by S. Walden
“May I come over?” Reece asked.
“You wanna come over here?” I breathed, heartbeat ramping up.
“Sure. Why not?” he replied. “We could cook breakfast together.”
What? I didn’t know if the offer was sweet or weasely. I’m not a distrusting person, but this seemed a bit too forward. I mean, the only time I ever cooked breakfast with a guy was when he stayed over. It’s an intimate thing, cooking breakfast with someone. And it usually falls at the end of a certain order of events: 1. Go on a date. 2. Invite guy back for a drink. 3. Make out hard. 4. Sex. 5. Sleep over. 6. Put coffee on. (For him, not me.)
“It’s just a ploy to see where you live and to learn more about you,” Reece said. It’s like he could read my thoughts. “I don’t have any other agenda. I swear.”
I grinned. “Well, okay.” I gave him my address and an hour—just enough time to shower, blow dry, and apply light make-up.
I was too busy fantasizing about Reece in my house to notice while I was in the shower. I ignored the bathroom mirror and practically danced into my bedroom, hopped up on exhilaration. It wasn’t until I dropped my towel and took a look at myself in the full-length mirror that I screamed bloody murder.
“ERICA!!!”
I was a walking Impressionism painting. No joke. I looked like I stood naked in front of Monet while he swirled orange and yellow clouds all over my body. My instinct was to jump back into the shower and scrub the hell out of my skin, but then I’d look like a tomato when Reece arrived.
Reece! Oh God! Fucking 100 degrees outside, and I couldn’t even wear shorts and a T-shirt in front of him! Oh, I could kill Erica. Kill her. Why did I let her spray me in circles? Something told me she should have been spraying lines. Why didn’t I speak up? Why didn’t I just tell her to practice on her husband?
I had no choice but to cover up in jeans and a long-sleeve tee. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for people with psoriasis and eczema. And then I felt guilty for comparing my tanning plight to their skin conditions.
When I answered the door, my jaw dropped. Reece stood on the porch in a tight white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants holding two bags of groceries. Oh yeah. He also sported slippers.
“Where are your pajamas?” he asked. “It’s breakfast time.”
I grinned. “Did you actually go to the store like that?”
“Uh huh.”
“You went to the store in your PJs,” I clarified.
“Yes. Now are you gonna invite me in?”
I moved aside and watched him walk into my house for the first time. The first of many times, I hoped. He placed the bags on the coffee table and looked around. I gave him a few moments to observe the scene, watching for his reaction to my home, my things—me.
“So I guess I’m alone in wearing PJs for breakfast?” he asked.
“You really want me to change into my PJs?”
“Too much too soon?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Lemme guess. No appropriate PJs you could wear around me?”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’s it.”
He waited. He could tell I wasn’t finished.
“I suppose guys think we really go to bed in chemises or teddies every night?” I asked.
“Guys hope that’s the case.”
“Ha ha.”
“Well, I won’t pressure you, but you’re making me look like an idiot over here.”
I didn’t believe him for a second.
“I sleep in shorts and a tank top, and you can’t see me in those quite yet,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked. “Sounds like regular summertime clothes to me.”
“Because my friend spray tanned me yesterday, and it’s awful. Just awful,” I confessed.
Reece smiled a little too big. “Now this I gotta see.”
I shook my head. “It’s terrible. I’m all splotchy and orange and ridiculous. It’s like she ordered the cheapest tanning solution on the market. Knowing my luck I’ll have some horrendous allergic reaction later today.”
Reece burst out laughing.
“Oh, glad you find it amusing,” I said.
“Go change into your PJs. I won’t laugh. I may make a comment or two, but I won’t laugh,” he said. “I can’t be the only one who looks like he just rolled out of bed. And mess up your hair a little, too. No one’s hair looks that perfect right when they wake up.”
“Fine. I’ll change. But if you have something more devious planned—”
He threw up his hands. “I swear I don’t.”
I nodded and excused myself to the bedroom. When I emerged a few minutes later in light cotton pants and a tank top, Reece approached me and inspected my arm.
“Wow, she really did a number on you,” he said, running his finger over my forearm. It tickled, and I squirmed.
“She wants to start a business,” I replied.
Reece looked horrified. I laughed hard.
“She better get her practice on if she thinks she’s gonna find and keep clients,” he said.
“For reals,” I replied.
And then he waved his hands all around my living room.
“I like this whole weathered thing you’ve got going on,” he said, and just like that, the botched spray tan was no longer important.
“Shabby chic,” I said. “With a little retro thrown in.”
“I guess that’s the technical term?” he replied, smiling at me.
I nodded. He pointed to the corner of the room.
“That’s a TV armoire. What do you use that for?” He pointed in the other direction to my flat screen. “Your TV’s there.”
“I didn’t have a coat closet,” I replied, “until that.”
“I like your ingenuity,” Reece said, walking over to the armoire.
