“You don’t have to pretend to show interest in this stuff.” I waved my hand airily.
“I’m not pretending anything,” he replied.
I nodded, unconvinced, then gasped when he took hold of my shoulders and turned me toward him. He looked at me dead-on.
“I’m not pretending anything,” he repeated evenly.
When a man talks to you like that, you pay attention. You believe him. And in that moment, I believed Reece. I believed everything he’d ever say to me.
I nodded again, this time in respectful acknowledgement of his words.
“Good,” he said, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Now let’s make pancakes.”
Making pancakes with Reece was sexy. Eating pancakes with Reece was smoldering. Yes. I said smoldering. We sat at my vintage ‘50s four-top diner table, side by side, rolling bacon in our pancakes and dipping them in syrup. We stuffed ourselves, and then the real fun began. Reece held my hand up to his lips. My fingers were sticky with syrup, and he placed each one in his mouth, sucking gently, eliminating the need for me to wash my hands.
He dropped my hand and grabbed the sides of my chair, turning me to face him, my knees grazing the inside of his. He crooked his finger at me. I grinned and shook my head.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
“You have plans with that syrup. I can just tell,” I replied.
“Do not. Now come here. I wanna tell you something,” he ordered.
I hesitated for a second before leaning forward. He barely brushed my lips with his own. I inhaled the faint maple sweetness on his breath and wanted him to kiss me again. This time not a peck. This time long, deep, and demanding.
He sealed his lips to mine. And then he spoke against them.
“I’m the one who came up with Beboppin’ Bailey, just so you know,” he whispered.
I grinned. “So I guess you were irritated with Christopher for stealing it?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Well, it’s even cuter now that I know you thought of it,” I said.
“Good,” he replied.
I’d never had a conversation with someone as our lips touched. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me—prolonging the moment right before our tongues mingled—or if he just had some things he really needed to get off his chest.
“I saw your little red pants first,” he continued. “That’s all it took.”
“My sister hates them,” I replied. I’ve no idea why that popped into my mind.
“Fuck your sister,” Reece said. “She doesn’t count.”
“She’s getting married before I am.”
“So?”
“She’s seven years younger.”
“And you’re prettier. So there.”
I couldn’t take it any longer. I was squirming in my seat. I grabbed his face and held him still, pressing my lips to his as hard as I could. It was a desperate “thank you” kiss because he was kind to me and said all the right things.
He kissed me back. Just as forcefully. And then he pulled back a fraction.
“I’m initiating all of this. You hear? I gave you the theater because I thought it was cute, but this? Right here? This is all me. So sit still,” he said.
I don’t “obey” people. That’s not what I do. But I wanted to obey him. I wanted him to tell me what to do for the rest of the day.
I froze when his mouth touched mine again. He nibbled my lips and asked me why I tasted so sweet. I didn’t respond, and he asked again.
“Because I just ate pancakes?” I said.
He took the opportunity of my talking to ease his tongue into my mouth. He was good, this one, and I gave him what I knew he wanted: my tongue. My body sparked with that anticipation of something new. A new mouth. New set of eyes. New voice and smile and body. I already loved all the newness about this stranger in my kitchen.
He kissed me deeply. Just how I wanted and needed. He explored every part of my mouth, violating me in the sweetest way with a maple syrup tongue. He pulled me onto his lap, spreading my legs on either side of his thigh. I twisted my body to look at him, and he shook his head.
“Face forward,” he said.
I obeyed and sat waiting, anticipating his next move. I didn’t have to wait long. He brushed my hair aside and planted kisses on the back of my neck, over and over. And then my right shoulder. I felt his hands slide under my tank top, gliding up and down my back.
“Is this too much?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“And what if I took your top off altogether? Too soon?”
“We’re adults.” What a dumb response.
He hesitated for a half second before he took hold of the sides of my tank top and pulled it over my head. He tossed it on the floor, and I sat on his lap, facing away from him. No bra. I wondered if he expected a bra. I also wondered if he was back there making faces over my spray tan.
“You have a really pretty back,” he said.
“Aside from the botched tan?” I asked.
“It’s beautiful.”
I giggled.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just, you don’t often hear back compliments. That’s all.”
He made some sound from deep in his throat, then ran his hands over my back. He brought them to my shoulders, then ran them down again. Up and down. Up and down—encouraging my eyes to close and head to fall forward. I was lost in a semi-sleepy haze, afraid I might tumble off his leg but powerless to fight the overwhelming urge to sink into deep sleep. He slipped his hands around my sides and cupped my breasts, pinching my nipples gently. I snapped my head up.
“Oh good. You’re awake,” he cooed.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, letting my head fall back onto his shoulder.
He played with my nipples, rubbing his palms over them until they turned painfully hard. I pushed my body against his hands, and he cupped my breasts again, pinching my nipples harder.
I yelped and squirmed on his thigh, stimulating my clit, begging him to touch me between my legs.
“You,” he whispered.
“Me what?” I panted.
“Touch yourself.”
I flushed crimson. I’d never masturbated in front of a guy before. I’m not a prude; I’d just never done it.
I shook my head.
“Why?” he asked, massaging my breasts.