by Shandi Boyes
“Red would be great, if you have any?”
She flashes a cute smile when I yank open my fridge to reveal the numerous bottles of wine inside. It is lucky Valerie restocked the fridge with food this morning, or I may have filled her belly with alcohol instead of food before dropping my bombshell.
I secure two wine flutes from a cabinet above the cooktop before returning to Harlow’s side. Her eyes widen when I fill her cup to the very brim.
“Are you trying to get me tipsy so you can kiss me again? Or are you hoping to avoid the deceased parent conversation?”
“A bit of both,” I admit, hoping my honest answer will defuse the interrogative bomb brewing in her eyes.
Harlow raises her glass to her mouth before murmuring, “One question?”
Realizing it is rude to invite her into my home then close myself off, I agree, “Okay.”
She takes a quick sip of her wine, moans, then asks, “How long ago did your mother pass?”
Fighting through the heaviness on my chest, I answer, “Nearly two years.”
An anxious twinkle forms in Harlow’s eyes before she asks, “And your dad?”
“That’s two questions.” I aim for my tone to be playful, but a snip of annoyance in my voice dampens my efforts.
Harlow’s shoulder touches her ear as her teeth rake her lower lip. Her sexy pout immediately changes my mood from dreary to lusty. “I know it’s technically two questions, but I’m not a woman who does anything in halves, Cormack.”
I smile, trusting the promise in her eyes.
“Besides, if you do this, I might let you kiss me hours earlier than you’re hoping.”
“Hours?” I glare at her like she is mad. I barely survived the thirty mile trip without resampling her mouth. I can’t endure hours.
She twists her lips in a totally sexy way. “Hmm, maybe?” The vibration of her words strips the mayhem from my gut. “If you’re lucky.”
“You don’t need luck when you have skill.” I cockily wink before adding on, “My father died five years ago. It wasn’t soon enough in my book.”
Harlow balks for the quickest second. I don’t blame her. My words whipped off my tongue so quickly, they were like daggers. She is lucky she didn’t get nicked.
Yearning to get our evening back on track, I lock my eyes with hers and ask, “Would you kill me if I used frozen puff pastry for the wellington?”
“Depends.” She screws her nose up in a way that shouldn’t be cute to a twenty-eight year old man, but is. “Do you like your nuts salty or plain?” The cheeky grin on her face reveals she isn’t talking about peanuts. She has my family jewels in her sight. Finally. “Because I’ll cut them off and serve them to you if you make me eat frozen pastry.”
“Alrighty then.” I cough to settle the nerves from my throat before saying, “You’re going to need to guide me through this. I’ve never made pastry from scratch before.”
“Oh, turn it up.” Harlow stops stirring stewing apples on the stovetop to peer at the speaker dock on the kitchen counter. “I love this song.”
I nearly tell her that it is a track my record label produced, but the sexy swing of her hips steals my words. I thought seeing her command my kitchen with the same edge a prima ballerina uses on stage was a spectacular visual. It’s got nothing on her dance moves. Her hips are barely swinging, but their natural roll is mesmerizing.
Harlow’s list of attractive qualities has grown exceptionally the past two hours, but she isn’t the only one amassing points. I’ve learned a lot about myself this evening. Most particularly, my patience is a lot higher than first perceived. Not once have I shamefully begged for Harlow’s no-kissing ban to be lifted. I respected her decision like a man. . . by keeping my hints to bare minimum. It’s been a very hard feat.
Not dating comes with its advantages. I can do what I want, when I want. But I’m learning quickly that it also has its disadvantages. I don’t know how to seduce. Are the little smiles Harlow has been giving me all night pleasing ones or is she grimacing? Should I be more assertive or let her take the lead? Every man wants to be an alpha, but Harlow doesn’t seem like a woman willing to hand over the reins. Don’t get me wrong, I like that about her. I’m just sailing blind. If it didn’t make me seem like a man with half a cock, I’d ask Harlow for some pointers.
I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. If she didn’t want to be here, wouldn’t she have left hours ago? She seems comfortable, like she has always belonged.
