Wrong Number

by Laura Brown

  She gasped as I nibbled on her collarbone. She put down the piping and I snatched it, tracing a line on her exposed skin. “What are you doing?”

  I flashed her a smile before licking the purple off her skin. The only thing better than her cooking was eating it off of her. “This is my new favorite flavor.”

  “Sweaty baker?”

  My dick kicked, but her face held caution, one I planned to wipe out. “Don’t tease me.”

  I went to trace a line on her arm, just to where her sleeves were pushed up to, but she grabbed the piping from me. “This is my kitchen.”

  I stepped into her. “I’m well aware of that.”

  She blocked my next step with a palm to my chest. “I know it’s not a professional kitchen, but I always treat it as such.”

  I backed up. “You don’t want me to do this in here.”

  It was hard to focus on her face when she took frequent breaths and her nipples were in direct contrast to her words. “I don’t.”

  Unless she worked through her own barricades, I was heading home to a cold shower. And I knew she’d be equally unsatisfied. “You know, you lie.”

  She shook her head and put more distance between us. “What are you talking about?”

  “If we were texting instead of in person, you’d keep going.”

  “If we were texting, I’d be on my bed, not in the kitchen, and no frosting would be involved.” Her words faltered on frosting. Didn’t she see? Or had she tucked away Wrong Number so far she no longer knew her own desires?

  “But you’d be imagining it. Craving it. Wanting it.”

  She swallowed. “Only as a distant fantasy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to.”

  She’d placed walls between us, and my gut screamed she was afraid to try, not that she wasn’t interested. This wasn’t an area to push, but I couldn’t ignore that she sold herself short. Avery passed on what she really wanted. How many different ways did she do this?

  “Five minutes. Give me five minutes here, in this kitchen, and if you’re not enjoying it, I’ll stop.”

  Her eyes said she didn’t trust me. “Why are you so adamant about this? Need to fuel some fantasy of your own?”

  “No. I need to fuel yours.”

  “Why?”

  Big question. Not a simple answer. I didn’t know what to say, other than admitting to the intensity of my emotions, the ones damn near choking me. “I owe Wrong Number.”

  She laughed, but it wobbled and was full of restraint. “Five minutes and then you’ll stop?”

  “If you want me to.”

  Her chin tipped up as she looked at me, trying to figure me out or deciding to trust me or not. Her resistance all but dripped off her, so even if she relented, I’d have my work cut out for me. I was about to leave it alone, when she walked over to the microwave and set the timer. Five minutes. Each beep shooting straight through me, a mixture of desire and fear. I needed to pull off this challenge.

  “When this goes off, you’re finished.”

  “No pressure or anything.”

  She pushed start and I collected her in my arms. I wanted to grab the frosting, lick more off her, but I need her relaxed first. She was stiff, but as I kissed her, she slowly unwound, becoming more pliable until I didn’t know where her tongue ended and mine began. I roamed my hands up and down her sides, grazing the edges of her breasts, until her breathing turned choppy.

  Four minutes.

  There wasn’t enough time to fully relax her, so I had to trust my instincts that the Wrong Number side of her was real. I pulled off her top and collected the piping, drawing sloppy lines over her skin. “What the hell? Jake, I’m baking with—” She stopped talking when my tongue touched the top swell of her breast, tracing the line to her cleavage and around the other swell.

  Her breaths grew more frequent as I continued to her stomach, the sweet taste, the feel of her skin, all of it making me painfully hard in my jeans. I wedged a knee between her legs, rubbing against her, and her entire body lost tension.

  Two minutes.

  Her eyes were shut, her skin warm, and I claimed her mouth again. She arched into me and I shifted her onto the counter, popping the button on her jeans. My hand slid inside, finding her so wet I pressed a finger into her with ease.

  She gasped, clutching onto my shoulder, hips rocking against my hand. I kissed down her neck, catching a few more hints of frosting, before sucking her cotton-covered nipple into my mouth. I wanted to shuck off both our clothes and drive into her right here, in her kitchen, next to the cookies already teased by strands of her hair. I moved to the top button on my jeans, as she tightened around my hand, moaning my name.

  The timer went off.

  Avery’s head snapped up, eyes blinking as I removed my hand and took a step back.

  “I…wow.” A shocked laugh left her lips.

  “Want me to stop?” My own breathing was erratic. I wanted more, wanted all of her. I expected her to say yes, didn’t matter I knew damn well she enjoyed it.

  “No.” She pressed the cancel button on the timer, then all but threw herself at me. I stumbled back, right into the refrigerator, the handle digging into my back. But I didn’t care, not with Avery kissing me and rubbing against me. She had her legs around my waist, and I couldn’t support us easily, but I did manage to slowly lower us to the ground.

  “How’d the frosting taste?” she asked, tugging at my shirt.

  I pulled it off. “Better than ever.”

  She reached up and grabbed the piping. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Then she traced a pattern on my stomach that could have been used on a cookie, before leaning over me to lick it with her tongue. Her hair was back in the frosting, but I barely saw that. Her eyes were locked on mine, a seductress present in them. Wrong Number had come out to play.