I like the fact that he used the word “ingenuity.” It stirred up some deeply buried sexual feelings. God, I was aching for sex, but I also wasn’t an idiot. Sex too soon with a guy you like is a huge no-no. It can mess up the entire evolution of the relationship. No. I would not have sex with Reece today no matter that he said “ingenuity” and was standing in my living room in pajamas.
“Did you paint this?” he asked, running his hand up the side of the armoire.
“Yep.”
“How’d you get it to look all old like this?”
“It’s a technique called crackling,” I replied.
He nodded and turned to my couch. “What other talents do you have?”
I shrugged. “Well, I sew. I made all the slipcovers for my couch and chairs.”
He ran his hand over the pale pink and green striped material covering the couch arm.
“I like this fabric,” he said. “It looks like you.”
“That material is called ticking,” I said, giggling.
Reece cocked his head.
“I’m serious. Ticking fabric is used in furniture upholstery,” I explained.
“Then it couldn’t be more fitting for you,” he said.
I’d never shared that with anyone because, let’s face it: Who the hell cares about ticking fabric? But I thought it was clever, considering, and Reece seemed genuinely interested. I’d never had a guy over to my house who actually looked around and asked me questions.
“What is this?” he asked, picking up a large metal jug off the floor.
“It’s a milk jug. Used up until the 1930s. It’s made of galvanized tin. I found it at an antique mall several years ago. It was buried in the corner and looked like it needed a home.”
Reece placed the jug back on the floor.
“Do you go to antique malls a lot?” he asked.
I nodded. “And flea markets. And any little off-beat stores that might have interesting finds.”
“Maybe I could go with you some time,” he suggested.
I lit up like a match when it first strikes the box. The longer I talked to Reece, the more I realized that I dated a bunch of losers in the past. Many of th
em showed little interest in my hobbies. None of them ever offered to accompany me antiquing. I forced Brian once he became my fiancé, because he was my fiancé. But this guy standing in front of me? This guy with the plaid pajama pants and hidden muscles under his tee that weren’t doing the best job hiding? This guy wanted to go antiquing with me. What guy ever wants to do that? And I don’t care if he was just being nice. The fact that he offered was enough to make my panties wet.
“That would be really fun,” I said.
“Good. We’ll plan for next weekend,” he replied, and grabbed the bags he’d placed on the coffee table. “I like it, Bailey. I like your living room. Now show me your kitchen.”
I led him to the next room where he commented on my red and white checkered floor—“Did you paint that yourself?”—and asked where he could purchase a retro stove.
“Oh, stop already!” I laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“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.
“I don’t know,” I replied. I couldn’t stop grinding on his thigh and asked him again to touch me.
“You do it,” he urged. “I wanna watch you touch yourself.”
“I’m embarrassed,” I breathed.
“Bailey,” he replied patiently. “Touch your pussy.” He pinched my nipples again, and this time I cried out.
I wasn’t sure about this game. If I refused him, did that make me the winner? I didn’t think so. I think I was supposed to touch myself—to get off—and to claim my victory afterward.
I slid my hand in my pants, under my panties, and gasped at the feel of my wetness.
“Are you wet for me?” he asked.
; “Yes.”
“Good. Now do your thing,” he instructed.
I stared at the kitchen ceiling as I rubbed my clit. Reece continued playing with my breasts, and I moaned as I felt the current surge up and down, throbbing deliciously between my legs before shooting electricity into my nipples. I rocked my hips, arching my back as the sensation built low—a starter fire in my abdomen. I rubbed myself more urgently, fanning the flames, conscious of the release that stood by me on the precipice, ready to snatch my hand before tumbling over the edge.
“Reece . . .”
I was scared to let him see me so vulnerable, but I was determined to come. I had to now. I’d taken the whole thing too far, and there was no turning back. There was no stomping on the fire. Only one way to put it out. An explosion of epic proportions.
I screamed, consumed in pleasure that raked the length of my body, leaving me shaking and sweating on his thigh when it was all over.
His hands left my breasts. He wrapped his arms around my waist and held me still, raining soft kisses on my shoulder.
“There is nothing more beautiful than when a woman comes,” he said quietly.
“Any ol’ woman?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Lemme rephrase that: There’s nothing more beautiful than when Bailey Mitchell comes.”
“And don’t you forget it,” I joked.
Embarrassment for my nakedness crept into my brain, and I leaned forward to retrieve my tank top. I pulled it over my head before turning to face Reece.
“Well,” I began, “that just happened.”
He grinned. “Yes, it did.”
I bit my lower lip and thought. “I’ll never look at pancakes the same again.”
“Good.”
“Sooo . . .” I looked at him expectantly. I’ve no idea why I thought he should know what was on my mind.
Reece smirked. “All right, Bailey. Out with it. What is it you really wanna say?”
“Where do we go from here?” I asked.
I needed clearly defined lines. I wasn’t the type of girl who could operate without them. I needed to know what we were and where it was headed for a number of reasons. The most important? I’m OCD. The second most important? I’m thirty-one. I didn’t have time to “hang out” with someone. I needed to know if there was a future—a real solid future.