Broken Lullabies

by Nicole Simone

  “I understand. I felt the same way when I was young until my mom taught me to go step by step,” I said.

  “What was the first dish you cooked?”

  “Shepherd’s Pie with crushed potato chips on top. It’s my mom’s famous recipe.”

  “Yummy.”

  Suddenly, the idea of home-style food sounded immensely satisfying. Whenever I had a bad day at school, my mom would have a steaming casserole dish on the counter waiting for me, piled high with ground meat, peas, and fluffy mashed potatoes. At first bite, the negative emotions that plagued my body dissipated and were replaced by love in carb form.

  “I’m going to make it for you,” I declared.

  “You are?”

  “Yup, and you’re going to help.”

  Camille choked on her wine, sputtering crimson onto the marble. I handed her a pile of napkins and she dabbed up the mess. “You’re better off taking this as a solo journey.”

  “I promise it’s not hard”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Your promises are empty at this point. Look at your face.”

  “Do you plan on landing another uppercut to my nose?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “Then I don’t see a problem.” Gathering the necessary ingredients, I dumped the potatoes into the stockpot and turned on the flame.

  “Can I just watch? I’ve had enough learning today.”

  Vulnerability swam in her gaze and I yielded. “All right, fine, but take notes. You’re about to witness a genius at work.”

  “Duly noted. Would music interrupt your flow?”

  “Nope. Go ahead and put on whatever you like.”

  She jumped off the stool as if I had given her the keys to a brand new car. Camille plugged her cell phone into the portable speakers and scrolled through her playlist. Seconds later, Smokey Robinson’s smooth voice filled the kitchen. Her hips swayed like a pendulum as she danced to the music. She raised her hands above her head and shut her eyes, getting lost in the rhythm.

  “I love this song,” she murmured.

  I watched enraptured by the utter freedom that washed over Camille’s face. As Smokey belted out his bluesy tune, she mouthed the lyrics along with him. Enjoying the one-woman show, my hip rested against the counter and I smiled broadly. Camille’s feet shifted left then right as she lifted her hair off her neck. I wanted to place my lips against the curve of her throat and taste her sweetness. I wanted to spin her around the makeshift dance floor until we were both dizzy with happiness. I wanted all of that and more with Camille. Lust had tripped into affection when I wasn’t looking. She wasn’t some woman I wanted to fuck; she was a woman I wanted to spend lazy Sundays with. The song petered to an end and Camille sat back down on the stool. Turning my attention to the sauté pan, my hand tightened on the wooden spoon, threatening to crack it in half.

  “Man, Smokey Robinson always gets to me,” she said.

  Distracted by the revelation that shook me to my core, I pushed the ground meat around and tried to pinpoint exactly when my heart had decided to betray me.

  “Earth to Matthew!”

  My chin jerked over my shoulder to find Camille’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “What?” I asked.

  “Are you here with me or somewhere else?”

  “I’m here.” Turning the heat to low, I set the spoon on the counter and faced her. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to know what other kinds of music you listen to.”

  “Everything to be honest.” Her eyes drew together in skepticism. “Okay, maybe not everything,” I laughed. “Metal doesn’t tickle my fancy. Or country.”

  “I hate metal. It’s just a bunch of screaming. Country I don’t mind. Only because it’s like listening to a melodramatic soap opera.”

  Dividing the vegetables on two different cutting boards, I placed one in front of Camille and handed her a knife with instructions to cut in a rocking motion. After I demonstrated, she grasped the concept easily. We chopped in companionable silence. The carrots, celery, onions, and mushrooms were dumped into a separate skillet where they sizzled in a pat of melted butter. I beckoned Camille to stand next to me. Her scent invaded my senses and all I could think about was fucking her on the counter, because while my feelings dove deeper than desire, I was still a red-blooded male.

  She shot me a curious sideways glance. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I croaked, eternally grateful the stove blocked my erection from sight.

