Well, so am I.
He needed to pick one muffin, and stick with that muffin. He didn’t get to lay claim to all the muffins, because that’s not how life worked.
Lifting just his eyes to mine, he glared at me and I glared right back.
“Beauford Fitzgerald Winston.” His voice was a deep rumble. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. But you need to sort it out. I’m giving you a month.”
Elbowing the door ajar, Cletus took Jenn and the muffins straight to her car. I watched from the interior of the office, through the window as he opened the passenger door for her, handed off the plate to her care, and claimed the driver’s side for himself. Ten seconds later, they were gone.
And, as far as I was concerned, so was any claim he had on Shelly Sullivan.
He’d chosen his muffin, now he had to live with that choice. And whether or not she ultimately wanted his sausage was his problem.
The clatter of metal against metal cut through my thoughts, reminding me that I didn’t have the place to myself.
But more importantly, it reminded me that Shelly and I were now alone.
I was moving, out the side door of the office into the garage. Late-afternoon sun filled the space, glinting off alloy steel and nickel-plated tools. I spotted her immediately amidst the shards of light. She stood in front of a toolbox, her intelligent eyes singularly focused on some task.
I was still moving toward her, my feet knowing what to do before my brain made a decision. In a trance, they knew what I wanted before I’d acknowledged it.
She glanced up, did a double take. The slight twitch of her eyebrows, the subtle parting of her lips telling me she found something about me surprising . . . maybe the speed of my gait, maybe the look in my eyes.
Before I could reach her, I dispassionately noted she backed up, but then seemed to catch herself, regaining the step she’d lost and lifting her chin stubbornly. Man, I really loved it when she did that, when she stood her ground, reckless in her bravery.
Crowding her space, I lifted my hands and cupped her jaw, my attention singularly focused on her mouth.
That mouth. Those lips. Her tongue. After torturing myself with dreams, the moment didn’t feel real.
I waited, breathing her air. She shivered, not saying a word. Her fingers came to my wrists, wrapped around them, holding on. And she was breathing hard, like she was fighting a battle I couldn’t see.
I lifted my eyes to hers.
But this time, instead of bracing myself against the impact of her gaze, I relished in the skipping of my heart, covering her mouth with mine on the second beat.
13
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
* * *
*Beau*
This woman was essential and kissing her was essential. The sounds she made, the way her body moved—straining toward mine—the way her hands slid from my wrists to my waist, pulling me closer by my T-shirt . . . All of it was essential.
But the taste of her, the greedy press of her lips, the hot and hungry stroke of her tongue—that was madness.
I didn’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t. Where essential met madness, that’s where I was.
Somehow, I’d backed her up and had her pressed firmly against the wall while cradling the back of her head, angling her how I wanted, how I needed. She gasped against my mouth, her fingers lifting my shirt, searing my skin, and digging into the muscles at my sides. Her hands were hot and just as greedy as her lips.
We kissed for a long time. We kissed for so long, it went from urgent to incensed, to savoring, to sweet. I trailed love bites from the corner of her mouth to her jaw. I listened to her breath hitch, and then grow even. She struggled to get closer, and once satisfied, she melted in my arms.
A pliant Shelly was an unexpected development, and it fueled my first thought: I need to see her.
Leaving a path of tender kisses from her neck to her cheek—then stealing a few more from her obliging lips—I tilted my head back, opening my eyes.
Hers were still closed. Her chin strained upward, searching for my mouth. At some point, we’d become tangled in each other, our bodies plastered together: one of her legs was wrapped around my thigh; her arms around my neck; one of my hands gripped her hip, the other the back of her head.
I released a breath of wonder, because I was seeing her now, the real her, this starving creature she kept locked up tight. Her body near vibrated with longing, and yet it was as if she’d pushed and pushed until a blast radius had formed around her.
Why had she done that?
Her lashes fluttered, lifted, revealing her striking eyes. Their hazy tranquility arrested me, caused my lungs to seize for a second.
“Hi.” The greeting sounded just as dazed as she looked.
I allowed myself a moment to enjoy her relaxed features, the openness of her gaze, how she looked at me like I might be imaginary—but in a good way, the best way.
“Hi,” I whispered back, placing a light kiss on her nose, and then giving her a soft smile.
Shelly’s gaze dropped to my lips. She stared for two or three seconds, and then flinched abruptly. Sobriety seemed to come over her all at once, and with it—if I was reading her correctly—fear.
Her arms dropped, she disentangled her leg, and I felt where our chests pressed together that her heart was racing.
“Let me go,” she demanded, her voice unsteady.
Confused and reluctant, but still warm from our encounter, I stepped away.
Shelly swayed forward, and then seemed to catch herself. Firmly entrenched in her glacial palace, she straightened, crossed her arms, and shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Her behavior disappointed me, but wasn’t at all surprising. I had just marched in here and kissed the hell out of her without a prelude or invitation.
Why had I done that?
Because I wanted to.
Since when did I do stuff just ’cause I wanted to?
Since five minutes ago.
Clearly, she required a moment to gather her thoughts. I wouldn’t touch her again, though the urge was almost unbearable. Instead, I placed my hands on my hips. Waiting for her to speak, I unconsciously drew my bottom lip into my mouth, tasting her.
We stood like that for maybe ten seconds before she darted around me and jogged out of the garage. I registered too late that her expression was wild with mounting distress. Her motion created an answering momentum in my body; I turned, swaying toward her retreating form as she left.
Clearheadedness finally arrived, dowsing me like a bucket of iced water. My chest was tight with it.
“Fuck.” I gritted my teeth, the curse slipping past before I could catch it.
Really, what the hell had I been thinking?