“Fine,” she says. “I’m leaving.”
“I hope so.”
I wait until she’s walking away to squat down in front of Olivia. “Are you thirsty?” I ask. “You drink out of a glass now, don’t you? I brought wine."
“I heard that!” Autumn yells from the stairway.
Fifteen minutes later, Lucy is gnawing on a treat. Olivia is lying on the floor nearby, playing with oversized Lego blocks I found in the living room. I’m trying to put the finishing touches on a tower when Autumn walks in. “Having fun?”
“Actually, yeah,” I say, adding a makeshift turret to the top. I’m about to make a smartass comment about something, but I look up at her, and promptly lose all ability to speak. I just stand up, staring at her like an idiot. She’s wearing this simple black dress that’s anything but plain, her hair dry now and piled up on top of her head, little pieces spilling down the sides of her face, and no shoes. For some reason, the fact that she’s not wearing shoes, that she's barefoot with the little black dress, pushes the whole thing over the edge. It makes her look unfinished, undone, and it's a thousand times sexier than if she were all dressed up.
I have the sudden, not entirely sinking, feeling that she’s going to be my undoing.
“I haven’t worn anything other than jeans in longer than I care to remember,” she says.
“It’s…yeah.” God, I’m an idiot. A complete and total idiot.
Autumn flushes, pink on her cheeks the way she does when she’s self-conscious. Or when she’s...underneath me, her lips slightly parted. I shake off the image that immediately springs to mind. “Thanks,” she says, her voice uncertain.
Crossing the room, I brush my lips against her cheek as I slide my hand around her waist. “You’re breathtaking,” I say. “Sorry, I lost my words there for a minute.”
“You?” she asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. “At a loss for words?”
Autumn plays with Olivia, and I cook for them – grilled chicken and linguini for Olivia, pork chops set aside for us, but only wine right now, until after Olivia eats and plays and has her bath and falls asleep. It’s seven-thirty when Autumn comes downstairs from Olivia’s bedroom. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she says.
“Pork chops?” I ask, my back toward her while I sear them. “They’re really easy to do, you know. I could show you how.”
“Oh?” she asks, leaning with her elbows back on the counter, beside me, her back arching up, pushing her breasts up higher in the air.
My dick hardens just looking at her. “Not if you keep standing there looking like that,” I say. “I won’t be able to focus on teaching you anything.”
“Well, not about food, anyway,” she says, smiling.
“I’m not sure you need help in any other department,” I say.
“It smells wonderful,” she says. She picks up a bottle of on the counter. “Are you cooking with my cider?”
“I'm using it in a glaze,” I tell her.
“That’s so cool,” she says. “I’ve thought about talking to one of the restaurants downtown about doing a seasonal menu with my ciders or something, like a tasting thing?”
“You should,” I say. “I’m sure one of the restaurants could feature them really well.”
When we sit down, she takes a mouthful of food and moans. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Nowhere special,” I tell her. “It’s really relaxing.”
“You should be a chef, you know,” she says.
I laugh. “You’re the first person to tell me that.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” she says. “I’m sure you’ve been told that a thousand times.”
I shrug. “I don’t really cook for anyone,” I say. “Guys I work with, sometimes. But they’re not exactly connoisseurs. And it's never anything fancy. Venison chili, that kind of thing.”
“When do you have to go back to the smoke jumping?”
I give a nonchalant shrug. “It’s on and off, you know?” I ask. “I take contracts, work when I can find it, or when I want to.”
“You don’t ever stay in the same place.”
“Not…ever,” I say.
Shit. Not yet, is what I almost say. What I nearly say, but not quite.
I never really wanted to before.
It’s the thought that pops into my head, except I don’t say it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Autumn
“You brought cheesecake?” I watch, dumbfounded, as he carries a plate to the living room. “You know you’re already getting laid tonight, right?”
“Oh, am I?” Luke asks, grinning as he sits beside me. “And here I was, trying to impress the pants off of you.”
