by Sarina Bowen
But avoidance only gets me so far. After lunch, Zach and Griffin load up three juvenile bulls to deliver them to the slaughterhouse, while Dylan and Chastity head out to measure and map out the farmland we bought from the Abrahams, and plan their future together.
Rickie is sent back to the farmhouse to help prep for Thursday dinner with me and Mom.
“Put me to work,” he says, pulling his close-fitting T-shirt down over his head. As if that even helps dull my attraction.
“Fine.” I grab an apron off the pantry door and toss it to him. “Suit up. We’re making pies.”
He drops the apron over his head. It’s blue-and-white calico with a ruffle across the hem. I may have grabbed the girliest one we have, accidentally on purpose. But it doesn’t even put a dent in my hormone spike. He crosses those strong arms in front of his chest and smiles. “Teach me your ways.”
Wow. Just wow.
Dragging my eyes off him, I tug the kitchen scale into position and set a big mixing bowl on top. “First you sift the flour. Here.” I fetch the sifter out of a cupboard and set it on the work table. Then I heft the flour canister onto the table and open up the top. We buy flour by the fifty-pound bag because we use so much of it.
“What does this do?” Rickie picks up the sifter and squeezes the handle, which turns the mechanism.
“It makes the flour lighter and easier to work with,” my mother says. She’s arranging fresh cherries, blueberries, and frozen strawberries on the countertop.
“Awesome.” Rickie scoops the sifter into the flour and aims it at the big metal mixing bowl.
“Wait!” I yelp just as he starts to squeeze the handle. “You have to tare out the scale first.”
Rickie holds up his free hand like a busted perp. “I don't know what you just said, but okay.”
“Sorry.” I reach over to set the kitchen scale properly, and my knuckles brush against the ridges of his abdominal muscles. Not even a frilly apron can disguise how cut he is. Wowzers.
Like I need to be any more distracted than I already am. “We use three hundred grams per double crust, and we can do two double crusts at once,” I ramble. “Six hundred grams. Go.”
“Yes sir, thank you, sir!” he barks.
My mother chuckles. “Daphne can be a bit of a drill sergeant. She can't help it. She was born into chaos, and she hates chaos.”
Et tu, Mom? “I’m right here, you realize?”
“Yes, you are.” She picks up the cherry pitter and gives me a knowing smile.
Rickie squeezes the sifter repeatedly, and I kind of hate myself for noticing the flex of his forearm muscles on every stroke. “I know,” he says. “We can sift Daphne to make her lighter and easier to work with.”
“Excellent plan,” my mother agrees, and I want to smack them both.
The kitchen is just too small. Coming home already felt claustrophobic. I have secrets to keep, and a family to appease. My inconvenient curiosity—that’s the word I’m using—about Rickie shrinks it even further.
And did I mention it’s legitimately hot in here? The thermometer stuck to the outside of the kitchen window says 86 degrees.
My mother pulls the stems off the season’s first cherries, while I measure out salt and a bit of sugar for the crust.
“What else do you use?” Rickie asks. “Oil? Shortening?”
“Butter,” my mother and I say at the same time.
“And then ice water,” I add. “The butter and the water have to be absolutely frigid. Like my cold little heart.”
The two of them laugh. And when my eyes meet Rickie’s, I feel an unwelcome tremor. His smile sees right through my bullshit and confusion. There’s heat in those gray depths.
Just what we need around here. More heat.
“Brace yourselves,” my mother says, which is funny because I’ve spent the whole summer doing just that. "I'm going to preheat the oven."
“Gawd,” my grandpa says, shuffling into the room. “It's going to be hotter than the devil's armpit before these pies are baked. Totally worth it, though.” He glances at Rickie. "Nice apron, boy. A real man can always rock the ruffles."
He holds up a fist, and Rickie bumps it. “Damn right.”
I busy myself checking the total weight of Rickie’s flour and then whisking in the other ingredients. But my mind is back three years, to the day when Rickie put on that eyeliner and told me, Don't give anyone that power.
