by Lola Darling
The second the door hits the wall, his eyes fly open, and he releases himself.
Which just gives me a complete eye full of his rock hard cock. His huge rock hard cock, dark and practically pulsing with need.
My brain completely switches off. I have no comeback for this. No witty quip. I just gape at him, at his lean, muscular body and the kind of erection that makes me want to fall to my knees and wrap my lips around his hard shaft. Except, I’m not even sure he would fit in my mouth, not all the way, anyway. I’d definitely be interested in finding out.
Max recovers first, if you can call it recovering. He whips his jeans up his hips and turns away from me, though I can still tell how difficult it is to stuff himself back into those rather tight pants when he’s that close to finishing.
Oh my God.
“I … I’m so—I’m sorry,” I manage to stammer, finally recovering some small portion of my brain power. “I’ll…”
I don’t bother to try and finish the sentence. I do the only thing left that I can think of—I flee the bathroom as fast as I can, slamming the door hard behind me.
Oh shit.
14
Max
Fuck.
That was possibly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Okay, also the most problematic. What if she files a sexual harassment lawsuit, you dumbass, some sarcastic part of my brain comments.
But mostly I can’t stop picturing her eyes locked on my hard dick, or grazing over my body with appreciation. She couldn’t hide it. She didn’t even bother to try. She was just straight-up staring at me with lust written all over that gorgeous face. God, why the fuck didn’t I just take her right there?
I’ve been sitting in my room for an hour regretting not making a move on her in the moment before her smart side caught up to her lust. It’s making me hard all over again picturing her perky, round tits in that leave-nothing-to-the-imagination, skimpy bra, to fantasize taking her hot little mouth with mine, kissing her senseless, tearing that tiny thong off her body and pressing her shoulders against the tile wall as I plunged into her.
But I lost the window of opportunity. Neither of us made a move, and she finally pulled it together enough to apologize and race out of the bathroom. She chose sense over passion, and I need to respect that.
There’s only one way to settle this now. Go down that weird windy staircase, make your way through this mushroom maze of a house, find Chloe, and suggest we finish going through the VHS tapes like nothing ever happened.
She’s probably wanting to pretend the same thing, anyway, judging by the expression on her face when she bolted.
Then again.
Maybe she doesn’t want to ignore it. Maybe she wants the same thing I do.
That thought gives me the energy to stand, leave my room, shut the door behind me. At her closed bedroom door, I can’t resist pressing my ear to the wood for a moment, listening for any sounds of life within. But I haven’t heard a peep from this quarter since she fled downstairs an hour ago.
I take the steps two at a time, because they’re an odd shape. Too short for one step, almost too long for two. At the bottom, I take another deep breath. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. I’ve been in more awkward situations before.
Have you? counters that irritating little voice at the back of my skull. I put him on mute and wander through the mushrooms until I hear a noise.
She’s in the video room again. There’s a different tape playing now, no more sexy club dancing. This one shows a row of jumpsuited girls on all fours lifting one leg in the air in various directions, to the beat of some sort of club music.
In the dim light of this room, all I can see of Chloe is the back of her head, as she reclines in one of the movie theater seats.
I clear my throat softly. Open my mouth to say … well, I’m not quite sure what. I’ll think of that when I come to it. “Chloe, I—”
“They don’t use the slogan in this video,” she says abruptly. Clicks the remote on the chair arm, and the video begins to fast-forward in that choppy way that VHS tapes move. “I’ve scanned most of it. There’s two more I’d like to get through before dinner, but this part only really takes one person.”
Her voice is chilly. Devoid of emotion.
So that’s how we’re going to play this. Nothing happened. Got it.
“Want to split them up?” I offer. “If there are two more?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve got this. You can take a break. I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll scrounge something up for dinner, how about that,” I offer.
“Thanks,” she says, and her voice sounds smaller now. Maybe guilty? Apologetic? I can’t tell.
I linger for another moment in the doorway, in case she wants to say something else, point out the elephant in the room, or at least outright say something dismissive. Let us never speak of this again, maybe.
But Chloe remains silent, hits play again, and on the screen the girls in jumpsuits are doing jumping jacks now, smiling incongruously as their bodies bounce through the routine.
I leave her to it, pulling the door shut behind me with a solid click. Right. Dinner.
Suzie left us well-provisioned, I discover once I finally find the kitchen. It’s as weirdly pretty as the rest of the house, with food-themed tiles on the floor, gray slate tiles that look like they’d contain fossils, except the patterns in them are veggies, chicken bones, grains. Inside the stainless steel fridge, I find a veritable treasure trove. Fresh produce, locally grown from the look of the ripe, round tomatoes and the fat zucchini. There’s enough ingredients between the fridge and the cabinets to make pretty much anything I want, though what clinches it is when I find the pasta maker hidden in a side cabinet beneath the sink.
Italian it is.
I set to work on the dough, and like I always do when I’m cooking (which is not nearly often enough these days, between work and volunteering with Travis and work and beers with the guys and work …), I completely lose track of time. I don’t even realize that Chloe has finished with the videos and stumbled into the kitchen until I look up from pressing the batch of fresh pasta I’ve made and find her standing just beyond the kitchen, in the entrance to the dining room, barefoot and gaping at me.
