Wild Kisses (Wildwood)

by Skye Jordan

  He frowned at the note. “Not that low.”

  “Low enough.” She cut a sidelong grin at him. “You can never admit you made a mistake.”

  He gave her a heavy-lidded, how-dare-you-say-that-word-in-my-presence look. “That’s because I don’t make mistakes with my beer. Just ask my mom.”

  Delaney burst out laughing, head thrown back.

  Delight washed over Ethan’s face. He set his glass down, took Delaney’s head between his hands, and pulled her in for a kiss.

  Avery was about to look away, but Ethan’s expression trapped her. A look drenched with desire and affection and so much raw want—a want transcending the physical. His gaze held on Delaney’s mouth until their lips met and his lids closed. Delaney’s grin melted into instant heat, and she wrapped an arm around his neck as she sank into the kiss.

  The sight shot a spray of heat through Avery’s belly.

  I bet Trace kisses like that.

  The thought poured fire through Avery’s lower body and snapped her out of her trance. “Oh-kay . . .”

  She refocused on her bright-red mixer. With a sigh, she pushed the speed control higher, whipping more air into the frosting and drowning out the hums and moans between Delaney and Ethan.

  Too bad it didn’t unknot Avery’s gut or dim the fantasies of Trace in her mind.

  She shook her head, silently reprimanding herself. She might not have had a man around in years who had acted like a husband, but her divorce was still only two months old. And Trace worked for her. They were friends. She shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

  In fact, he was probably the best friend she’d ever had outside of her aunt and sister. Avery’s return home with nothing to show for her turbulent eight years away—no husband, no education, no career—had been the hardest transition of her life. Trace had been a constant source of encouragement and empowerment. Of support and sanity. Of humor and honesty.

  And, yes, he’d also been the origination of all her fantasies.

  The sight of him, shirtless, with icing sprayed across his abdomen, made a smile curve Avery’s mouth. That had been so unlike her. But Trace had a way of making her feel completely accepted, like no matter how she acted or what she said—naive, silly, serious, or awkward—it was all good.

  She couldn’t imagine him in prison. Couldn’t imagine a person as easygoing and as thoughtful as Trace living among the ugliest criminals in the state. It didn’t seem right to house someone convicted of a drug charge, but with no violent history, with murderers, rapists, and armed robbers.

  The oven timer dinged, and she eagerly switched her focus away from the uncomfortable thoughts. After shutting off the mixer, she grabbed a folded kitchen towel in each hand and pulled more cinnamon rolls from the oven, closing the door with a bump of her hip. She realized too late that she should have thought it through first. The small kitchen’s limited counter space left her spinning in circles, searching for a place to put the hot pans.

  “I hate to pull you away from your, uh, moment,” she said to the still-kissing couple, “but, Delaney, could you pop a trivet on that table for me? I don’t have any more counter space.”

  A warm wave of cinnamon and almond wafted through the kitchen, perfuming the air with sticky, sugary goodness. Love in edible form—that’s what Avery had dubbed her sweet treats long ago. And even now, she sometimes wondered if the warm, gooey feeling that filled her with every new, delicious batch would ever fade.

  She hoped not. It had started her baking during that long, lonely stretch after David’s first deployment. It had earned her friends and created purpose in her young life as nothing but a soldier’s wife. It had soothed her through their turbulent, vacant marriage. And now, not only was it all she had, it was what continued to drive her.

  While Delaney looked through drawers for something to protect Phoebe’s table, the heat of the pans leaked through the towels.

  The front door opened, and their aunt’s voice bubbled through the living room. “Guess who I dragged in from the street?”

  Avery didn’t care what member of the Wildwood community Phoebe had brought home to sample her latest delicacy straight out of the oven. She deeply appreciated her aunt’s enthusiasm, support, and kick start on this venture, but Avery was dead tired and she ached—everywhere. Her legs, her feet, her back, her shoulders, her arms, and God, her hands . . . With as much kneading as she’d done to perfect her baking during the last two months, she’d developed ridiculous strength, along with strains and probably premature arthritis. And even if putting on the good hostess face for Phoebe’s guest meant making another sale, all Avery wanted to do now was sink into a steaming-hot bubble bath up to her nose.