But how do you stop? I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to be a certain kind of person. The smart twin. The ambitious kid. The overachiever.
It's so exhausting. But I can’t find the off ramp. It’s not like I could just suddenly unload my troubles on my family, either. I’d get six or eight conflicting opinions about how best to unfuck my life. No thanks.
“Okay, now what?" Rickie asks.
"Now we quickly add butter chunks. You’ll use this." I hand him the pastry blending tool, which is made of wires attached to a wooden handle. “You’re going to break up the butter into gravel-sized globules, surrounded by flour. Then we add just enough ice water to bring it together.”
“Let's do this. Butter me.” He picks up the blending tool, giving me a lazy wink.
He means it as a joke, and yet I still feel it in some inappropriate places. And the kitchen seems to shrink yet again.
“Ruth, we're going to make it to that library talk, right?” Grandpa says. “I heard there’s mini cheesecakes after.”
My mother glances at the clock and frowns. "I hope so," she says. "An hour isn't much time to finish four pies, and we’re just starting.”
"With all this labor?" Grandpa asks. "I'll help, too. Rickie got the fun apron, but mine is still here somewhere, right?"
"I'm sure it is,” Mom says as Grandpa disappears into the pantry.
He returns a moment later, wearing an apron that reads: I turn all the grills on. "Now pass me that cherry pitter, Ruth. This old man wants to go to the library talk.”
“What’s the book?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m in it for the air conditioning and the snacks. Is that so wrong?”
“Not wrong at all,” my mother says.
I drop chunks of butter into the bowl of flour, while Rickie uses vigorous strokes to cut it in. I try not to sneak peeks at his cupid’s bow mouth as he whistles happily.
And the temperature in the kitchen rises yet again.
“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.
Twenty-Two
Rickie
Until I met Daphne, I didn’t know it was possible someone could look so vexed and so turned on at the same time. She hates the fact that she’s so attracted to me. And when she actually starts to like me, she’ll hate that even more.
I can’t fucking wait.
In the meantime, I quickly undress her. And when I lean her against my body so she can step out of her panties, she lets out a hungry whimper.
“That’s a good girl,” I say between kisses. “Now come here.”
She lets me guide her into the shower. I tug the curtain closed, and then I pull her into my arms. She makes a noise of pleasure as the tepid water rains down on our overheated skin.
“You see?” I whisper. “Isn’t this nice?”
“So nice,” she breathes, her fingers sliding across my pecs.
“Now she gets it.” I kiss her on the jaw. On the ear. And on the neck. She runs her tongue along my shoulder and my groan echoes off the tile walls. My hands are full of her sweet ass. And my cock is poking her rudely in the stomach.
Daphne doesn’t mind. She presses her wet, sleek body against mine and shivers. I need her mouth on mine again, so I take her in another deep kiss. She gives in, letting me run the show, and I take sip after sip of her hungry mouth.
We are nothing but slick skin and questing hands, deep sighs and deeper kisses. I let myself touch her everywhere—cupping her breasts, trailing a thumb down her ribcage until she shivers. Sliding my fingers in a teasing rhythm between her legs as she moans into my mouth.
It’s been a long fucking time since I felt like this—heated and invincible. Halfway to debauched.
But—as usual—Daphne walks her own path. She moves her pussy out of my greedy reach, and kisses her way down my chest, as the water beats down on her back. She wraps a hand around my hard length, and I let out a gasp of shocked pleasure. Before I can even get a breath, she takes my cockhead into her mouth and sucks.
“Fuuuck.” The noise causes Daphne to lift her face, which only gives me a better view of her lips wrapped around my cock. I have to brace my hand against the tile wall and remember how to pull air into my lungs.
She’s pleased with herself, too. Maybe it’s the stunned look on my face, or the shaky breath I take to try to calm myself down. But those brown eyes burn with victory. She doubles down, sucking and licking and running her hands up my thighs.
Holy hell. I need to calm down, or this is going to end well before I’m ready. I close my eyes and restate the Münchhausen trilemma. But then Daphne teases a finger across my taint and I forget my own name.