After walking me through the process of making puff pastry from scratch, she continued showing off her culinary skills by whisking up an apple crumble without so much of a glance at a recipe card. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t put in that much effort for someone I didn’t like.
Seeing Harlow in her element has been a mind-blowing experience. She floats around my kitchen with ease, her grace natural yet enticing. I sit at the side, mesmerized and in awe. I also feet a smidge of guilt. To achieve my dream, I have to steal Harlow’s. That’s a bitter pill to swallow. One I hope she’ll consume without too much backlash.
When “Surrender Me” switches to the ballad part of the song, I hold out my hand in offering to Harlow. “Can I have this dance?”
Her head slants to the side, and her brow rises in suspicion, but she still accepts my gesture. The beautiful giggles she releases when I twirl her around my kitchen make me want to pinch myself. I’ve got a beautiful woman in my arms, glancing up at me like I’m a king. You can’t get better than this.
I haven’t been on a date in over a decade, and although I’m not one hundred percent sure this is a date, I’m going to give myself a pat on the back for a job well done.
We waltz around for another four songs, the change of beat in the music inspiring our steps. Although my kitchen isn’t overly large, the limited floor space doesn’t impede us. We dance apart to the fast songs, but come together for the slower, more intimate ones. Harlow’s sweat-drenched temples add to the yummy scent lingering in the air, and the energy bristling between us makes the furnace unnecessary.
Our feet only stop moving when Kanye West starts singing about his love of hoes. I’m glad he loves his hoes, but his idea of music isn’t date material, and the last thing I want is for Harlow to believe I’m a man whore. I’ve already got an uphill battle smoothing the massive bumps she doesn’t know are lodged between us. I don’t need more obstacles.
“You don’t love it?” Harlow giggles when I twirl her toward the docking station to skip to another song on my playlist.
My chance to reply is stolen when she spins around to grind her ass on my crotch. “Every song has its place in your heart. You’ve just got to make the rhythm work for you.”
This kills me to admit, but I now love Kanye West. The deep, slow tempo of the bass ensures Harlow’s ass remains glued to my rapidly thickening cock. The only downfall is the length of the song. It only lasts a little over two minutes. I need at least another thirty. Or a lifetime, whatever Harlow’s willing to give.
Acting like she can’t feel the rock sitting behind my zipper, at the end of the song, Harlow shimmies back to the stovetop. I stand frozen in the middle of my dining room, knowing I’m being played but incapable of stopping it—not that I ever would.
She wants me on my knees. I’m already halfway there.
“Good?”
Harlow drags her finger along the rim of her bowl before popping it into her mouth. The husky moan she releases makes me wish I didn’t throw another log onto the fire. I’m burning up everywhere—stupidly annoying cheeks and all.
Harlow has practically licked the bowl her apple crumble was served in clean, but it doesn’t stop her emitting her ten hundredth moan of the night. I know what she is doing. She’s getting payback. I kissed her, promised I’d call, didn’t, dissed her for a month, then interrupted her on a date. I deserve to be teased.
Although the throb of my cock hasn’t eased the past four hours, it’s been a fun night. We’ve talked, l
aughed, and commiserated about lost loved ones. She also accepted my apology for what happened last month without requesting further explanation. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me admire her more.
When you take life at face value, it loses its appeal fairly quickly. Harlow is proving that theory doesn’t work the same on people. She accepts everyone at face value, bad points and all.
After removing her finger from her mouth, Harlow murmurs, “It was alright, but it’s missing something.”
“Really? I thought it was delicious. The apples are from a local orchard. You can’t get fresher than that.”
“Yeah, I know. Still seems a little off, though.” Harlow locks her eyes with mine, the lust in them thickening my cock to the point of pain.
“Maybe you should taste it again? Then you can figure out what’s wrong with it before we hand it over to Augustus and Valerie,” I suggest, my tone as deep as my morals are sitting.
With a nod, she scoots closer to me, the blanket draped across her legs falling away in the process. Just before she can serve herself a second helping of pie, I snatch the dish out from beneath her nose.