  Her tongue teased as she continued, and it took all my willpower to lie there and take it. Then she finished undoing and removing my jeans only to add more frosting to my overeager dick. I pulsed with anticipation, no blood left above my neck.

  Her tongue made contact with my skin, sliding up my shaft, ripping a groan from my chest. Then she took me into her mouth, sucking until my head fell back. She kept going, burning me up, turning me inside out, until I feared I’d come in her mouth.

  I popped free as she sat up. “You’re right. The frosting does taste better this way.”

  “Then I have a few more areas to explore.” She laughed as I flipped her onto her back, removing her bra. Her laughter died down when I traced her breasts, before placing my mouth on her. She muttered something, a plea or a curse, I wasn’t sure, her body writhing beneath mine.

  “In me, please.”

  “You want me to use the piping—”

  She covered my mouth. “Don’t you ever do that. You know what I mean. Grab a condom.”

  I kissed her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She lay down on the floor, hand in her hair, chest rising and falling as though she tried to catch her breath.

  “You okay?” I reached for my wallet.

  Her eyes were closed. “Yes.”

  “Something wrong?” I pulled out the foil wrapper.

  “If you don’t get inside me soon, I’m going to burst.”

  I rolled down the latex and leaned over her. “In the kitchen too.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Not until you admit you like it.”

  Brown eyes locked on mine. “I’m going to come the minute you enter me. How’s that for an answer?”

  I held her gaze as I pushed inside, watched the pleasure cross her face, the way she arched her back and rolled her head. I drew back and her hands came to my shoulders, pulling me in, her body quaking. I wanted to move slow, but with her already there, I found her pace, driving hard and fast into her until she cried out, prolonging her enjoyment as much as possible before losing the battle myself.

  We came to, a
sweaty mass of legs and arms on the cool floor.

  “Alright. You win,” Avery said.

  I laughed and brushed her hair back. “You don’t have to deny that Wrong Number is a part of you.”

  She blushed. “I’ve never been this girl before.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  She bit her lip, making we wait in silence for a beat before answering. “No.”

  The relief was a goddamn living being. It shouldn’t matter. Being with Avery was fun no matter what. I wanted to fuel this side of her, to make her dreams real, to give her everything. And that thought spiraled into a different direction.

  “Come to my salon tomorrow.” I picked up purple strands. “I’ll fix this issue for you.”

  She pulled her hair out of my hand. “You’re going to cut it all off.”

  “It’ll grow back, and then land in your food again.”

  Her eyes flittered back and forth between mine. I held my breath, feeling like I was asking for five minutes all over again. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Avery

  Smells of shampoo and hair dye hit my nose as I entered Jake’s salon. At first glance, I’d call the place minimalistic, but that would imply intent. The walls were tan, the floors wood, and the stations black. Apart from a few pictures of models with funky haircuts on the wall, there was nothing else special about the place.

  Except for the man sweeping up hair. Jake’s limp was more pronounced than usual, probably not helped by it being the end of his day. Or the sex on my kitchen floor. His hair had that perfect wave thing going, the kind I only managed to alter when I had my hands in it. He wore black jeans and a black button up rolled at the elbows and all I wanted to do was fling myself at him.

  He finished sweeping and turned, catching me ogling him. “I was afraid you’d chicken out.”

  I held out a bag I had brought from the bakery. “Thought about it. Figured if I did, you’d find a way to get me to sleep and then cut my hair.”

  He laughed, a rich, deep sound as he took the bag. “What’s this?”

  “What do you think?”

  He pulled out the cupcake, a vanilla spice this time, and barely had the wrapper peeled back before sinking in his teeth.

  “You eat like you haven’t eaten all day.”

  He chewed and glanced over at the clock. “That would be because I missed lunch.”

  “Then why don’t we get something to eat and do this another time?”

  He shook his head, chewing on another bite, and pointed to a chair. “Nope. Sit. I skip lunch all the time.”

  I sat, but I didn’t like this. “You need to take care of yourself.”

  He patted his stomach. “I need to balance out all the sweets I eat from you.”

  His eyes held mine through the mirror, a double meaning that made me press my thighs together.

  “Let me finish this, then I’ll wash your hair.”

  I clutched my purse on my lap. “Unless you don’t plan on letting me know what’s going on, we need to talk first.”

  His eyebrows drew together as he finished the cupcake, licking the crumbs from the wrapper and causing my voice to falter.

  “I can’t get the hearing aids wet; they have to be taken off first.”

  Jake crumpled up the wrapper and threw it away. He squatted down next to me. “So how much do you trust me?”

  “This is my hair we’re talking about.”

  He laughed and rose, pulling out my ponytail holder and running his hands through my hair, making me want to close my eyes and purr. “I think you need practical. If you let me, I want to do a pixie cut.”

  My hair fell around my shoulders. I couldn’t imagine it that short. “You said hair grows, but that will take years to grow back.”

  “And by then you’ll love it so much you’ll beg me to cut it again.”

  I studied my face, trying to see it, but failed. Problem was, curiosity had perked up, added to knowing Jake did his mother and sister’s hair and they both had dynamite cuts. “I need something low maintenance.”

  “This will be. Do you trust me?”

