Her nightgown is nearly translucent in the moonlight. I can see every line of her body—the bright white and pale blue, like she’s glowing. And I feel a little nuts with wanting her, kind of frenzied.
I grab her into my arms, kiss her, sloppy and needy. When I let her go after a minute, her shoulders are up to her ears. Jumping all over her is clearly not going to get me laid tonight.
I take a step back as I take the rest of the blanket from around her feet and lay it out on the ground.
The thing I have going for me here is that she’s been harboring a little fantasy about this, about sex outside. She told me once. I think she was picturing a picnic on a summer day and lots of girly Jane Austen shit. This might do though—the moon, the night, me.
I’ve never been gladder that she wanted to live in the country, even with the commute. No neighbors can see us.
I tug my T-shirt over my head, down my arms and off in one quick motion. She steps away, finally fully waking, I think. I step forward, dropping my shirt, intent to have her in my arms again, but telling myself to take it slow.
“You want me to come after you?” I ask. Silly woman, if she thinks I don’t want her, I am more than willing to show her she’s wrong.
She’s backing away from me, eyes on my face, my lips.
“I feel a little strange tonight,” she says. “A little unhinged.”
I can definitely work with unhinged.
“You want me to chase you?” I ask, moving slowly toward her. I am only half joking. “You want to be wanted?”
She laughs at me then, and I catch her up in my arms. It’s only a minute before I have the nightgown up and over her head. She quickly discards my enemy the nursing bra, and she’s standing there in panties that I’m already tugging off. When she’s bare, she’s like some otherworldly goddess from an old painting or something, standing before me, unreal and elementally beautiful, and I just want to feel her tits pressed up against my chest.
She reaches down to my belt, and feeling her unbuckle me, unbutton me, unzip me—I almost lose it. She hasn’t done that in so long.
When she drops to her knees, I actually stop her. I know. But I won’t last long with her mouth on me. And it’s just going to make me rush everything until I’m inside her. But she’s insistent and when she leans forward and places a wet kiss right on the tip, my resistance melts.
Then it’s one long lick up the shaft, and she takes me in her mouth. Then it’s wet and heat and suction and I put my hands in her hair, just feeling her move on me. Something’s changed though. Where did she pick this up? Is this like some womanly wisdom passed from one new mother to another in all those classes and books? Whatever it is, her mouth feels incredible, and I stop her, and kneel down, lest this whole thing end much earlier than either of us would like.
Don’t judge my stamina. I’ve been deprived of my wife for months now.
I kiss her then, rougher than I’ve probably ever kissed her. And since turnabout is fair play, I lean her back and kiss right under her navel. She’s squirming to get away from me but it only makes her body look divine, curvy flesh in icy pale, and I think I might lose my mind. I kiss her right next to her hip, but there’s no denying she doesn’t want me kissing her any lower.
I’m not going to push her now. Though I’d love nothing more than to taste her; she smells incredible.
When I lift my head up, she pushes at my shoulder, and I roll onto my back for her. She pushes me down into the blanket and straddles my hips, her hot hands locked on my chest, and I think I understand. It’s her turn now.
With an immediate and wet slip of her hips, I’m sheathed to the base. No preamble, no nothing, and it’s overwhelming.
She is heat and home, both familiar and new, that feeling of being engulfed. She is magnificent in the moonlight. I grab her hips and push up into her with a groan, wanting more, always, but she goes still.
“Does that feel good?” she asks.
“Oh god. So fucking good.”
“Then…” she says, and it’s a statement. She takes first one of my hands off her waist and then the other and places them over my head. I lick her nipple—it is, after all, right in my face—and she gives me the look. Then she grinds down on me, and there’s no way I’m moving my hands from over my head.
She rides me in the moonlight. And she looks amazing, feels fucking superb. But if I move, make even the slightest thrust, she stops. So I lie there in exquisite surrender, her motionless prey. And, I’ve gotta admit, I feel pretty wanted.
