Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2)

by Kathryn Andrews

  Reaching up with one hand, he cups the side of my face, and his fingers bury themselves under the fall of my hair. As I tilt my head back, his gaze roams my face, but he doesn’t come any closer. It’s intimate, sweet, and I can’t help but place my hand on his chest and watch as it slides down and grips the bottom of his shirt. I tug, and he bends with the movement, his lips tipping up on one side then dropping to the corner of mine.

  The sound of him breathing in air through his nose as his mouth gently, lightly presses against me causes my toes to curl, and my eyes drift shut with a long blink. Oh my stars. What this man does to me, and he hasn’t even done anything yet. Pulling back, I see blue eyes looking at me tenderly before he dips his head and kisses the other side.

  How many times have I imagined what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his affections? For years, he starred in my dreams nightly, and now here I am, finally living out my wildest dream come true—him.

  Raising my arms, I wrap them around his neck and arch my back so he and I are flush against one another. His free hand slides along my lower back, he pulls me tightly up against him, and he holds me there as the need to feel him, taste him, and inhale him overwhelms me.

  I want it all.

  Him.

  This handsome man, this man who played in front of millions today and yet is here with me now, just me.

  I don’t just feel lucky because of who he is, but I feel so lucky because I know who he is. The core of him has never changed.

  I know he is smart, kind, dedicated, and determined. I know he’s humble, never arrogant, and without him saying so, I know he worries about not being good enough, though he already is and then some. He was never about being a famous athlete; he just wanted to be the best at something he loves, and he loves football. It’s always been his constant, and it gave him something to work harder for. I can only hope now he’ll choose to work hard for me, for us.

  “Are you okay with this?” he asks as he sets my mouth free and my eyes fall to his lips. His warm breath hits my face as we share the air between us, and I have to tear my eyes away to seek out his own only to find they have darkened to the color of navy. The deep shade is because of me, and the longing I feel for him swirling deep in my stomach only intensifies.

  Breathless, I nod and slide my fingers back into his hair. Both of his hands contract, pressing harder, letting me know he wants me as close as possible. Through our clothes, I feel the long lines of his body, his muscles as they tense and shift, and how much he wants me.

  Me.

  “Yes,” I whisper, almost shaking. I pull his delicious mouth back to mine, and his lips fit perfectly as they begin moving in a way only he knows how to. Pulling his hand from my hair, he slides it down my back until both hands palm my butt and he rubs me against him.

  I’ve never wanted anyone the way I’ve always wanted him, and with a courage I didn’t know I had, I reach between us, run my hand up and down his length, and palm him.

  Letting out a groan, he pulls away from me and just stares.

  Dark blond hair falls over his forehead, his cheeks tinted red in a way that isn’t from a blush but from being so lost in the moment, and his gaze, which is one hundred percent focused on me, is so intense I feel spellbound.

  Taking me by the hand, without a word, he turns and begins walking us toward and up the stairs. I follow; after all, I’d follow him anywhere, especially knowing where we’re going and what we’re about to do. Excitement from the anticipation of what’s to come overrides any and all nervousness I previously felt. This moment has been coming for us for such a long time now, and I can only pray I don’t forget one single second of it.

  As we walk into his room, he spins so he’s now facing me. Dropping my hand, he reaches up and tucks a few pieces of hair behind my ears then tilts my chin up with one finger.

  “So beautiful,” he mumbles as that finger drags down my neck, down the middle of my chest.

  I reach out to touch him, but he takes a step back and then walks around me.

  From behind, his arms wrap around as he pulls me close, and his lips brush against my neck. Instantly, I lean into him, and my head falls to the side.

  “Do you know how many nights I spent lying behind you and staring at this spot right here?” His teeth graze my skin, and I shiver as his lips brush back and forth across my neck. “Do you know how many nights I wanted more than anything to wrap my arms around you and slide my hand under your shirt?”

