Despite obeying the speed limit, I was five minutes early. I hated being early. It was like having to wait for the same thing twice. Jenn’s car was parked in the spot closest to the kitchen door and I could see her shadow moving around the kitchen. Rather than waiting for the appointed time, I walked to the back entrance and knocked.
I heard some rustling from within and then ignored the anticipatory jump in my pulse. I liked how she looked, that was it. I was not excited to see her. I hadn’t been counting the hours. I was looking forward to the end of our arrangement. I did not need her in my life distracting me.
I was going to take her to Big Todd’s. She was going to get a sex toy. She was going to feel empowered. She would use it and I would not think about her using it. And then, with any luck, this big step would be the last help she needed from me. She’d be standing up to her momma, speaking her mind, and getting off on weekdays.
. . . Getting off work. Not getting off getting off. Work. Getting off work. Yep.
Jennifer opened the door and I stepped back, gulping in air and crossing my arms over my chest. I was ready to get this over with.
“Hi, Cletus.” She smiled, soft and open. Her big, bright eyes moved between mine, and her whole face lit up, as though illuminated from within by sunshine and angel dust.
I lost my train of thought because it was replaced by, It’s too soon. I’m not ready.
“Come on in. I have cookies.” Jennifer reached for my arm and pulled me into the kitchen, shutting the door behind me. “It’s cold outside, where’s your jacket?”
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, never mind.” Jennifer walked around to face me and rubbed her hands up and down my arms. She then entwined our fingers together and brought my palms to her cheeks, pressing them there. “Goodness. You’re so cold.”
She grinned up at me, shivering, sharing her warmth as though I had a right to it. I stared at her. In truth, I stared at my hands on her face. I was experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. I’d had a dream like this, where I held her face between my palms and then we’d devoured each other.
Instinct had me licking my lips and the movement drew her eyes to my mouth.
Her grin waned.
I tiled her chin.
She let me.
Her breathing changed.
I stepped forward.
She smelled like vanilla and nutmeg.
Her eyes drifted shut.
And I marveled at the beauty of her trust as my mouth laid claim to hers.
CHAPTER 18
“Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air”
― Robert Frost
Cletus
Her lips were soft and delicious. So fucking delicious.
If I’d been in a thinking state of mind, I would’ve been surprised by her responsiveness, how she wrapped her arms around my neck, stepped fully into my space, and pressed both her mouth and body flush against mine. How she wanted to be as close as possible even though I was cold and dirty and she was warm and clean.
But I was not in a thinking state of mind. I was in a covetous state of mind. And a wish fulfillment state of mind.
I lifted my head to nip lightly at her bottom lip, sweeping my tongue across it. I wanted to taste more of her, every part of me demanded it. She moaned, tilting her chin, parting her mouth and shifting restlessly. I licked between her lips and her sweet tongue darted out, touching mine.
And that was basically it. That’s all it took for me to lose my mind.
Recapturing her mouth, heedless to her lack of experience, I devoured her like I’d wanted to do for weeks. I tasted her from every angle. I slid my hands down her body, taking pleasure in the feel of her curves and yielding suppleness.
I backed her into the kitchen, halting when her legs connected with the counter. Grabbing her backside, I lifted her to the tabletop and stepped between her open knees. She was gasping, breathing heavily, and digging her nails into the back of my head and shoulder. She was excited, and her excitement fueled my madness.
In my imaginings, the next step would be slipping my hands under her skirt, lifting it by trailing my fingertips up her thighs while she unbuttoned the front of her dress. Then I’d bend forward and . . .
Well.
Then things would progress.
Sinful flashes of fantasy were an excellent reminder of the old adage too much, too soon. Maybe she’d let me touch her. If she did, then she would come, legs spread, dress open. She’d pulse around my fingers on the kitchen counter where she baked her cakes.
And afterward, would she regret it?
Probably.
I would regret it . . . mostly.
But part of me wouldn’t. Part of me would treasure the memory. Part of me would push for more, laying her back while she was still confused and overwhelmed. Lifting her legs up and over my shoulders, skimming my fingers down the backs of her thighs and making her shiver, tasting her arousal on my tongue, her pulse against my lips, and bringing her to climax again. I would treasure that, too.
And perhaps I’d want even more.
Perhaps I’d push down my pants and fill her, take her, claim her.
Because she trusts me, and she’d let me, and she would feel so very good, and hot, and wet, and mine . . .