Her breasts bouncing above me, her hips grinding, the slick feel of her is heaven after missing her like I have. I smell grass and sex, and clench my hands in fists over my head to keep from touching her. She’s looking down at where we’re joined, watching as she moves me in and out with long hard strokes, and it almost kills me.
“You’re watching us,” I whisper. “Oh god, Els…” And I understand now. It’s changed. Something we’ve done countless times is made new and better because of who we are to each other now. Because with the creation of our family, we will be bound together—always. And yet, here we are, still the same two lovers as when we first met.
And tonight she’s in control.
She rides me until I can tell she’s found it. She gasps, and then comes the hard grind as she falls onto my chest, skin on skin, mouth open on mine and I know she’s close. I can move now, can bring my arms down to embrace her, to work her, to make her come. Until I too am falling into the night under the full moon with the only goddess I’ve ever worshipped, in my arms, above me.
PROOF
Mia Hopkins
Emma headed straight for the espresso machine behind the counter. She pulled herself two shots, slammed back the bitter liquid and felt herself slowly coming back to life.
“Hello, sleeping beauty,” said Lexi, peeking her head through the office door. “Your team is already in the kitchen. Come on.”
Emma let out a mighty yawn and followed her business partner into the office. Five years before, Emma and Lexi had opened the wildly successful Poppy Bakery in downtown Los Angeles. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into every detail. This week, they were facing their biggest project yet: catering the bread and desserts for the Governor’s Ball following the Academy Awards. While Lexi would manage the day-to-day operations for the bakery, Emma would oversee the cakes, pastries and bread for the nearly two thousand guests.
“So, what kind of pirate crew do you have for me?” asked Emma as she tied on her apron.
“I got you Akira,” said Lexi.
Trained in Paris and Tokyo, Akira was one of the most meticulous pastry chefs Emma had ever met. “Excellent,” she said.
“And since you’re making bread, I’ve invited an old favorite.” Lexi put on her reading glasses and tied back her curly silver hair. “Lavoie.”
Emma froze. “What?”
“Lucas Lavoie.”
The name alone made Emma’s skin tingle. “Oh,” she said quietly.
Lexi looked sideways at Emma. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing’s the matter,” Emma said. She smoothed back her messy hair as best she could. “Nothing at all,” she added. She smiled brightly at Lexi, even though her stomach had started to take a slow turn.
They walked from the office into the kitchen where Akira and Lucas were standing next to the bread station.
Had she known she was going to see Lucas today, Emma would have spent the night drinking wine and telling herself that she wasn’t the same person she was when she was twenty-two. She would have reminded herself that she was now capable, confident and completely immune to men with an overabundance of French-Canadian handsomeness. She would have practiced her facial expressions in the bathroom mirror.
Lucas! How nice to see you again. Casual surprise.
Hi, Lucas! Thanks for coming to help us out. Friendly professionalism.
Hey, what’s up? Neutral nonchalance.
But she hadn’t ha
d time to prepare. And now Lucas was here, standing in the middle of the kitchen, talking quietly to Akira about the difference between a starter and a leaven.
Emma felt the deep reverberation of his voice before she saw his face. She pursed her lips. How often had she daydreamed about seeing him again?
Lucas turned to face Lexi and Emma. High cheekbones, dark hair, short beard: he was the epitome of a gorgeous lumberjack. “My favorite California girls!” he exclaimed in his sexy accent. His smile was dazzling.
Before she knew what was happening, Emma had been scooped up along with Lexi into a big bear hug. Lucas was tall and crushed them against his broad chest, but what really struck Emma were his arms—sinuous, heavy with muscle and covered with a new brocade of tattoos. His skin was hot where it touched her wrist. The heat spread through her body like wildfire. When he put them down, Emma was trembling in her clogs as he gave both her and Lexi un bec, the Québécois kiss-kiss on each cheek.
Lexi turned to Akira and said, “Akira, this is Lucas Lavoie, owner-operator of Lavoie Boulangerie in Montreal. He is one of our dearest friends. Lucas helped Emma and me when we first opened.”