“I’m not going to be able to fit in my pants, if you keep cooking,” I say, as he takes a forkful of the decadent dessert and feeds me a bite. Eyes closed, I savor it. The dessert alone is practically orgasmic – forget about the eye candy sitting inches away from me or how the air between us practically crackles with electricity.
No one’s ever fed me before. Hell, no man has ever cooked for me before.
“Salted caramel pecan cheesecake,” he says. “I used your cider for the sauce. What do you think?”
I open my eyes, looking into Luke’s, and heat rushes through me. “I think you’re spoiling me.”
“Oh, you think this is spoiling?” he asks. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Red.”
“I should date younger men more often,” I joke.
He slides his fingers up my thigh. “No one else,” he says, his hand paused on my thigh.
“No one else what?” I’m confused, distracted by the fact that his hand is on my thigh, paused, unmoving, radiating warmth through my body, heat that pools between my legs. I want him to keep moving his hand farther up my body. I want his fingers inside me.
I want more than his fingers inside me.
I’ve been craving him since the first time he touched me.
Hell, I’ve been craving him for years, before I even met him. I just didn’t know it yet.
He squeezes my thigh. “You shouldn’t date anyone else,” he says, his voice thick.
“You shouldn’t tell me what to do,” I say, my voice cracking as his hand inches up further, until his thumb reaches the crease between my thigh and pussy.
“Oh?” he asks, his blue eyes trained on mine as he grazes my pussy lips lightly with his thumb, so lightly that it’s like a whisper, and it nearly makes me lose my mind. “I think you like me telling you what to do.”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper. But he finds my clit with his finger, literally pushing my button, and arousal courses through me so intensely that I swear I could come right here, right now, just from his touch.
“You’re not seeing anyone else,” he whispers, his finger pressing against me, unmoving.
“You’re the one who’s a player,” I whisper, as he slides his fingers lower. I’m slick between my legs, soaking wet for him.
“You think this is a game, Red?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for a response, just plunges two fingers deeply inside me, covering my mouth with his as I moan my answer. I don’t know what my answer is. I’m too drunk with lust to even think about it. I don’t know if it’s a game or not -- seducing the single mom -- but if it is, I don’t care. I want to play it, if it means he keeps doing what he's doing with his fingers.
When he pulls his mouth away from mine, my lips are swollen, bruised by his kiss. He continues to stroke me steadily with his fingers until I’m at the brink, driven to the edge by him. “You’re mine,” he says.
“Oh, God,” I moan. I’m sliding my hands under his shirt, pulling at the fabric, trying to touch his chest, trying to touch all of him, but he won’t let me.
“Say it,” he demands.
“I’m yours.” I choke out the words, drunk with lust, but feeling so vulnerable that the words break as I speak them.
“Fuck.” He utters the word like an exhale, as if h
e’s been holding it in forever, waiting for me to say the words. “This is mine.”
“Yes,” I breathe, as he strokes me inside, his fingers pressing against the textured part of me, bringing me close to the edge so quickly. I run my hands down his hard chest, feeling his chest muscles flex underneath my fingertips, then down his abdomen, and lower, palming his hardness over his jeans. When I reach for his belt buckle, clumsily fumbling with it, desperately wanting him inside me, he pushes my hand away and strokes me harder.
“I’m yours,” he says, not the least bit hesitating, and the words push me over the edge, immediately and unexpectedly. Luke covers my mouth with his, his tongue finding mine, silencing my moans.
He doesn’t give me a moment’s reprieve. I’m still throbbing, still fluttering tightly around his fingers when he takes them away, and pulls me on top of him as he falls back to the sofa. Before I can object, before I can say anything, Luke slides his hands under my ass, underneath my dress, and pulls me across his chest. “On my face,” he says. “Now.”