Her grumbled, “Hey!” stuffs into the back of her throat when I inch my crumble-loaded fork toward her mouth. As a gleam brightens her eyes, her mouth cracks open. My mind blurs between reality and fantasy when her lips circle the same piece of steel my mouth has been touching all night.
The moan she frees should be illegal, because there is no way in hell a sane man could hear it and not respond. She should thank her lucky stars I’ve already had my brush with the law, or I’d be removing the crumbs from her mouth with my tongue.
“It’s definitely missing something,” Harlow mumbles through a moan.
She’s crazy. Second only to her mouth, her pie is the most delicious thing I’ve ever sampled.
When I tell her that, the sexual tension bristling between us ramps up even more. Her endeavor to reacquaint our lips is so daring, she dives over the table nestled between us. Dishes clatter to the ground at the exact moment her mouth lands on mine. A groan rolls up my chest when she drags her tongue along the seam of my lips, sampling me as eagerly as she did her dessert.
“Mmmm. I found the missing element,” she murmurs a short time later. “We had the sugar; we just forgot the spice.”
Chapter Nine
Harlow
I give Cormack five seconds to deny my advance before sweeping my tongue across his gaped mouth for the second time. Although he doesn’t voice an opinion, him adjusting my position so I am sitting in his lap is all the go ahead I need. I don’t protest his thickened rod rubbing my core. I just surrender to the savagery of our kiss. We’ve been teasing each other for hours, so it is only fair we are equally sexually frustrated.
I should be mad at the circumstances of our gathering, but all I am feeling is euphoria. Cormack seduced me so well tonight, my feet have barely touched the ground. I valiantly tried to reel back my excitement after our touching exchange in the alleyway, but his attentiveness knocked down every barrier I placed between us within seconds. I shouldn’t be surprised; my daddy always said, “The higher you build the walls around your heart, the faster they will fall.”
I’m not saying I’m falling for Cormack. I just love the way he makes me feel. For so long, I’ve sat outside the sandbox, watching everyone else have fun. It is nice to finally be included in the festivities. Love is a battlefield, but playing it safe is boring. A mix up is as good as a vacation, and I’m well overdue for a couple of vacation days.
I understand Cormack has a past, but who doesn’t? Baggage is normal—that’s how we become who we are. Just admitting he has secrets made him more endearing. Does it mean I’ll let him off scot-free? No chance in hell. He said he was sorry. I accepted his apology. So as far as I am concerned, that stage of our life is now over.
My body melts from the smooth, precise strokes of Cormack’s tongue. The way he nibbles at my lips and growls into my mouth makes me at once gooey and sexually coiled. I’ve had the first nervous, fumbling kiss, and one with a wannabe rock star. The “I love you forever” kiss, and the full of false promises one. But I’ve never been kissed like I am being wholly consumed before.
I thought the kiss Cormack and I shared in his conference room would forever hold the top spot in my most outstanding kisses award, but it seems like an innocent schoolyard peck compared to now. This one is full of passion, need, and mutual attraction. We kiss like we didn’t just devour a meal. It is hungry and fierce. I claw at his firm pecs while grinding against his stiffened shaft. The fire inside me is so voracious, I don’t see it letting up any time soon.
“Please,” I shamefully beg when Cormack stops my needy exploration of the skin hidden by his dress shirt and extended trousers.
My heart thuds into my ribcage when he draws back. His eyes are as hungry as mine, his desires just as strong. “Patience, Harlow. We need to exercise patience.” His lusty voice doesn’t match the strain on his face.
Blinded by a cloud of need, I grip the hem of my shirt and drag it over my head. My brisk movements send my locks toppling to my bare shoulders. Cormack drinks me in, his pupils widening when he spots my strapless scalloped lace bra. It was a $14.95 special from Target, but he peers at it as if it is priceless.
“Patience is waiting for the storm to pass. Perseverance is dancing amongst the madness. I’m not a patient person, Cormack.”