  “All right. What do you want to show me?”

  How much pleasure you can experience when my tongue sweeps across your throbbing clit. That wasn’t the answer she was looking for, or maybe it was, but I couldn’t entertain such tempting thoughts.

  Grabbing the bottle of wine, I poured a splash into the Dutch oven and scraped up the brown bits from the bottom. “A lot of people forget to deglaze, but it injects another layer of flavor to your meal. Do you want to add the vegetables?”

  With an oven mitt, she gripped the handle and shook the vegetables into the meat mixture. Looking pleased with herself, she sniffed the air. Camille’s reddish hair swung around her shoulders, and three freckles I hadn’t noticed before dusted her jawline like a constellation of stars. My eyes locked onto her tongue as it traced her bottom lip.

  A yearning to get a second, third, fourth taste of her cherry red mouth until my thirst was quenched swelled to a breaking point. Camille sensed my predatory stare and her eyes darkened. Fuck that -- my thirst would never be quenched. When it came to Camille, I would always be a man stranded in the middle of the desert, searching for water.

  “You’re doing it again,” she said, her voice thick with lust.

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking at me with naughty thoughts written on your face.”

  “Honey, my thoughts aren’t naughty -- they’re downright sinful.”

  “Matthew…”

  My lips crashing against hers silenced her weak murmur of protest. Her mouth remained rigid until I sank my hands into her hair and pulled her head closer. Hungry for more. She moaned, opening for me. Our tongues tangled together as I plucked her from the ground and set her on the edge of the kitchen island and positioned myself between her thighs. My fingers splayed on her bare back, inching themselves up her spine. Much to my disappointment, Camille broke our kiss and looked at me with wild eyes, clouded with need.

  “What are we doing?” she said. “This is ridiculous.”

  I took her hand and pressed it to the hardness beneath my jeans. “It doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels amazing.”

  “Fuck me sideways,” Camille groaned as she snatched her hand away.

  “Those were my plans before you interrupted them.”

  “The rules, Matthew…”

  An urge to burn the napkin to ash weaved through my veins. I didn’t want to hear about the rules anymore. I wanted to plunge into Camille’s wet and waiting heat and witness her expression as she came undone.

  “Fuck the rules. We should’ve never created that contract. It defeats the purpose of living in the moment.”

  “It creates guidelines so we don’t end up over our heads.”

  Gripping her upper thighs, I tugged her into me. She gasped as my hand cupped the crotch of her yoga pants, which was damp with need. “We are already over our heads, Camille.”

  My palm applied pressure and grazed upwards, brushing her clit.

  Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, her gaze melted into a molten pool of heat. “We will be if you fuck me on this counter. You were right when you said I didn’t do one-night stands,” she argued.

  A low murmur of frustration leaked from my throat while my hands made a lazy pathway up her stomach to her round, supple breast.

  Through a moan, Camille spoke. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “I don’t play fair. I play dirty.”

  To further my point, my tongue teased her left nipple to a peak through the material of her sports bra. Her back arched and
a surprised “Oh” dripped from her lips. I moved on to her right breast until Camille squirmed on the island.

  “You’re killing me.”

  I halted and lifted my head to look into her green eyes. “Say the word and I’ll stop and we will pretend nothing happened.”

  She barked out a hoarse laugh. “I meant you are killing me in a good way.”

  “So you do want this?”

  “More than anything, but…”

  My heart seized in my chest. With my self-control at a dangerously low level, I wouldn’t be able to stay in the same room as Camille if she told me she wanted to hit the pause button. Her moans of pleasure were burned into my memory.

  Camille nibbled her bottom lip, vulnerability flooding her expression. “Can we not have sex tonight?”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want. Is everything else off the table as well, like licking your pussy until your juices coat my chin or feeling your muscles tighten around my finger as I fuck you?”

  “No!” A blush heated her cheeks at her rapid answer. “No, foreplay is most definitely on the table.”

