. That partnership…I can taste it.
Chapter Ten
I wake the next morning early as I usually do, but I can tell that something is different even before I open my eyes. The birds are chirping, and I can hear Mama shuffling down the hallway from the bathroom, same as ever. But the bed’s warmer, and my leg is pinned down. I open my eyes.
Kitty’s hair is strewn across the pillow, and she’s deeply asleep, her lips barely parted, the tension that’s usually in her features relaxed. Gorgeous as the rising sun that slants through the window. I try to keep myself still, but now that I’m awake, I desperately have to pee. I inch my leg out from under hers as slowly as I can. She doesn’t wake, but I’m on the side of the bed with the wall, and the footboard is high enough that it’d be incredibly awkward to clamber over. I draw back the covers on my side and try to inch my way down the bed and to stretch over her legs. But the bed squeaks and shudders, and her eyes snap open just as I’m nearly straddling her.
“Sorry,” I say as her eyes widen, then relax. She glances around her, seeming to get her bearings. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
She rubs her eyes, yawns. “No problem. What time is it?” She scrabbles for her phone, and I finish my trip to the floor and hand it to her.
“Five thirty. It’s early yet.”
Kitty nods, but when she unlocks her phone screen, her eyes widen again, and she pinches her lips shut, her brows drawing together. “Dammit.” She pushes aside the sheets and rises, still naked, just like me. “I’m going to have to get back.”
“Breakfast first?” I offer. Kitty looks up at me, away from her phone, and smiles. She leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss.
“If it’s quick. It’s a bit of a drive back for me.”
“Quick, definitely.” I’d love for her to stay, but I know that’s a lot to ask so early. My bladder twinges again, more urgently this time. “Will be right back.”
I grab a light robe from the back of the door and put it on, then open the door and head swiftly down the hallway in a quick two-step. I clean up before I head back to my room, washing my face and hands and brushing my teeth. I dig out a new toothbrush from underneath the sink and leave it on the edge of the vanity. On my way back to my room, I grab a clean bath towel from the linen closet.
Kitty is sitting on the edge of my bed, still naked, tapping rapidly on her phone with both thumbs, biting her lip. She seems to have forgotten she’s naked, but I don’t mind. I close the door and lean back against it, waiting.
Finally, she looks up. “Sorry. Work. As always.” She sighs. I sit down beside her on the bed, laying the towel over her hands and the phone.
“Let it go for a few minutes. They’ll wait. The bathroom is free, and you can shower and brush your teeth. I’ll get something started for breakfast.”
Kitty leans over to me, kissing me again. It’s easy to sink in against her, to feel her soft skin against my palms, the heat of her breast, the curve of her hip. It’s intimate and domestic all at once, and I dream of doing this every day, waking up with her every morning. It’s a big leap, and one I have never made, never wanted to make. Never trusted anyone to make it with. But yet, here I am with her, with Kitty, and I’m ignoring all those old thoughts, old fears. It’s not me. And yet it is, somehow. I need to puzzle it through, but right now, I just want Kitty.
The towel falls to the floor, and her hand’s on me, sliding inside my robe, cupping my breast, and our kiss deepens. I want her so much. And she wants me.
But she pulls back, and reluctant as I am to stop, I match her movements. We’re both panting. Her lips are swollen from our kisses, and I’m sure mine are as well.
“I should shower,” she says breathlessly. “It’s okay?”
“No one’s in there,” I say.
“And us?” Kitty says. Her breathless expression, her unhindered desire, has dampened, and a frown crinkles her brow.
“Okay?” I ask. “Of course we are.”
A light blush steals over her cheeks. “Of course,” she says, as if she should have known. Why wouldn’t she know?
“What are you thinking?” I ask. Nothing like being direct. I can do that with her, at least at this moment, in the room’s early morning quiet, just us.
Kitty shakes her head. “Nothing, really.” She looks at me, searching. “I just…I just don’t want this to end.”
“Of course it won’t.” I drop a gentle kiss on her lips. “We’re not done yet. Not even close.”
Kitty smiles then, rising to her feet and scooping up the towel. I shed my robe and hand it to her, then turn to the dresser, pulling open a drawer. “You’d best get in the shower before Mama takes it over,” I say, grabbing my day’s clothes. I turn back to her. “Second door, turn left out from my room.”