She’s shorter than I realized. I never noticed before, because I’ve never seen the woman without a pair of at least 4” heels on her feet.
“Just in time,” I tell her. “Want to rinse the veg?” I nod at the sink, sufficiently far away from me, I think, a whole counter between us, so she won’t think I’m trying anything funny. There’s a stack of the aforementioned zucchini and tomatoes, along with some peppers, which I thought might go well with the sauce I have planned.
She pads across the tile floor, pausing to examine the tiles the same way I did. This house is teaching us quickly to pay attention to the little details. They’re not the kind of little details you’d find anywhere else.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she asks with a nod at the pasta press, as she stacks the veggies in the colander and starts to rinse them in the sink, making sure to scrub each one, because I was right, they’re farm-fresh, and some still have dirt caked into their sides.
“Took some classes a few years ago. I love cooking, and Italian has always been my favorite, so.” I shrug one shoulder.
She’s smiling, at least. “I always wanted to learn,” she says. “Never tried it.”
“The place I went is great,” I say. “They teach you how to cook your own dinner, then sit you down for a five-star meal treatment once you’ve finished it. Classroom and restaurant in one.” I lock eyes with her, grin. “We should go sometime.”
She ducks her head, a red flush creeping onto her cheeks once more. “Maybe.”
Dammit. I shake my head. I will not let the entire meal be this awkward. “Come on, I’ll teach you a little bit now.” I reach around her to carefully peel the bowl of veggies from her hands. Our hands touch in the warm
water, and I’m close enough, with one arm almost touching her body, to feel her shiver at the sensation.
“I think these are clean,” I say, my voice low.
She swallows so hard I can hear her. But then she sidesteps out of my arms and grabs a towel to dry her hands. “Alright then.” She steels her shoulders, like she, too, is determined to make tonight be less awkward than it’s starting off. “What’s next, chef?”
I point at the stack of garlic and onions I’ve made next to a chopping board. “I need the onions chopped and the garlic diced.”
She stares at them for a moment. “What’s the difference?”
Right. Beginner’s course it is.
I abandon my last press of pasta for the moment and come around the counter to pass her the chopping knife. “Hypothetically, how would you cut these?”
She grabs the clove of garlic and goes to stab it.
I have to catch her wrists, afraid she’s about to damage herself, the knife, or possibly all of us. “Whoa there, Chlo. Not so fast. Look.” I take her hand, and pretend not to hear her soft gasp, as my fingers wrap around her slim, smooth ones.
I have to ignore my own reaction, too. The seize of sparks all up and down my arms.
I turn the blade in her hand—our hands—and press the flat side to the clove of garlic. “Take your other hand and press there,” I say, pointing, but she only glances up at me, her eyebrows creased, so I take her other hand as well. Reach around her body to press the heel of her palm against the middle of the knife. When I lean my weight against her, prompt her to push down on the knife, it’s all I can do not to drop the blade and press against her instead. Surely she can feel my cock, already hard again, where it brushes against her ass.
And fucking hell, she smells amazing right now.
The garlic cracks and pops beneath us, breaking the moment, and Chloe laughs a little shakily. I release her hands and she lifts the knife to find the little clove is crushed flat, cracked in places and oozing that delicious garlic scent already. “That’s it?” she asks, her voice thick.
Do not give in do not give in do not kiss her do not—
“Now we do this,” I speak over my own inner monologue. I grasp her hand again, show her how to hold the point of the knife against the chopping block, then scissor through the garlic with the back end of the blade. As I do, I can’t help but press my hips closer to hers. The quick little squirm of her hips against mine tells me she definitely feels the bulge in my jeans. But she keeps her head bent, her eyes firmly on the garlic. When we’re finished, the garlic is minced into perfect tiny little pieces that will sauté to perfection, complement our sauce exactly.
“You’re good at this.” She tosses her hair back over her shoulder, and we’re standing so close that it hits my chest before it spills down her back. She turns to peer up at me. Our eyes lock, and it takes every ounce of strength I possess not to bury my hand in that hair and claim her soft, plump mouth. There’s barely an inch of space between our faces, our bodies still touching, her soft hips digging into mine.
“You’re a natural, Chloe,” I murmur, our breaths mingling between us. She swallows hard again, her eyes locked on mine, nothing but a few scraps of fabric and those slim glass frames between us. I lift my hand, reaching for her cheek.
Of course, that’s when she blinks and seems to snap together. Next thing I know, she’s turning around to turn on the sink and rinse the knife off.
Fuck. I’m losing count of all these opportunities lost. But she’s clearly made up her mind. I need to respect that.
I take a step back, pretending not to notice the way her breath hitches, or the goosebumps along her arms. She clears her throat harder than strictly necessary. “So. The onions, I do them the same way?”
I laugh softly, unable to help myself. “No, just slice those normally. Like any veggie.” I force myself to back away from her. Return to the pasta. “Let me know when you’re done.”