  “Good because…” My mouth dipped to her ear and she shivered. “I plan on showing you pleasure greater than anything you have ever known.”

  “And you said I should stay away from you.”

  I stared into her evergreen eyes and whatever Camille saw mirrored back at her caused her pupils to darken with a potent cocktail of fear and arousal. Our lips met with equal fervor. She hooked her ankles around my waist and pressed her chest against mine so our bodies were one. My fingers sunk into her hair as I reveled in the taste of her. A taste as pure as fresh snowfall. Dinner forgotten, our moans filled the kitchen. Breaking apart, I kissed her neck, her shoulder, anywhere that wasn’t covered. As my lips hovered above the waistband of her pants, my thumb massaged her clit.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Her plea nearly sent me over the edge. I tugged at the stretchy material that encased her legs but they were stuck on like glue. Sensing my plight, Camille lifted herself off the island and I rolled the yoga pants down to the ground.

  “I’m never buying those stupid things again,” I mumbled.

  Camille laughed hoarsely, which turned into a moan as I shoved her underwear aside and sucked the bundle of nerves between her thighs into my mouth. Her fingers gripped the back of my head as her breathing grew louder. I swirled the tip of my tongue in a clockwise motion that had Camille cursing a blue streak. With a cry, her hips lifted and she orgasmed with my name on her lips. It was the sweetest sound I had ever heard.

  Holy shit.

  Boneless, my body sank back onto the cold marble island and I stared up at the ceiling. That, ladies and gentleman, was a proper orgasm. I almost wanted to applaud. Based on the smirk Matthew wore though, he was aware of his talent.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  I propped myself on my elbows. “A shower. Would you mind?”

  “Of course not. The bathroom is down the hall to the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dressed in a sports bra and no bottoms, I looked around the room for something to hide my bare ass. My sweaty pair of yoga pants was my only option. However, the struggle that would ensue as I tried to put them back on would be equally embarrassing.

  “Do you have an apron?” I questioned.

  Matthew arched an eyebrow. “You’re not hiding that magnificent ass from me, Camille.”

  “I can’t walk through your apartment naked.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” My lack of a legit excuse became apparent as my sentence stalled.

  “It’s ten paces to the bathroom door. Let me savior your nakedness.”

  This, right here, was unusual for me. With other men, the lights would be off and we would have skipped straight to the main event, done in missionary so my flaws weren’t on display. Matthew made me forget myself when he placed those sinful lips on mine.

  His grey eyes widened like a puppy dog’s. “Please with a cherry on top?”

  I cracked because it was impossible not to when it came to Matthew. He was my kryptonite. “Fine. Help me off this island.”

  Placing his hands on my hips, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing and set my feet on the ground. A cool breeze from the cracked window caressed my bare skin. I felt ridiculous standing in Matthew’s kitchen with my pants missing.

  About to make my escape to the bathroom, he opened his palms expectantly. “Bra.”

  I crossed my arms stubbornly. “No way, Jose.”

  “Camille…”

  Sighing, I ripped off the Band-Aid and freed my boobs from the sports bra. Matthew’s eyes raked over my curves to the softness of my belly with something close to awe.

  “Perfection,” he breathed.

  I almost believed in the word that would have made me scoff weeks ago. Perfection belonged in fairy tales with princes and elves. But as I bathed in Matthew’s stare steeped in reverence, I felt as close to perfect as possible. Diminishing the gap between us, he stole the air from my lungs with a tender kiss.

  “I’ll finish dinner,” he said. “Go.”

  On shaky legs, I walked to the bathroom in my birthday suit. It was oddly liberating.

  With freshly washed hair, I slipped into the clothes Matthew let me borrow. His sweatshirt hung to my knees, making me resemble a potato. Nevertheless, it was soft and smelled like his cologne. Two high checkmarks in my book. I followed the soft jazz playing from the dining room. Matthew had set the table with silverware and napkins. A huge bowl of salad sat in the middle, along with the Shepherd’s pie. The lights were dimmed as candlelight danced on the walls. My heart expanded at the romantic ambience Matthew had created.

