“Okay, good work, team.” My mother closes the oven door and sets the timer. Then she lifts the edge of her apron to dab her flushed face.
“We’re off, are we?” Grandpa lifts the apron over his head. “I just need five minutes to get beautiful.”
Rickie is washing dishes in the sink, a job that he volunteered for in a hurry, probably because it involves splashing cool water around beside the open window. I’m stuck scraping pastry dough off the table and wiping everything down.
“Daphne, you’ll take these pies out when they’re done?” my mother asks. “There’s fifty-five minutes on the timer.”
“Of course,” I say as a trickle of sweat runs down my back. “I might have to escape to the air conditioning upstairs while I wait.”
“That’s probably wise.” She removes her apron. “See you in a bit.”
The kitchen is shipshape a few minutes later, and my mother drives Grandpa off to town. I toss my apron onto the counter and eye the oven timer.
Rickie turns around, parks his muscular ass against the sink and spreads his delicious arms wide. “Gosh, how shall we spend fifty minutes? Got any fun ideas?”
“Nope,” I grunt.
Except I do. And the arrogant man in the frilly apron knows it. He pulls that ridiculous thing over his head and tosses it on top of mine. I’m overheated in every possible way.
Rickie's eyes never leave mine as he takes a glass out of the cupboard, fills it with water and gulps it down. And a few things become crystal clear to me:
1. There is nobody else home.
2. It's very hot in here.
3. Rickie and I are alone together, and I don’t trust myself.
4. I can't leave, either, because of those pies.
4(a). I don't even want to.
He sets the glass down on the counter. "You're thinking so hard there's steam coming out of your ears."
“That's just the weather.”
He smiles dangerously. And why does sweat look so good on him? It probably looks pretty awful on me. In fact, I’m sure it does. And now I know exactly what to do with the forty-odd minutes before the oven timer dings. I need a cool shower. Stat.
I break off our little staring contest. “You know, I think I'll head upstairs and…”
Rickie slides his body sideways before I finish, his movement stealthy. Where is he going?
My competitive instincts kick in, and I make a move toward the stairs. But Rickie has a head start. He turns and darts ahead of me, grasping the railing, and leaping up the first stair treads two at a time.
Now I'm in hot pursuit. What the hell? I didn’t even say the word shower out loud.
But it doesn’t matter. At the top of the stairs, Rickie breaks to the left and disappears. By the time I reach the second-floor hallway, I find him in the bathroom, where he's cranking on the water.
I barge in, livid. "You said you were an only child!"
“Yeah, I am," he says, testing the water temperature with one hand.
"I call bullshit. That was a classic sibling move.''
He laughs. “Some people need training, Shipley, and some people are natural-born assholes." Proving his point, he flips his hand, and a spray of water arcs onto my face and sweaty tank top.
“Y-You...!" I sputter, while he laughs. Then he reaches back with one hand and strips off his T-shirt.
And there it is at close range—his shapely, infuriating, tattooed chest, glistening with sweat. How can a girl think with that in her face?
”You knew I wanted the shower!" I complain.
“Don’t be a sore loser, Shipley. There's room for two.” He pops the button on his shorts.
Then? He leans in and kisses my shocked, angry mouth.
For once, I'm not even surprised. But that doesn’t mean I'm ready. I'll never be ready for one of Rickie's kisses. I feel a jolt when those firm lips land on mine. It's like waking up to find yourself in the middle of a terrific party. Your whole body is invited, but your brain forgot the date and time.
He doesn't ease me into it, either. He's all slick heat and salt and pressure. It’s a kiss that demands an answer.
And I fold like a bad hand of poker. I step closer instead of backing away. His confidence is like a drug, and the sound of the shower muffles the loud arguments in my head.
Rickie licks into my mouth with the finesse of a man who already knows that he's won. The slide of his naughty tongue against mine delivers another jolt to my overtaxed hormones.
He makes a soft sound of pleasure, and his wet hands lift my top over my head. “Come on,” he whispers between kisses. “Cool off with me.”
My last rational decision is to kick the bathroom door shut.
Amazon: https://geni.us/AmazonWaylaid Apple: https://geni.us/AppleWaylaid Google: https://geni.us/GoogleWaylaid
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire
Merci pour votre commentaire. Je le validerai après l'avoir lu . Belle journée et merci pour votre fidélité