As Lexi reviewed the menu with Akira, Emma glanced up at Lucas. He was grinning and staring right at her. The intensity of his blue-gray gaze forced her to look away. As she kept her eyes glued on the stainless-steel surface of the worktable, she felt out of control, aroused and embarrassed—everything that Lucas had made her feel the night before he got on a plane five years ago and left her behind without a text, a note or even un bec goodbye.
“So, Emma,” he said quietly. “Ready to begin again?”
As she and Akira prepped the kumquat coulis sauce for the cheesecakes, Emma watched Lucas at the baker’s bench. He threw a thin coating of flour across the steel table and drew out his ratios right on the surface. Then he went to the storage room for flour, salt, sugar and yeast. Simple ingredients, but in the hands of a bread baker—Lucas’s hands—pure magic.
She tried not to stare as he worked. With efficiency and spare grace, he emptied a sack of flour into the mixer. The muscles in his arms swelled and slid beneath his skin. She had a flashback of what he looked like without his clothes on—his abs flexed, his chest covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
Akira turned to look at what she was staring at. “So what are you making?” he asked Lucas.
“Ficelles and grissini with bacon and parmesan. But small. Everything small.”
“Bread for a dollhouse,” said Akira.
“Exactly. It’s going to be a pain in the ass.”
They chuckled and Emma felt like the odd man out, overcome with awkwardness and an exasperated longing for Lucas that she couldn’t shake.
“I’m going to start on the cheesecakes,” she said to Akira. “Did you see the Valrhona chocolate in the storage room? Is it there?”
“The white chocolate? Yes. It’s there.”
In the cramped storage room, Emma loosened the top button of her chef’s jacket and slid her hand underneath, pressing her palm against her pounding heart. Her nonsense with Lucas was nearly five years ago. She needed to get a grip. As she bent down among the cartons and boxes to search for the white chocolate, she heard the door open.
“Akira, did you say it was in the storage room or the utility room?” she said, scanning the bottom shelves.
“It’s here.”
Lucas’s deep voice was soft, dampened in the enclosed space. He knelt down beside her on the tile and put his hand on her cheek. She could smell the flour on it, the clean, comforting scent of work and bread and home.
She started to move away. “You can’t—”
With a kiss, Lucas made her swallow her words. His lips were full and firm. The nerve endings in her lips fired bright sparkles into her brain. Overcome with surprise and pleasure, she parted her lips slightly, and he did the same. She felt the smooth, wet inner part of his mouth against hers. His short beard was soft against her chin.
Lost, Emma closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his fingers against her neck and throat. She curved into him, her body following the contour of his. His big hand slid underneath her chef’s jacket and she felt it on her chest, pressing down against the fluttering of her heart. With a deep groan, he pulled her in closer.
He teased the inside curve of her lips. With the tip of his tongue, he flicked the point of her top lip like he might flick her clit if he were going down on her. Her pussy—not her brain— remembered what that felt like, and all of a sudden she was in his lap on the floor of the storage room. Still kissing him, she straddled him as he leaned back against the metal shelves, gripping her asscheeks and pressing her down on the enormous erection in his jeans.
This is insane, she thought. But she couldn’t stop.
She dipped her tongue down into the sweet, musky darkness of his mouth like she were dipping a strawberry in chocolate, again and again until nothing but dark sweetness covered the berry, sealing in the juice.
With a groan, he broke their kiss. “I missed you so much, Emma,” he whispered. “If only you knew how much I thought about this. About you.”
She closed her eyes and let the sensations take her. Her hands clutching his rock-hard shoulders, she moved her hips up and down against the hard ridge of his cock.
“Did you find the white chocolate?” called Akira from the kitchen.
Emma’s eyes flew open and she froze, the spell broken. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I found it,” she said loudly. “Thank you.”
Slowly she stood up and steadied herself, buttoning up her jacket.
Lucas got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair.