  Or into bed with Trace.

  After she got rid of these hot pans.

  “Delaney, I’m going to catch fire in a second.”

  “Phoebe,” Delaney said, opening two drawers at once while Avery sorted out a plan B in her head. The sink, the floor, the patio? “Where are your—”

  “Here.” The familiar male voice came from behind her and made Avery’s stomach jump. By the time she glanced over her shoulder, Trace had stepped past her and opened the oven door. “Put one here.”

  With burning fingers, Avery didn’t have time to process anything other than the pain and dropped the pan. She was already moving the other tray toward the rack when Trace hooked his finger around the edge and pulled it halfway out.

  She slid the hot sheet to safety and dropped the towels. “Damn.”

  Shaking out her hands, she gritted her teeth against both pain and embarrassment. She’d been baking for a decade, professionally for half of that, yet she was still burning herself because she’d failed to plan for something as simple as counter space? And she planned on opening a café and bakery in a few weeks?

  “Honey?” Phoebe said. “Are you okay?”

  “Avery?” Delaney echoed her aunt’s concern at the same time.

  Avery glanced up and met Phoebe’s blue eyes, still crystal clear at sixty-five. Her indigo sweater made them pop against her creamy skin and silver hair.

  “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me that shit coming straight from the oven is hot?” Avery said.

  Phoebe smiled in relief, a few crinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes. Ethan and Delaney laughed.

  “Here,” Trace said, crossing behind her to run the water in the sink. “Get your hands under here.”

  He wasn’t smiling when he grabbed Avery’s forearm and pulled her around, drawing her to the basin.

  “Cupcake, you’ve got to be careful. These hands are your livelihood.” He fanned out each palm, inspecting them as water cooled the burn. A special place warmed inside her every time he used one of the many baking-themed nicknames he’d come up with for her over the last couple of months. “You’re lucky. Doesn’t look too bad.”

  Avery didn’t respond. She was staring at his profile. At the way his jet-black hair, mussed from the day, still shone like raven’s wings. At the prickle of stubble that had formed over his chin and jaw since he’d shown up at the café that morning at six. At the way that shadow framed his lips.

  Oh, yeah. Trace Hutton would kiss like every woman’s fantasy. The surety of it weakened her knees a little.

  He cut a look at her from the corner of his eye and caught her staring. “You okay?”

  God, he was so sweet. And she was so tired. So lonely. So needy. Avery closed her eyes and focused on releasing the pent-up stress. Having him close made that easier. Having his hands cradling hers, his thumb rubbing her palm beneath the water as if erasing the burn, made it much, much easier.

  “Exhausted. You?”

  A lopsided grin lifted his lips. “Exhausted.”

  “Seems to be our constant state of existence lately.”

  “So it does.”

  “You weren’t working this late, were you?” she asked.

  “Not really. I had a special project I wanted to finish.”

  “Is Zan
e with your dad?” she asked. Trace’s brother helped shoulder responsibility for George as best he could. But Zane’s chaotic schedule as a local deputy left most of the burden on Trace. Something Avery had never heard him complain about once.

  Trace nodded.

  Phoebe had inserted herself into the taste test at the kitchen table, which had transitioned into a discussion over the progress of the brewpub’s construction. With Phoebe’s back toward them and Trace’s big body between Avery and the others, Avery felt a familiar cocoon of intimacy settle around her and Trace.

  Most of the time they worked day in and day out together like buddies. But then there were moments like these. Wonderful, odd, intimate moments Avery couldn’t label or define or even understand. She only knew they created a snap, crackle, and pop inside her she was sure could be heard a block away.

  “How is it that you happen to be on hand to witness every asinine thing I do?” she asked.