I try to protest, but he doesn’t let me, his response even more insistent as he guides me to straddle him, still trembling from my orgasm. My black dress ruches up around my waist in little piles of silk.
I'm self-conscious. What the hell am I doing, sitting on this man’s face in the middle of my living room? But once he pulls me down against him, his tongue pressing against my clit, licking me mercilessly, I begin to lose my inhibitions. Slowly, as he fucks me with his tongue, I start to ride him, losing myself in the waves of pleasure that wash over me.
When he has me on the edge, consumed by need and pleasure, he pulls me away from his face. I hear myself whimper, like I’m somewhere outside of my body, and it doesn’t sound like me. I'm not this girl, one who whimpers, but this man has me whining, moaning, ready to beg for him.
He laughs at my insistence when I pull frantically at the fabric of his shirt, trying to tug it over his head. But once I run my palms over his chest, flick my tongue over his nipples, he's not laughing anymore. Then, he's the one moaning, and he’s the one grabbing handfuls of my hair, pulling my mouth to his, tongue against tongue, my lip in his teeth, kissing me like he can’t get enough.
On his feet, he strips off the rest of his clothing and rolls on a condom while I watch him appreciatively. Luke is one of those men who should be required to wear as little clothing as possible. He’s long and lean, a mass of rippling muscles that carry constant tension, the outcome of the need to be always-ready as a smoke jumper, or simply something about his constitution that makes him ever-ready to run. I’m not sure which it is.
But he's the kind of man who breaks your heart.
That’s the thought I have, the nagging doubt in my head, when Luke pulls me down onto his lap, the head of his cock pressed against me. I slide onto him effortlessly, slick with wetness, and any thought I have, insecurity about Luke and who he is, is erased in one swift movement, with him inside me.
I ride him, my forehead pressed against his, his hands in my hair, pulling at the roots, gripping it, like he’s trying to pull me as close as possible into him but he just can’t. When I’m not kissing him, I’m looking at him, riding him with steady rhythm until everything is a blur, a haze of sex and lust. Inside me, he's quickly swollen to the point that I think he’s going to burst, and the sensation makes me want to explode.
He whispers to me as I ride him, tells me how soft and sweet and tight and wet my pussy is, and so help me, I can barely hang on as he tells me the dirty things he wants to do to me. “I can’t get enough of this tight pussy,” he whispers. “You know exactly what to do to me.”
I moan his name, over and over, barely audible, my lips close to his, until he’s doing the same.
“Autumn, Autumn, Autumn,” he whispers. “This pussy – all of this – is mine.”
If I thought the last time it happened was a random incident, I was wrong. He says it, and it sets me off again, unexpected, and I’m crying out my orgasm, trying to stay quiet.
“Shit, Autumn, you’re going to make me come,” he whispers. And then he does, my orgasm triggering his, his hands on my hips, pressing me against him again and again, as he fills me up.
I collapse against him, my face in his neck, barely able to catch my breath, and we sit like that for what seems like forever until we’ve recovered. When he looks up at me, he takes my face his hands. “I knew baking that cheesecake was a great fucking idea,” he whispers.
***
It’s true what they say about younger men, I think, watching him walk around the kitchen, whistling as he brews coffee and makes bacon and eggs. And pancakes – just because you must be starving, he says. And I am starving, after last night’s marathon sex session. Luke is insatiable.
And I’m insatiable with him, I think, looking at his ass in his jeans as he walks over to the kitchen and pours milk into a sippy cup, then hands it to Olivia in her high chair. She reaches for it, but both hands are filled with strips of bacon, and Luke laughs. “You love bacon,” he says, setting the cup on the high chair tray. “I knew you weren’t so bad.”
“Thank you for getting that,” I say, startled out of my daydream, realizing I’d left the sippy cup and lid on the counter and forgotten to refill the cup.
Sex might be robbing my brain of brain cells.
“Greta will be here any second,” I say, suddenly realizing what time it is.