“Thank god for aprons, huh?” he murmured, adjusting himself. For all his bearded manliness, he was blushing.
“I don’t know why that happened,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
“I do,” Lucas whispered, following her out. “And if I survive this shift with you, I want to make it happen again.”
Twelve hours later, the refrigerators were full of tiny cheesecakes. The proofing boxes were full of tiny loaves of bread made from a wild yeast starter that Lucas had brought with him from Canada. Fatigue blurring her vision, Emma locked the front and back doors of the bakery and waved goodbye to Akira as he rode away on his bike. Lexi and the rest of the crew were long gone.
“Back at the boulangerie, I’ve been experimenting with longer proofing times,” Lucas said as he walked Emma back to her loft a few blocks away. The sun was setting. After a steamy kitchen, the cool open air was a welcome change.
“Twelve hours is a long time to proof,” said Emma.
“Some dough just needs more time to rise,” he said with a smirk. “We’ll have a big bake-off tomorrow morning. You’ll see. The flavor will be remarkable.”
Traffic lurched down Spring Street. Loft dwellers, dog walkers, homeless people and patrol cops crowded the sidewalk. Emma and Lucas walked past a sidewalk cafe and a few women sitting at the tables nearly got whiplash checking out Lucas, which made Emma feel both disgusted and perversely smug. A late winter wind kicked up between the buildings. Emma put her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.
“You’re cold?” asked Lucas. “This is nothing.”
“I’m from Southern California. This is cold to me.”
Lucas put his arm around her shoulders and held her close. “I’ll keep you warm, ma mie.”
“Ma mie. What does that mean?” she asked. His body heat seeped through his clothes.
“It’s very old-fashioned. It means ‘my darling.’ Also, it means bread. The soft part. Inside the crust.”
They arrived at her building, an old bank that had been converted into lofts.
“Let me come up with you,” Lucas said.
Emma closed her eyes, trying to pretend that the sound of his voice didn’t send all the blood in her veins rushing straight to her clit. “I don’t know if that would be a good idea.”
“It’s a fantastic idea. I assure you.”
“I had a crush on you a long time ago. That’s it,” she said softly. Lucas was the best sex she’d ever had, bar none. No one else had ever come close.
He put his arms around her and whispered in her ear, “That’s not it and you know it. Please, Emma. Let me come upstairs.”
Lips locked in a ravenous kiss, they stumbled into her bedroom. Lucas untied Emma’s ponytail and ran his fingers through her dark hair. He stroked her face, his fingers skimming the burning surface of her skin. Under the spell of his touch, her face became a new erogenous zone. Her nerves pulsed with pure pleasure.
He undressed her in a heartbeat. After she unbuttoned his chef’s jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head, she looked up at him. He was a fantasy come true, all hard muscle and taut skin. A healthy amount of dark chest hair couldn’t hide his well-defined pecs or the ridges of his abs. His arms were glorious. A full-sleeve tattoo swirled from his wrist to the cap of muscle on his shoulder like the arm guard on a gladiator.
She stared. “What is your tattoo?”
“Lots of things.” As he smiled at her, a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. He pointed to designs embedded in the tattoo. “These are flowers from the flag of Montreal, a rose and a thistle. Dragon scales here, because I was born in the year of the dragon. And this. Do you recognize this?”
He pointed to a splash of burnt orange on the inside of his forearm.
“No. What is it?” she asked quietly, tracing the design with her fingertip.
“A reminder of your bakery,” he said. “Where I was happy. A California poppy.”
He pushed her gently onto the bed and kissed her until she was breathless. He kneaded her breasts with his big hands and then proceeded to lick and suck on her nipples until her mind went blank, overloaded with sensation.
When he kissed her again, her legs fell open and his hand slid down the center of her body before it stopped at her sex. After he pressed the heel of his palm gently against her soft hair, he curled his fingertips against the achingly hot, slick flesh between her legs. She grabbed his shoulders and shuddered into his kiss.
The One Who Got Away Page 8