We work like that, in spurts. Apart, then teamed up again, while I show her how to keep the heat low, olive oil simmering, so she can slowly brown the garlic and onions without blackening them right away. Finally, we’ve got the water boiling, the pasta rolling inside it, the sauce simmering away, the veggies ready to toss into the frying pan at the last moment, just long enough to warm them up and grill their edges a bit, draw out their flavors.
Finally, when everything is ready, she slips away for a minute with plates and silverware. I pour everything into the big serving bowls that Suzie has, which naturally are shaped like halved watermelons, because why not?
When I follow Chloe through to the dining room, though, she’s not there. Neither are the plates. I pause in the doorway to blink at the room, before I hear her distant voice.
“Out here!”
I trail after the sound through the mushroom maze, to a balcony off the back of one of the mushrooms. The low-walled patio hangs a story in the air, and overlooks the fields behind the house, and the forest of trees directly around its base. Cicadas hum in those trees, and with the sun beginning to set over the fields, it’s the perfect temperature out here. Not too hot, not too cold yet with night setting in. I rest dinner on the small patio table, as Chloe sets out our plates.
She’s also managed, sometime when we were cooking, to dig up a bottle of red, something local, a brand I don’t recognize, and a couple of quirky wine glasses shaped like bunches of grapes, with vines for stems.
We raise our glasses, plates full, just as the sun hits the sweet spot on the horizon, and bathes the whole sky golden orange.
“To rubbing it in,” Chloe declares with a faint smirk.
I lift both of my eyebrows as I tap my glass to hers. “I thought we weren’t talking about that.”
She bursts into laughter, which only sounds slightly hysterical. When she recovers, I’m sipping from the wine (dark, fruity, savory and sweet at once) while gazing across the rim of the glass at her.
God, she’s fucking beautiful when she laughs.
“We are definitely not talking about it,” she says, her cheeks still bright red. “Ever.”
I lift my glass once more, and she taps hers to mine this time, a second toast. “Well, then. Here’s to dirty little secrets,” I say, gaze still locked on hers. She doesn’t look away this time, and silence stretches between us for a long, quiet moment. It’s funny, but somehow being quiet with her doesn’t feel awkward. Normally I feel the need to talk talk talk, if whoever I’m with isn’t saying much. But with Chloe, I can relax. Not speak for a while, and it feels natural.
“There was nothing little about it,” She laughs, “and I think the more unbelievable secret is the fact that you can do this,” she replies, breaking the moment as she sets down her wine glass to pick up her fork. “This smells amazing.”
“Hopefully it tastes as good. I’d hate to be a tease.”
She laughs, and lets out a little snort when she does. It’s adorable. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.” But when she winds a bite of pasta around her fork and slips it into her mouth, she seems to forget her sarcastic side. Her eyes close, and a shiver runs through her body.
“That bad, huh?” I joke as I spear my own bite. I already know it’ll be good, but when I taste it, even I’m surprised. The sauce is better than when I’ve made this recipe before, the veggies more flavorful, the garlic better balanced against the olive oil and the onion.
I suppose it might be because the veg is so fresh, straight from the dirt up here in farm country. But I’m inclined to believe that the magic ingredient to this particular meal is something else.
Someone else.
“This is … holy shit.” Chloe finally opens her eyes, and smiles into her plate. “Did you ever consider becoming a chef instead?”
I grin. “Too hectic for me. I prefer the 9am to midnight work schedule over the 5am to midnight one.”
She lifts an eyebrow, still smiling. “Does workaholism run in the office or something?”
I shrug one
shoulder. “I don’t know about that. Emergency hookups aside, I don’t always set aside enough time for work.”
Her cheeks flush, and she ducks her head a little, acknowledging the blow. “I’m sorry I got so heated,” she tells her plate. Then those hazel eyes flash up to mine again, and reading the sincerity in them, I can’t help but shake my head.
“It’s fine, Chloe. You’re serious about your job. I respect that. I am too.”
Her lips purse into a little moue. God it’s fucking sexy. “I dunno. Sometimes I think maybe I take it too seriously. What you said, about there being some things more important in life than work?” We both gaze at each other, the silence stretching between us for a second, as I wait for what she’s about to say. But eventually, she only shakes her head and takes a stab at another bite of pasta. “You might be onto something.”
“Only maybe?” I take another bite myself.
She grins on one side of her mouth, lopsided, sexy as fuck. “Only maybe.” She winks, and I swear I feel the effect of that single eyelash movement all the way down to my dick. But then she sighs and casts an eye over the scenery again, her mood shifting. “Y’know, I don’t even know how long it’s been since I went on a vacation. Came somewhere like this. I mean, I know this isn’t a vacation.” Her cheeks flush again. God, she blushes so easily.
I fucking love it.
“But it feels like a little escape. From the city, from the office.”
“But alas, not from your worst coworker,” I add with a wry twist of my lips.
Her eyes flash to mine, and in the dying sunlight, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes seem to light up. “You’re not the worst one.”
“News to me,” I reply with a lift of my eyebrows.
“There’s Pervy Pete in accounting,” she says, and I snort.
“So I rank one above him. Good to know.”
“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes seem to dance in the dimming light.