Luke turns around, leaning against the kitchen counter, holding out a cup of coffee in one hand as he brings the other to his lips. Those glorious lips, the ones that spent last night exploring every inch of my body until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. “It is that time,” he says, calm about the whole thing.
I take the cup, the knock on the door startling me despite the fact that we’re standing here talking about it. I’m not ready to be outed, to have what's between Luke and I become public knowledge in this town. Even if I think my nanny is discreet, I don’t know it for sure, and –
I open the door, mid-thought.
“Morning,” she says, her eyes flicking over my face. “You look good. Like you got some sun yesterday.”
“No,” I say, walking down the hallway with her. “No sun. Um, just so you know, there’s someone –“
“Mornin’.” Luke speaks before I can issue a warning, and I glare at him, while he grins with impunity, unabashed and unashamed. I think he's actually enjoying this.
“Good morning.” To her credit, Greta doesn't lose her professional demeanor. At least, not until she turns around, her back to Luke, and gives me a thumbs up gesture, discreetly hidden in front of her stomach.
My cheeks warm immediately, and I know I must be flushed bright red, but Greta is already turned around and making small talk with Luke, who is content to sit, sipping his coffee at the kitchen table like he does this all the time.
Shit, maybe he does do this all the time, actually.
Maybe he’s just like Edward.
The thoughts pop into my head, and I can’t quite shake them, even when Luke kisses me in the doorway as he’s leaving. “I have to go work,” he whispers, his lips brushing my cheek. “The boss really gets on my case if I’m slacking.”
“I hear she’s a real ball-buster,” I say, my voice soft.
“She has expectations,” he whispers, a finger trailing down the front of my cleavage. He peeks behind me, down the hallway, but Olivia and Greta are in the living room, their voices a soft blur. Luke cups my breast, and I start to swat him away, but not before my nipple immediately hardens to his touch underneath the fabric of my bra. “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”
Before I can say anything, he’s out the door. I watch him walk across the lawn, whistling while he walks, carefree and casual, to check on the last of the harvest in the orchard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Luke
“Where the hell have you been?” Silas asks.
I roll my eyes as I get out of the truck, Lucy scrambl
ing out after me and running to greet Silas like they’re long-lost buddies. “Stop trying to be my mother, Silas."
Silas sits on the lawn chair outside the camper, not bothering to get up. “Anyone ever tell you to check your damn phone?”
I reach for my phone in my back pocket, but realize I’ve probably thrown it somewhere in the truck. Or it’s at Autumn’s place. That thing used to be glued to me like a damn extra limb or something, my electronic little black book.
Except recently. I keep misplacing it, letting the battery run out because I forget about it. I’ve been spending all my time at the orchard lately.
I've had no need to call anyone else.
So, I’ve been purposely avoiding my brothers and this whole shit situation with my family, taking a little bit of happiness where I can get it. I refuse to feel a damn bit of guilt for that.
“Can’t find it,” I say, my voice terse. Silas is just a big reminder of what the hell else I need to think about right now, other than Autumn. And that I don’t fucking like.
Silas snorts. “What, did you leave it in some chick’s room?” he asks.
“Hilarious, Silas,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Something’s come up,” he says, and I exhale heavily.
“Yeah, well, what if I don’t want to be involved in it?” I ask, walking up the step past him and opening the camper door.
“What the hell are you talking about? You're already involved in it," Silas says. “You’re the one who was behind it from the beginning. You were right about mom’s death. Now you’re, what, over the whole thing? You just want to let fucking Jed and the mayor get away with that shit – the murder, conning people in this town?”
“Don’t guilt trip me, Silas,” I say, my jaw clenched, as I flick on the light switch. Shit, how long has it been since I’ve been back in the camper? A week? Two? Lucy and I have been holed up at Autumn's place. I haven't wanted to leave. And when I stand here, looking at the camper, it's more depressing than I thought it would be.
Luke: A West Bend Saints Romance Page 14