  His hands dip under the edge of my top and my stomach quivers, warm fingertips gently brushing across my skin just before his palms make full contact. Every bit of my focus zeros in on the heat, and my back arches as his hands slide up and under the bralette to cup the weight of both breasts. He squeezes, and my hips sway back and forth to rub against him.

  In one move, he’s removed the shirt and bra over my head and dropped them on the floor. He yanks his shirt up and does the same. His warm chest folds over my back, and his hands return to my chest.

  “You are so perfect,” he says against my cheek, and I turn my head so his hungry lips can capture mine. Over and over our tongues dance together. He tastes so good, feels so good. I reach one hand up and behind me to get lost in his hair, sending the other down around the back of his thigh to hold him closer.

  “Do you know how many mornings I spent time in the shower thinking about what it would be like to start each day here?” His hands slide down my stomach, deftly unbuttoning my jeans and lowering the zipper. One hand slips underneath my underwear and covers the center of me.

  “Bryan.” I say his name, not sure if I’m worshipping or begging, but it doesn’t matter because his mouth, tongue, hands, fingers, hips—they all start moving, all at the same time, and I’m overwhelmed with sensory overload.

  Eventually, with his lips leaving mine for only a split second, he spins me in his arms so we’re facing each other. He pushes down my pants at the same time I start yanking on his shorts, and it all falls away, leaving us standing together naked for the first time.

  I feel like I must have died and gone to heaven, because I can’t imagine anyone being more perfect than him. This moment feels so surreal, and all I can do is hold on to him for fear of floating away.

  “I’ve dreamed about this moment my whole life,” his lips whisper just below my ear. Nothing, and I mean nothing could mean more to me than those words, and if I were capable, I would return the sentiment, but I can’t. I’m speechless.

  He moves me toward the bed, the backs of my knees hit the edge, and I slowly sit. Bryan’s hand tangles in my hair as he stands in front of me, staring down at me, not moving. Being this close to parts of him I’ve only dreamed of, in my head I’m screaming, How did I get here? How did I get so lucky? Wrapping my hands around the backs of his thighs, I lean forward to taste him, but instead he shifts his hips backward and chuckles.

  Lifting my gaze to find his, I see he’s smiling down at me, his breaths labored.

  “Not this time.” He shakes his head, and I understand what he means. We’ve waited so long, and there’s only one way we both want this to end, so I scoot back and up the bed. He follows, his hands sliding up my legs, my stomach, through the valley of my breasts until both of his arms are braced next to my head and he hovers a few inches above me, his lips brushing against mine just once before he settles in and kisses me with abandon.

  Feeling the weight of him as he presses me into the mattress, I take in the delicious clean scent of his skin. His breathing is ragged as his chest moves up and down against mine, and he tries to maintain some semblance of composure. I know without a doubt that no other moment in life will compare to this one, this first intimate moment with him, my unrequited love, the boy who stole my heart almost two decades ago.

  “I need you,” he mumbles, his voice low and rough.

  “I’m yours,” I answer, staring into the depths of his ocean blue eyes.

  With that he pushes inside, and part of me blacks ou
t from the sheer exhilaration of being with him like this. Everything about this is euphoric, dreamlike, and I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

  Slowly, tenderly, he begins to move back and forth, and my heart swells with emotions much greater than I thought possible. Wrapping my legs around his, I want to participate, I do, but as his hands slip under my hips and his mouth moves over mine to take me in every way possible, I find I’m perfectly content being a passenger as he drives us both to a level of bliss I’ve never known.

  And he does.

  Skin tingling. Heart exploding. Insides quivering from extreme rapture.

  I don’t know how I’ll ever be the same again.

  As his head falls next to mine, his hair damp against my temple and his breath attempting to pace itself, I embrace him with my arms and legs to hold him for as long as possible, wishing I never had to let go.