  His grin reappeared. Those ridiculously stunning, black-lashed blue eyes did the sparkle-and-dance routine that made Avery’s gut ache. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Back away from the hottie.

  She took one last look down at his hands wrapped around hers and reminded herself that not only was she his employer, and not only was she newly divorced, but she was also in no emotional shape to take on a man in her life right now. Especially not Mr. Six-Foot-Three Rock-Hard Babe Magnet. Trace Hutton was ten times too much man for her, even on her sexiest, most confident day.

  “How are they feeling?” he asked.

  Amazing. So good she wanted him to never let go. Which was exactly what finally made her pull her hand from his and step back.

  “I’ll be okay. What about you? That rack was just as hot as the pans.”

  “My hands are leather at this point.” He shut off the sink, picked up a towel to dry his hands, and leaned his hip against the counter. “Sure smells good in here. Did you figure out what was going wrong with your cinnamon rolls?”

  “Oh, yes.” She clapped her hands around the towel, excited to share her breakthrough with him. “Let me frost one for you. Wait until you taste this. You’re going to die.”

  He chuckled and crossed his arms. “I have something for you, too. Though nothing that exciting. I doubt you’ll die.”

  She dug out a spatula of fresh icing and spread it over the top of a warm roll.

  “What did you do to fix this little demon?” he asked. “He’s been costing you way too much sleep. You know you’re the only person who can taste all these little changes you fuss over, right?”

  She pulled a plate from the cabinet and carefully set her creation in the center. Then with a flourish, she presented it to him with a devilish smile. “For my official taste-tester. You decide.”

  His eyes did that twinkling thing again, and Avery had to look away. “Go on. Eat. They’re better warm.”

  He lifted the roll. “Whoa,” he said, testing the weight. “This guy is chunky. What did you put in here?”

  “I’ll tell you after you taste.”

  He lifted it to his mouth and bit down. Avery watched his every move, his every expression, relishing the excuse to get such an intimate look without exposing her overwhelming attraction.

  The soft dough gave easily beneath his teeth. The creamy frosting gathered on his full lips. Avery licked her own, imagining what it would be like to suck that frosting away. Then spiral her tongue with his, the frosting melting in the heat of their mouths.

  “Oh my God . . .” His eyes, wide with a little shock and a little awe, fixed on hers. “What in the hell did you do? This is amazing.”

  Relief eased her shoulders, and her smile grew. “I used a brioche dough,” she said, watching him lick the icing from his lips as he unwound a curl of the roll to peek inside. “Let them rise twice as long, which is why they’re spiral towers. And I filled them with a marzipan streusel. Then I tripled the vanilla in the icing.”

  He repositioned the roll and bit again, taking half the gigantic mass. Avery knew the moment all the flavors kicked in and blended. A spark of surprise lit his eyes before all the tension in his face transitioned into euphoria. He groaned. His eyes fell closed. Head tipped back.

  The sight shot sparks along every inch of Avery’s skin and pounded heat between her legs. A split-second image of him doing the same as Avery took his cock into her mouth flushed her body with fire. The mere idea that she could pleasure a man who had the sexiest women lusting after him was ludicrous, but she let herself enjoy the fantasy anyway.

  “Oh God, Avery . . .” he said around a mouthful of dough.

  The pleasure dripping from his voice pushed another surge of heat through her veins. And she loved the way he said her name, as if there were no e. “Avry” sliding off his tongue in that sexy baritone made all sorts of naughty things flash through her mind.

  “You have seriously outdone yourself here.”

  She did her best to shake off the haze of lust and gave him an I-told-you-so smile. “So, you mean, even you can tell the difference?”

  “This is no ordinary ‘different.’ This is an oh-hell-yeah difference.”

  Pride and excitement fizzed inside her. Avery’s stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And as Trace continued to devour the roll with moans of pleasure, Avery reached out and took hold of an edge, pulling it from the bun. The melted icing dripped over her fingers.

