“I missed you,” he says. “I missed your confidence. Your humor. Your sexy red lips.”
I smile a little. “They’re not red tonight.”
He lets his gaze fall to my mouth. “Yeah, baby, they are.”
“Well, when you kiss me like that . . .”
“I missed other things too,” he says, lowering his voice, leaning into my ear. “Having you spread out on the bed, just for me. For my eyes, my hands.” As he speaks, he lifts my top, touches my stomach. “I want you.”
“I’m right here.”
“It’s not enough. I’ve never even had you in my bedroom. I want to undress you, stretch you out on my bed, fingertips to toes, your hair splayed on my pillow, and I want to take you over and over until you can’t handle it another second.”
I inhale sharply and turn to wrap my legs around his waist. “We can’t.”
“We can.”
We whisper like two teenagers trying not to get caught. He shoves his hand down the back of my pants, yanking me against him so my clit connects with his hardening cock. “Jesus,” we say in unison.
“It’s not allowed,” I protest. “Somebody has to be the adult here.”
He chuckles. “Believe me, what we’re about to do is reserved for adults only.”
As soon as it’s out of his mouth, a click sounds from the hallway. We detangle at lightning speed, jumping apart a second before Bell wanders into the room, rubbing her eyes. “Daddy?”
“Bell,” he says gruffly before clearing his throat. “Hey, baby. You have a bad dream?”
“No. I’m thirsty.”
Andrew runs a hand through his hair, side-eyeing me. I fix my top, tugging on the hem even though it’s in place.
Bell blinks a few times as she registers me. “Who are you?”
“It’s Amelia,” Andrew says. “Remember? From Aunt Sadie’s work?”
“’Mila.” She nods and yawns. “I’m thirsty, Dad.”
He half rolls his eyes. “All right, all right, I’m going.” He picks up our drinks and mouths “sorry” at me.
The man is at her beck and call, and I don’t blame him. She looks adorable enough to eat right now, half asleep, her hair a rat’s nest of tangles. Maybe I should be annoyed about getting interrupted, but I just want to pull her into my lap and pet her until she falls back asleep. It’s not an urge I’m used to having. Bell somehow manages to be both a vulnerable child and mini-adult, which fuels my curiosity.
She stumbles to the couch, flopping next to me like a rag doll. “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”
“I know.” I’m about to tell her that technically, it’s been her birthday for over an hour, but I can all too easily imagine how her excitement could lead to an all-nighter. As much as I like her, I also like my sleep. “Do you mind if I come to your party?”
She looks up at me again, blankly at first, and then recognition seems to dawn on her. “Are you my dad’s girlfriend?”
I open my mouth, half with surprise, half to respond. Nothing comes out but an awkward guffaw. “I’m his friend,” I say. “And I’m a girl.”
“I’m not a baby,” she says. “I’m going to be seven. You can tell me.”
And with that, I realize what it is I like so much about her. She doesn’t need to be coddled or treated like a little girl the way I assumed all children would. I proceed cautiously, but I don’t baby her. “What do you think a girlfriend is?”
She looks at me from the side of her eye. “Um. Like, you make him happy when he’s sad. You go out to fancy restaurants.” She brightens. “You can have a picnic. Or you come over for dinner.”
I nod a little. “There is a lot of eating involved when you’re a girlfriend.”
“Not crabs, though,” she says.
“Crabs . . .?” I laugh loudly when I realize what she means. “Carbs. No, this girlfriend doesn’t eat carbs.” I can practically hear Andrew’s exasperation in my head, so I amend. “Well, maybe a few carbs won’t be so bad. We’ll see.”
“You can come over Thursday,” she suggests. “On Thursdays, we have breakfast for dinner. My dad is a really good cook. He makes the best omelets in the world.”
I smile at the picture she paints. Being a girlfriend is slightly more involved than guzzling food all hours of the day, but it’s simple in her eyes. Make him happy. Eat a lot. Kiss . . . “Would it be okay with you if I were his girlfriend?” I ask.
She sighs, her tiny body deflating into the cushions. “I don’t know. He says my mom’s not his girlfriend anymore and never will be. She left when I was three. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
I press my lips together, suddenly, inexplicably, overcome with a wave of tears. Because of what’s behind her, but more because of what she has ahead of her. When she’s older, it won’t be so cut and dry. She was abandoned—there’s no way around it. I have the urge to protect her from that, even though I know I can’t. What I could do for her one day, though, is be there. That could ease the sting. “You have your dad, though. He’s not going anywhere. And your Aunt Sadie and Flora and that man with the strange name.”
She giggles, seemingly unaffected by the intense conversation. “Pico.” She coughs a little and says out of nowhere, “I want you to come to my party.”
I was going to anyway, but my relief is immense enough that I smile. “I’d like that.”
“Back to bed, Bell,” Andrew says from behind us, and I realize he’s been gone much longer than it takes to get a glass of water. “It’s late.”
She gets up and plods back to her room. Andrew follows. He reappears a few seconds later, quietly shutting her door behind him.