While tracing the frilly material sitting just above my rib with his thumb, he rocks his hips forward. The pinch of his zipper against my core is excruciating, but in a euphoric, climax-chasing way.
Anticipation pumps into me hard and fast when he curls his hand around my neck to pull my mouth back to his. He answers the silent demands streaming out of me by kissing me so ravishingly, the first signs of an orgasm creep up on me only minutes later.
With excitement claiming every inch of me, I grind down hard, needing just a teeny bit more. Sensing my struggle, Cormack stands to his feet. Because I am straddled in his lap, I go right along with him. The sofa cushions our backs have been resting on the past hour cradle my ass when he places me down on them. After kicking the scatter cushions we used as chairs out of the way, he kneels in front of me.
“Oh for the love of sugar.” The visual of him wedged between my splayed thighs is too intense for a more mature response.
I never realized how broad Cormack’s shoulders are until now. My wide spread to fit him between my legs would reveal my damp panties to his ravenous gaze, but I’m too horny to care.
After soundlessly commanding the attention of my eyes, he raises the hem of my skirt until it resembles a belt. My thighs shudder when he releases a throaty groan.
“Did you wear these for Matthew?” He’s not angry, more upset than anything.
“Who?” I ask, clearly confused. My brain is too busy calming the raring pulse his growl caused to shuffle through the extensive list of men I interact with on a daily basis.
Although my reply doesn’t settle his question, it does ease the storm brewing in his gorgeous baby blues. With his heavy-hooded gaze locked on my wide eyes, he slips my lace panties to the side. A bit of hesitation trickles into my veins when his eyes drop to my aching sex. I’m not lacking confidence; I’m more interested in his reaction to discovering how wet his kisses made me. I’m drenched, and the scent of my pussy is lingering in the air.
When Cormack returns his eyes to mine, the command in them is the strongest I’ve seen. He isn’t exerting control over me, though. He’s forcing it on himself. I just can’t fathom why?
“Do you want me to touch you, Harlow?” His low tone reveals the ball is entirely in my court. If I want this to stop, it will stop immediately—no questions asked.
“God, yes,” I murmur, returning his serve with the eagerness of a woman in need. I am practically panting, dying to be consumed by him. I’ve never been more desperate.
With painstaking slowness, he pushes his finger inside me. My n
onexistent sex life the past two years slows his endeavor, but the wetness between my legs makes it not as obvious. My body calls out in both relief and euphoria when his thumb slides over my pulsating clit at the same time his finger discovers the sweet spot inside me.
“Again. Please.” I don’t care that I’m begging. It’s not desperate if it gets you off.
Cormack holds down my bucking hips with his other hand before increasing the tempo of his pumps. He watches me crumble beneath him, the strain on his face as he holds back his excitement heightening my arousal more. I flatten my tongue on the roof of my mouth to soften my screams. That only triples Cormack’s determination.
My eyes snap shut when his mouth joins the thigh-quaking party. He drags his tongue up my damp slit, his pleasing growl bringing my excitement to within an inch of the finish line. While suckling on my clit, he stretches me wide with the addition of a second finger.
We pant together, our breathing shallow as we struggle to find oxygen through the lust permeating the air. The lashes of his tongue follow the rhythm of my pulse—fast and frantic. He devours me with more appreciative moans than he made while eating dessert.
I should be concerned at how quickly he’s knocked down my walls, but I’m not. Every twenty minutes we spend together feels like a week, so we are well on our way to third base material.
This also feels right. A woman should feel cherished when a man kneels before her, and that is exactly what I’m feeling. I feel empowered that I can listen to the desires of my body without qualm or conjecture. I am a woman. This is my body. So I am free to do with it as I see fit.
A juddering moan spills from my lips. “I’m close. . .”
The lashes of Cormack’s tongue on my clit send shockwaves down my legs. It is the final push I need for my climax to reach fruition. As my heart rate tapers, my pussy clamps around his fingers. He continues with his steady pace, heralding the arrival of my orgasm with an intimacy rarely shared between strangers. It is neither awkward or nerve-building. It is perfect.