  I did. I shouldn’t. We were too new for trust. But I did. And if I trusted him in other areas, I could at least show that I trusted him with my hair. I nodded and pulled my hearing aids out, removing the batteries and depositing them into a cloth case I had to keep them safe.

  Jake spoke to me as he moved away from the chair and I didn’t catch the words, but I knew the drill. I followed him back to the sink, where he grabbed a smock and got me settled. He spoke again and I freed my hands from under the black smock for a time-out gesture. “You seriously haven’t forgotten that I just took off my aids, have you?”

  He grimaced and when he spoke again, his voice was louder. “Sorry, force of habit.”

  Then he leaned over and kissed me before turning on the water. I closed my eyes, his hands doing an amazing massage on my scalp, hitting pressure points that made my toes curl. No wonder he put me to sleep the other night with his hands alone.

  I nearly drifted, but then a voice floated to my ears. I knew there was another hairdresser or two still here, but I wasn’t sure what or who I was hearing. “If you’re talking, I can’t hear a thing.”

  The water turned off. “I was, but not to you. I figured you wouldn’t hear, not with your eyes closed.”

  I looked up at him, and the smile on his face. Here I was, being a brat, and it didn’t make a difference to him.

  Jake applied conditioner, and I let myself enjoy the massage once again, staying in my quiet bubble until the water clicked off.

  Back at his station, I settled into the chair, wet hair hanging heavy on my shoulders and dripping rivers down the smock. He combed my hair, then picked up a pair of scissors and I took one last glance at all that length. “H-how much are we talking?”

  He placed the scissors and comb down, then used a clip to section off my hair. He picked up a strand near my neck. “Most of this strand.”

  I whimpered, still unable to visualize the end result.

  Jake turned the chair so I was facing him and not the mirror.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I find it easier to cut the hair of a willing participant. You’re getting far too into your head. What would Wrong Number do?”

  “Photoshop a picture.”

  He dropped his head, laughing. “If you want me to do something different, I will.”

  Despite all the nerves racing through me, I was curious. I shut my eyes. “No. Go for it.”

  “It’s a haircut, not a tattoo.”

  I cracked one eye open. “Stop enjoying this so much.”

  He laughed and moved behind me. The next thing I knew, air and not hair met the back of my neck.

  Jake talked as he cut, telling me about some of his customers of the day. I didn’t catch everything, but I was able to piece together most of the stories. As a bonus, I had to concentrate on his voice—and mouth when I could see it—rather than the long strands falling to the floor.

  He kept playing with my hair, running his hands through it, snipping more sections. There was a weird intimacy in the action. I’d had my hair cut plenty of times before, but never from someone who paid as much attention as Jake did. Either it was his way, or because of what we were.

  And what is that? a small voice inside wondered. I pushed the thought down, focusing on how cold my neck felt with the leftover water and no hair to cover it. I’d answer the question another day. A haircut was not the place or the time.

  Finally, Jake stood back. “Ready? It’s not styled yet, but it’ll give you an idea.”

  He didn’t wait for me to respond but spun the chair around until I was staring at myself. I blinked at the image in the mirror, not believing it was me. The woman reflected back at me had short hair, shorter than Jake’s. The longest parts were on top and they stuck out in different directions. I reached up, running my hand through the wet strands; they slipped through, where be
fore I had to keep combing to detangle snarls. So different, and yet my eyes popped, my jawline looked sharper. A smile spread across my face. Yes, trusting Jake, especially in regard to hair, had been the way to go. I had no idea if I’d manage the sexy bedhead look on my own, but right this second, it looked different and fun.

  I turned my head to the side, running my hands over the ends. “Are you sure I can create this look on my own?”

  “Some gel, a few finger swipes, and you’ll be good to go.”

  I continued staring at myself. I would have never been bold enough for this, but I couldn’t deny I liked it. A lot. And he was right. I wouldn’t have to do anything to keep my hair out of my way when I baked.

  “You like?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

  I locked eyes with him in the mirror. “Yes.”

  *

  I parked my car in front of my parents’ garage, pulling down the visor to check on my hair. The short messed-up strands looked great, even after over three hours in the car, but I couldn’t resist tweaking the ends. It didn’t take much gel to create a stylized mess, as Jake had promised. The only problem was not fiddling with my hair every time I passed a mirror, something Hannah had already teasingly scolded me on.

  I fixed a strand, again, and then forced myself out of the car. After grabbing my overnight bag, I made my way up the steps and into the house like I still lived there.

  “Mom? Dad?” I called out as I entered. I was home again for the High Holy Days, this one Yom Kippur. I heard a soft sound in response and headed to the kitchen where I usually found them. Mom stood at the stove. Dad sat at the kitchen table with the paper. Both looked up when I entered, shifting into a comic pause as they stared at me.

  I ran a hand over my hair. “You like my new cut? Jake insisted it would be easier for baking, and he’s right.”

  Mom wiped her hands on her towel and came over, placing them on my cheeks.

  “It’s lovely, such a change.” Her gaze turned serious. “You really like this boy.”

  Unhinged butterflies let loose in my stomach at her words, and I did my best to snuff them out. Or ignore them.