“See you in a few,” she says, putting on my robe and gathering up her clothes. She darts out the door, but not before I have the chance to admire her in it, her bare feet and calves visible, and the deep vee at her neck.
Gorgeous. And the perfect wake-up partner.
* * *
The shower is heavenly, and it takes away any remaining sleepiness. I make it quick, though. Overnight, my phone has blown up with emails and messages, work that couldn’t wait. I want it to be able to wait, but I know I can’t put it off. I already put some of it off last night.
I step out onto the worn bath mat and towel off, then hang the used towel on the empty spot of the rack. I dress in yesterday’s somewhat wrinkled and messy clothes. Ugh. I’ve always tried not to be too fussy and prissy, but right now, I am close to throwing a fit from the feel of a dirty T-shirt next to my skin. I look at myself in the mirror, run my fingers through my damp hair. Once it dries, it’ll straighten on its own, mostly. I can deal with it. I gaze at myself, and I take a deep breath. And then another. It’s a trick I’ve learned from being really anxious as a teenager: focus on something else, not on the anxiety. Deep breaths. I look at the sink, at the chip on the edge of the enamel, at the two faucets, the blue rubber plug on its chain wrapped around the cold faucet base, dangling into the sink. Everything is just a bit worn, as if it’s been here for decades. It probably has, I remind myself. It’s a farmhouse, and everything is old, pretty much.
Feeling calmer, I brush my teeth and leave the toothbrush where I found it. I’ll come back.
That thought makes me smile, and I leave the bathroom and head downstairs to the kitchen. I can smell something cooking, but I’m not sure what it is. It smells savory, not sweet. And it’s not the usual smells I’m used to. Not an omelet, or French toast. I walk down the hall and into the great room. Lucy is moving about in the kitchen, and her mother is sitting outside on the porch, the screen door all that separates her from the great room. There’s a light breeze coming in, smelling of hay, of fresh country air.
I wish I could open my windows and have that.
Lucy turns, and when she sees me, her face lights up. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she says, turning back to the counter. She’s stirring something, and I see sliced green onions on a chopping board, and two eggs whole in their shells. Lucy takes a handful of green onions and sprinkles them over whatever she’s working on. I’m too curious, so I move next to her, nudging her with my shoulder. She nudges me back even as she focuses on her work.
There are two bowls that look a bit like porridge, although they don’t smell like porridge. The green onions are being sprinkled on top. When she’s done that, she takes one of the eggs and a knife, and
taps a path around its circumference, cracking it open. It’s soft boiled, and the yolk runs out. She scoops the whites out with a spoon and piles them on the porridge. And then does the same with the second egg on the second bowl.
I’m not sure what to think, because this is not like any porridge I’ve ever had.
“You look confused,” Lucy says. “Have you ever had congee before?”
Congee. I rack my mind, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.
Lucy takes up the bowls and I follow her to the table. She’s set out a pot of tea, cups, and utensils on the gray Formica.
“It looks like porridge,” I say as I sit down in the same place I sat last night. Lucy sets the bowl in front of me.
“It’s like that. Just with rice, and savory, not sweet. I have it almost every morning.”
I’m sure I look skeptical. I’ve always tried to hide my emotions, and had to learn to do it for court and for work, but I haven’t put up that shield. Not here. I school my features.
“It’s a bit different, I know,” Lucy says, taking up her spoon. “But try it. If you hate it, I can make you an omelet instead.”
I feel a bit like a kid forced to eat a meal they don’t like, but I will try it. I can do savory at breakfast. I know I can.
I scoop up a small bite’s worth, getting a bit of everything: rice, egg, and green onion. As I bring it to my mouth, I find that I’m salivating, the scent teasing my nostrils. I am definitely hungry. Probably all this fresh air. And Lucy.
I take that bite, and the combination of flavors hits my tongue at once. It’s delicious. A bit salty, a bit like a thick soup, almost, but the freshly cooked egg and the raw fresh green onion make it pop on my taste buds. I take another bite, this time more quickly. It feels like it’s triggered a craving in me, one I never knew I had.
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