“Fuck.”
I turned from her, wrenching my mouth from hers, and barely escaping the momentum of my bad intentions. I was shaking, scorching hot, and so very hard. The kitchen was too close, the space suffocating; her breathing filled my ears, a gentle and alluring beacon.
I didn’t quite have control of myself, not yet, and I hated not having control.
I stalked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The frigid gust of late-autumn wind a welcome and sobering diversion. Ironically, the very fixation that brought me to this moment had been responsible for my eventual sobriety.
It was time for a stern talking-to. Clearly I required a harsh lecture and firm reminder as to what in the hell I was doing.
The entire point of me being here, of these lessons, was to help this woman learn how to stand on her own, make her own choices, not make them for her. I wasn’t going to be another person she trusted who took without asking, who made her decisions and perpetuated the vacuum of ignorance.
You will not be an asshole, Cletus Byron Winston. You will not take advantage. You will not.
“Why’d you stop?”
A short burst of laughter escaped my lungs. She was right behind me. I hadn’t heard her approach. My guard was down, so I answered without artifice.
“Believe me, if you were any other woman, I wouldn’t have.” Once the words were out a dull ache radiated outward from my chest. I had an odd, fleeting notion that my heart was hurling itself against my ribs, seeking hers.
“Practice . . . right.” Jennifer sounded like she was speaking to herself and I heard her take a shuffling step backward.
I shook my head, but didn’t correct her. A tense moment followed, during which I pulled my bottom lip through my teeth, tasting her there. I briefly considered telling her a falsehood—specifically, that she still required more kissing practice.
She broke the silence by clearing her throat. “Come back inside. I, uh, have something to give you. Do you want coffee or tea?”
My stomach soured at the sound of her forced cheerfulness. When I was certain I wasn’t in danger of mauling her again, as long as I keep my distance, I turned and followed her into the kitchen, closing and locking the door behind me.
Jenn pushed a cat-shaped cookie jar toward me, then turned and set a kettle to boil on the stove. “I need you to eat these cookies.”
I eyeballed the cookie jar. “This looks like one of those Japanese good luck cats.”
“A maneki neko. Yes. The paw moves—see?” Jennifer touched the paw lightly and sure enough the cat cookie jar waved.
“Where’d you get it?” I asked, surprising myself because I actually wanted to know.
“Eat the cookies. I received it from one of my pen pals.” She hadn’t yet made eye contact with me, instead busying herself with random tasks, like wiping down the counter or ordering me to eat cookies. I didn’t like the ashen cast to her skin or the stiff line of her mouth.
“Did she visit? Japan?” I selected a cookie from the top of the jar and took a bite, but stopped myself before I moaned. The cookie tasted just like Jennifer. It tasted like vanilla and nutmeg and awesome.
“No. She’s from Japan. She lives there. You’re going to have to eat all the cookies.” Jenn’s tone was uncharacteristically flat, and her eyes were on the teapot in front of her.
A spike of something odd, like longing but also heavy with frustration, had me debating my next words. I wanted to see her eyes but she wasn’t giving them to me.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
I grabbed two more. “Why do I have to eat all the cookies?”
“Because.”
Because.
She offered no other explanation. And now she was frowning at the teapot. Her chin wobbled and the sight had my heart hurling itself against my ribs again. I gritted my teeth and she pressed her lips together in a stubborn line.
She was unhappy. I’d made her unhappy. Making Jennifer unhappy was officially the worst feeling in the world, right up there with disappointing my brother Billy and seeing my sister cry.
So I blurted, “Have you ever done a cookie stand?”
She shook her head, sniffing, turning away from me to grab two cups.
“What’s that?” Her voice was rough.
“It’s like a keg stand, but with cookies.”
Jenn’s movements stilled. She blinked. A new frown formed, but this one was thoughtful, not miserable.
“You mean where those people do a handstand and drink beer?”
“That’s right. But with cookies.”
“That sounds awful.”
“At least you don’t get crumbs on your shirt.” I bit into the third cookie.
“Yes, but,” Jenn shook her head, a hesitant smile claiming her luscious lips, “then they’d go up your nose.”
“That’s the best part. You can save them for later.”