  He eventually chuckles then props himself up on his elbows to look at me. Without saying anything, he offers an openness I’ve never seen in him. It’s clear affectionate eyes, an ease in his expression that borders on adoration and satiation, and puffy, swollen lips. His hair has fallen over his forehead, and I swear he looks like a golden Greek god.

  My golden Greek god, and not anyone else’s, not even James’s.

  When I first saw James’s room, a pang hit my chest so hard I thought my heart was failing. I’ve always known James was never going to move back to my house, but seeing his things here . . . it still hurt. I know they’ve always had this bond, but knowing he decided this without even telling me reminded me of how left out of their relationship I am and always have been.

  But, at the same time, this weight of worry for him that I’ve been carrying around has lifted. He is settled, and outside of the military, he does have a home.

  “What do we tell James?” I ask, turning to look at Bryan as he slides off and settles his weight next to me.

  “What do you mean?” His brows pull down, confused.

  “Aren’t you worried he’ll overreact like he always does?”

  The features on his face smooth out and a small smile tips one side of his mouth up. “Lexi, I’ve waited my entire life to be with you. Nothing and no one is going to keep me from you now. I don’t care what he thinks. If he can’t be happy for us, that’s his problem.”

  For the first time, he’s made me feel like I matter the most, and emotion forms a lump in my throat.

  “Also, you should know . . . he already knows.” He grins, and I suck in air, surprised.

  “What?”

  “Yep. He might be across the world, but they do have Internet. He’s seen the photos of us together.”

  “He told you this?” I ask, pulling back just a little. Bryan’s hand tightens on my hip.

  “He emailed me. Don’t worry, though—he did his due diligence and gave me the big brother speech.”

  Well, I’ll be.

  Grilled Summer Fruit Cobbler

  I CAN’T STOP smiling.

  Even though I haven’t seen him in a week, this has been the best week of my life.

  Bryan was everything I imagined he would be and then some. Last weekend we spent hours not speaking but not sleeping either, and I’ve replayed every detail I can remember over and over again. His hands, his mouth, his smell, his strength—all of it was so much and so him, and I am even more his number one fan than I was before. Since then we’ve talked more than I think we did the entire last year we were together. I just wish I had more time with him.

  Time. My heart frowns as I pick up the mistletoe margarita I made and take a sip.

  Bright and early Monday morning—or should I say the morning after the best night of my life—he was up fixing us each a cup of coffee and a protein shake. I’m not sure that he usually drinks coffee, but he knows I do, so he made it for us, and the shake—well, it was green, and I swallowed it down while smiling on the outside but cringing on the inside. He just shrugged his shoulders, grinning at me as he walked me through his normal morning routine. Then he kissed me deeply one last time before he left, so deeply it still makes me blush, curl my toes, and smile.

  Before I left, I might have wandered back upstairs and stolen the pullover he had on last night after he changed out of his postgame suit, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? I also won’t mention how many times I might have buried my face in it to smell him. Clean, fresh, laundry detergent, dryer sheets, sporty body wash—it all just smells so good and so much like him.

  Boy, do I miss him.

  Not much longer, I tell myself. The holidays will be over, the season is winding down, and soon I’ll get to spend some real time with him.

  “You do realize your giddiness right now is kind of disgusting, right?” Marie says from behind the lens of the camera.

  “Ask me if I care.” I grin at her, setting my drink down and moving to cut more flower shapes out of a piece of dough I’ve been working on the counter.

  Bryan is out of town, they’re playing the Jets tonight, and we are one week out from Christmas. With schedules getting crazy, Marie and I spent this past week planning for quarter one of next year. Together, we brainstormed and put together a short and long-term business plan that we feel is attainable. After all, failing to plan is planning to fail, and we included our newest venture, putting our custom Firefly Kitchen logo on a ceramic pie dish, kitchen towels, and silicone spatulas. We thought long and hard, researched different kitchen supply companies, and with what we found, I’m super excited to implement the idea of kitchen items on the website and in a few of the more high-volume shops we sell in across the south. Hopefully Camille was right and they will be well received. The fireflies do look so good.