  Trace’s hand encompassed her wrist, his blue eyes sharp and bright. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m hungry.” But her attention was on the tingles sliding up her arm from his touch. “Didn’t you hear my stomach?”

  “You have a whole pan of rolls right there. Get your own.” Then he dragged her hand to his mouth.

  She pulled back automatically, laughing. But Trace held her wrist deliberately and ate the gooey roll right out of her hand.

  When his lips closed over her fingers, when the wet warmth of his mouth registered on her skin, Avery’s breath stuttered. Her smile fell away, replaced by shock. Her gaze jumped to his just as his eyes closed, and his expression took on a whole different look of pleasure.

  She forced enough air into her lungs to utter a confused, “Trace . . .”

  But then, good God, his tongue stroked her fingers, and he hummed softly. He added suction and moaned, the sound almost inaudible. The warm tug on her fingers and the sight of those lips wrapped around them made her brain stall out. Made her nipples peak. Made everything between her legs squeeze and ache.

  She didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. An elemental part of her demanded she pull away. But something even deeper wouldn’t let her.

  She swayed and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt to stabilize. Then glanced past his shoulder to where Phoebe had taken a seat at the table with Delaney and Ethan.

  When she looked back at Trace, ready to break away from . . . whatever this was, Avery found his eyes open and on hers, and the sight shocked her heart. His expression mirrored Ethan’s just moments ago when he’d kissed Delaney so passionately—hot and lust-filled.

  Oh my God . . .

  All her thoughts of putting distance between them tangled. Those blue eyes burned hot on hers as he sucked her thumb clean, then her index finger, then her middle finger. His eyes fell closed again. His tongue swept across her palm and between her fingers—a sensation that made her crave his mouth between her legs, even though she had no idea what that would feel like.

  Avery’s heart pounded in her neck. Her breath rasped in her throat. “Trace . . .”

  Dammit, she didn’t know what else to say. Or do. She didn’t even know how she should feel. She wanted to beg him not to stop, yet she wasn’t naive enough to think sleeping with someone working for her was a good idea. Especially not if it didn’t go well, which was more than likely, considering her lack of experience.

  As if he could read her mind, regret pinged in his pretty blue eyes. Just a split second of darkn
ess before he lifted his mouth from her hand and lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he murmured with a shake of his head. He covered her hand and rubbing it dry. “I shouldn’t have . . . I got a little carried away. I’m—”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips, then stared at them, surprised to find them there. “Don’t apolo—”

  “Ask Trace.”

  Delaney’s words tossed ice water on the coals burning between Avery and Trace, and the chill cut straight through the center of her chest. She dropped her hand and curled her fingers into her palm. Falling back a step, Avery turned to the cinnamon rolls waiting to be iced, her mind a mess of conflicting emotions.

  “Ask me what?”

  Trace’s voice moved away, and with her back toward the group, she squeezed her eyes closed against the disappointment.

  Delaney and Ethan pulled Trace into a conversation about plumbing requirements for equipment Avery knew nothing about. She washed her hands, regretting the fact that she had to wash off the touch of Trace’s mouth.

  Trace’s mouth.

  Sucking on her fingers.

  Had that even been real?

  She shut off the water and shook her hands dry, feeling like an idiotic kid with her first crush. Then busied herself by frosting the rolls, her hands moving automatically after doing it thousands upon thousands of times. She tried to force her mind to engage, to get her even, logical thinking back into place, but all she could focus on was the hum of Trace’s voice in the background—a rich timbre that shivered through her while she floated in a strange haze of confusion.

  “I’ll be right back,” Trace said. “I’m going to grab something from the truck.”

  Phoebe stepped up to the counter beside her. “Sounds like you had a breakthrough with your cinnamon rolls.”

  Avery pushed her mouth into a smile but couldn’t meet her aunt’s eyes, sure Phoebe would see in Avery’s expression what had happened between her and Trace. “I think so.”

  “Please tell me this is your last batch tonight.”

  “It is. I’m exhausted.”

  “Can I box these for you?”