“Okay!” I bark. “If you’re trying to prove something, you win. Whatever it is.” I wrap my hand around her wet hair and tug.
She glances up, and I am saved from humiliation by the water turning cold. The sudden spray of icy water calms my body right down. But it takes an extra beat for Daphne to notice the chill. Her dark eyes take on a look of distracted confusion, until she finally pops off my dick.
Hastily I turn the water off. Then I push the curtain aside and grab a towel, which I wrap around her body as she rises. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “What are we doing?”
There goes her squirrel brain, barging in on my fantasy. “Look.” I pull her close, whispering right into her ear. “I’ve put some considerable effort into convincing you to let me have my evil way with you.”
She gives me a startled smile.
“And I know how much you appreciate honesty. So I’m going to be very clear about what I want from you. Are you ready?”
She gives me a slow nod.
“First, I want you to lie down on my bed. On your back. And don't dry off first, because I'm in too big a hurry. Besides, it would be a waste of time. Because I’m going to run my tongue all over your body, until you come on my face.”
She makes a soft, delicious sound of longing, and I press my aching erection against her hip, because I need the contact so damn bad.
“And then I'm going to suit up and pound you right into the mattress. That will probably take about two minutes, tops. Because I've been wanting to do that for at least six weeks, and probably three years. But we're running out of time. So if that works for you, I'm going to need you to show me some hustle right now.”
She blinks, her pupils dark and wide.
Just to get things moving, I step out of the tub. I'm dripping on the bath mat and I don't give a damn. I give Daphne one more long glance—the kind that could accidentally set a forest on fire with its heat. And then I leave the room. She’ll either follow me or she won’t.
Naked, I walk down the hall, turning left into my room, listening for her footsteps behind me.
I hear her. She’s right there. But I’m not going to ask again. I’m not going to beg. It has to be her decision.
Just as I start to lose hope, she steps through the do
orway. Then she drops her towel.
“Thank fuck,” I breathe. “Now get over here.” I dive for the bed.
She’s more graceful in her approach. But she’s here nonetheless, stretching her long-limbed, willowy body out beside me. Each breast is a perfect handful. I can’t wait to touch her everywhere.
I pounce, kissing her neck with a vampire’s eagerness. I need her so bad it hurts. My cock swings, engorged and heavy, against her hip as I lean over her. “Should I close the door?” I manage between kisses. Then I lick a droplet of water off her nipple.
She shivers before she can answer. “N-no? I have to listen for the oven timer.”
“Fuck the pies,” I mutter into her breasts. Then I suck one nipple into my mouth, and she moans. But the truth is that I work well with deadlines. I bet I can make her yell my name in the next five minutes. Her hands are already roaming my skin.
Daphne might be skittish, but she knows her own mind. And right now her mind is focused solely on me, and my mouth, and the wicked play of my fingertips low on her belly. I’m relentless with my tongue and my teasing hands.
A hot breeze blows through the open window as she shifts her hips restlessly on the quilt. She’s too stubborn to ask me for what she wants. Whereas I’m too stubborn to ever shut up about what I want.
I nudge her legs apart. “Lie still,” I say, just to be a jerk. Then I run a fingertip lightly across her mons.
She whimpers. I chuckle.
“Rickie.” Her tone is accusing.
“I know, baby girl. I know.” Then I stroke a thumb across her clit and she arches off the bed in pleasure. “Goddamn.” She’s so responsive. I lean in and take a slow lick of heaven, and her moan is the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
Now there’s no way to hold myself back. I’m relentless with kisses and licks, and the more I give, the wetter she gets. It’s good to know that I haven’t lost my magic touch. Her fingers tangle in my overgrown hair as she lifts her hips to meet my tongue.
And even though my cock is leaking against the quilt, and my balls ache, I still draw out the process, slowing down my deep kisses to her pussy, clutching her hips in my two hands. This is goddamn beautiful and I know not to rush a good thing.