  We’ve also spent the last three days taking social media and website photos that last us through most of January and into February. What is winter to most is spring to us, and it’s go time here in Florida with produce. Strawberry season is up next, and we’ll be knee-deep in strawberry rhubarb pie filling until the end of March.

  “I’m happy for you, I really am . . .” She trails off, the shutter click echoing around the room. My kitchen has exploded with pale pink, white, and yellow flowers, and we’ve arranged kitchen towels, fresh fruits, different props, and a few baked pies.

  “Why do I feel like you’re saying that but not really meaning it?” I glance at her as I decide to move on to cutting leaves. Decorative pie crusts have taken off, and I can’t help but buy all the pie crust shape cutters to try them out. The accents, the designs and themes—so much can be done with a pie these days, and of course we offer custom-made pies upon request.

  Marie stands up and moves to adjust a few of the pie plates in her current shot. Over the years, we’ve acquired a rather large collection of them, all in different colors, and she’s stacked them next to a jar of the Meyer lemon shaker pie filling, which sits in front of a vase of yellow tulips. The shot is bright and looks stunning.

  “I do mean it. I just worry about you, that’s all.” She briefly glances at me but doesn’t make eye contact. She’s been unusually quiet the last few days, and knowing her like I do, I’m certain she’s been gearing up to discuss something with me.

  “Why? What’s there to worry about?” Putting down the shape cutter, I sit up straighter and openly stare at her.

  I run through my mind how often Bryan and I talk to each other, and even though this is a long-distance thing, I don’t feel I need to worry in the slightest about him messing around with someone else. I’m not even sure how he would fit that into his day. He’s pretty regimented and consistent with his schedule, and when I knew him before, he was a very standup guy. I don’t think that’s changed. Besides, how cliché would that be?

  “Well, how does this work? You live here and he lives there. I don’t see that changing any time soon.”

  “As the crow flies from here to there, it’s not that far.”

  “I know it’s not that far, but at the same time it’s just far enou
gh to make this complicated. What then?”

  Oh. So this is where she’s taking this—changes, sacrifices.

  I defend him immediately, feeling my brows draw down. “Clearly, he can’t give up his career.”

  Of course he can’t. There is no situation in life where this would even be a possibility. Also, if it came down to a choice between me and football, I already know which one he would choose. He chose it ten years ago when he left me. Football is his dream, it’s what he’s spent his entire life working for, and the truth is, he makes a lot of money from it. But, money aside, at the same time, I can’t see him asking me to give up my work. Would he? No. He knows how much Firefly Kitchen means to me. I start shaking my head, ready to argue her very invalid point.

  “Are you saying I should give up mine? Because I’m not. I’ve worked too hard and I love what we’ve built way too much.”

  Football might be his life, but making pies is mine.

  I know it might not seem like much to most, but it is everything to me. Baking has always been my go-to for good times and bad. It’s a way for me to pour my heart into something I truly love and be recognized for it. I have so many memories with GiGi, so many memories with James and Bryan, and so many memories where I had to learn how to be alone and by myself. Pies have always been there for me, and though I will never make what he makes, that doesn’t mean it’s any less important.

  “No, I’m not saying you should give it up. I was merely wondering how it’s going to work out.”

  “Marie, it’s been like six weeks. I hardly think that’s long enough to all of a sudden be forced to think about long-term decisions.”

  She sets down her camera and picks up her drink to take a sip as well. She eyes me across the room, and silence settles around us.

  “Maybe you should be thinking about it. What would be the point of all this if there’s no happy ending together?”

  Why couldn’t there be a happy ending? In most relationships, both members have a career. Sure, I would be lying if I said I hadn’t lain in bed at night and thought about our arrangement, but it can’t be that hard to figure out, and I can’t imagine I’m the only one of the two of us who would want to figure it out. After all this time, he wouldn’t mess with me if he wasn’t serious about me, would he?