  “Do you have a ball gown I could borrow? I feel underdressed,” I joked.

  Matthew stuck a spoon into the mashed potatoes and glanced up. “I like you exactly how you are.”

  “Did you just quote Bridget Jones’ Diary?”

  “I have three sisters, remember?”

  Plucking the chair out, he gestured for me to sit. Once I was settled, he plopped himself in the chair opposite mine. Matthew looked unguarded, his grey eyes clear of the barriers that were normally there. A spark of hope ignited in my chest that what’d happened on the kitchen island wasn’t a collapse of self-control. That it actually meant something.

  “It smells wonderful,” I commented.

  “Wait till you taste it.”

  Matthew heaped a serving onto my plate. The aroma rising from the mound of potatoes and ground meat made my mouth water. My manners flew out the window at the first bite. On top of being the giver of orgasms, Matthew also had the skills of a master chef.

  Acutely aware of his gaze, my fork paused at my lips. “Sorry, did you want to say a prayer before we eat?”

  He barked a short laugh. “I’m not religious. Where did you get that idea?”

  “Star Magazine.”

  “Reading up on me, huh?”

  “It was at the checkout line at the supermarket. My curiosity got the best of me.”

  “What else did it say?”

  I chewed thoughtfully, skimming the article in my mind. The journalist, if you could call them that, bullet-pointed five facts you would be surprised to find out about your favorite rock star. A cropped picture of Matthew doing his best duck lips was placed next to the headline.

  Swallowing, I answered his question. “It said you love puppies and had a basement full of them.” His expression of grave concern made me giggle. “I’m joking. Honestly, it wasn’t that ground-breaking. I hoped it would reveal you liked to wear women’s panties or something humiliating like that, but nope. The journalist depicted you as a saint. Goes to church, visits his grandmother twice a week, blah blah.”

  Matthew cringed. “Where they find this bullshit worries me.”

  “So you don’t do either?”

  “I haven’t stepped into a church in my entire twenty-five years of being on th
is earth. My parents are freewheeling hippies.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “Don’t have one. My dad’s mother died when he was a child and my mom’s mom disowned her after she ran off to get married at eighteen. It’s my three sisters, me, and my parents.”

  Matthew’s background vastly differed from mine. My immediate family was small, but my extended network of aunts, uncles, and cousins spanned the United States. Once a year, we rented out a campground in the Cascades and all fifty-plus of us would meet up for a reunion.

  “Sounds cozy,” I said.

  “Cozy? Please, more like hectic. There were enough hormones floating in the air to make me grow a pair of boobs. I hated it.”

  “It prepared you for the onslaught of teenage girls that are now your fans.”

  “True, but my sisters were always crying or yelling. The littlest things would set them off.”

  Once, at sixteen, my dad commented my legs were looking strong from track training. I collapsed into hysterics, accusing him of calling me a man. Poor Matthew probably had dealt with that on a daily basis.

  Setting my fork down, my interest in my meal got overridden by the hunger to learn everything I could about him.

  “Are you close to your sisters?” I asked.

  “Kind of. We have very different lives.”

  “How ‘bout your parents?”

  His lips quirked up in a grin. “What is this? Twenty questions?”

  “I’m allowed to know about the guy who has access to my private parts.”

  “I didn’t know they were that closely guarded.”

  “Hey!”

  “I’m joking, sweetheart,” Matthew soothed with a panty-melting smile. “I’m honored you have given me access. I could stay between your thighs for hours.”

  His confession sent a blaze of lust to blossom in my lower stomach. The bedroom eyes he was sporting didn’t help. I wanted to swipe the dishes to the side and have his talented hands on my body. But then my curiosity about Matthew wouldn’t be sated.

  I steered the conversation back on track. “So your parents, are you close?”