“Either she’s exhausted or she’s showing off,” he says, gesturing for me to come closer. “Normally, getting her to sleep shaves a few days off my life.”
I smile. “She’s sweet.”
“She’s bossy.” He massages my shoulder. “Ready for bed, girlfriend?”
I blush. “You heard all that.”
“Yeah. And it was pretty fucking cute.” He kisses me on the lips. “I like it, her calling you my girlfriend. I think I’ll call you that too.” He nods behind him. “My bedroom is that way. I’ll get your bag.”
In the hallway, a few pictures hang—Bell’s school photos and some of Andrew and Bell with Sadie and Nathan. I stop in the doorway of his bedroom. It’s as simple as the living room. Only the necessities. The comforter on his solid, wood-framed bed is white like the walls. Nightstands flank the bed, one with a lamp and alarm clock, the other one with a book. Nothing more.
Andrew comes up behind me, drops my duffel at our feet, and wraps his arms around my middle. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“I haven’t brought anyone here before,” he says. “You’re the first.”
Warmth fills me. I look around the room. It’s his safe space, and he’s inviting me in. But Bell’s presence sticks to me like an extra limb. I feel her a couple rooms away. I turn in his arms. “Thank you. I’m going to stay in the guest room, though.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “What? Why?”
“This is about more than us.”
His face softens. “I know, but you heard her. She’s okay with it.”
“She doesn’t understand it,” I say. “Let her get to know me before she wakes up and finds me in her dad’s bed.”
He cups my face, running his thumb along my cheekbone. “I appreciate that, but I’m a grown man. I can make love in my own home.”
My breath catches. Andrew and I have made a few different kinds of love, but something tells me it’ll be different in his bed—his domain. My insides tingle with anticipation, but I swallow them down. “I’m new at this,” I say. “The kid thing. I don’t want to screw it up.”
“You will screw it up. So many times. So many ways. Seven years later, and I’m still figuring out how to be okay with the fact that every day, I fuck something up.”
I wrap my hand around his wrist and kiss his palm. “You’re a go
od dad. A good man. A good boyfriend.”
“Easy for you to say,” he says, grinning. “I’ve only officially been your boyfriend for five minutes.”
With a last kiss, he shows me to the guest room, where he leaves me alone with my bag. I perch on the edge of the bed. I’ve slept by myself almost every night the past year, yet suddenly I feel Andrew’s absence acutely.
I have to give him credit for what he’s done. He’s the personification of “actions speak louder than words.” I can trust him. I knew it early on, but I wasn’t sure I could trust myself. After a few minutes have passed, and I haven’t moved, I stand up from the bed and tiptoe into the hallway, back to Andrew’s room. I knock lightly.
Andrew opens the door in only his boxer-briefs, filling it with his six-foot-plus frame. Without a word, he pulls me in and locks the door behind us. He engulfs me in a hug, consumes my mouth with his. Separating only to discard clothing, we stumble to the bed, leaving a trail of underwear. He ushers me under the covers, climbs over me, and hides us under the comforter. “Back-up plan,” he teases, “in case she breaks down the door.” I smile into his mouth. He nabs my bottom lip with his teeth. “Have I ever mentioned how it feels when I’m the reason for your smile? Like a million bucks.”
My grin fades. I touch his face. He’s so good to me. And if he keeps this up, I won’t have a chance. I’ll fall over-the-edge in love with him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, but I think he knows I’m perfectly fine, because he kisses the tip of my nose.
“I’m happy.”
“I’m glad.” He nuzzles my neck and cups me between the legs. “I want to make you even happier.” He slips a finger into me, and I suck in a breath. “You’re ready,” he says.
I nod. After the night we’ve had, the high-highs and low-lows, the loss of what I thought was my identity, the possible gain of a family, I want to feel connected to Andrew more than anything right now.
He removes his hand to position himself against my entrance. He cups my head, keeping my eyes locked on his. Our mouths reach for each other as he pushes into me. I groan as he fills me—fully, completely, relentlessly, until he’s rooted as deep as he can get. And then, as promised, he makes love to me, his thrusts slow but firm, his mouth hot and greedy on mine. My body melts into the mattress for him, my eyes glued shut from pleasure. He overwhelms me, engaging all my senses—giving me his taste, his moans, his cock, his briny scent and, finally, he says, “Let me see you.”
I open my eyes and come first under his half-lidded gaze. He rolls me over on top of him. After an intense orgasm, I’m nothing more than a bag of bones, so I prop myself on his chest with my hands, but my arms nearly give. “I can’t stop shaking,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He holds me up by my waist as he takes me. When his breathing shallows and his grunts intensify, he slides a hand up to grip my breast. He bucks up into me and erupts.
He fills me for the first time.
After what we’ve been through, it binds us in an irrevocable way.
THIRTY-FOUR
When I emerge from the guest bedroom in the morning, I’m embarrassed by how late it is. I normally leave for work around seven, but thanks to the large, cloud-like bed, the complete stillness of the suburbs, and the workout Andrew gave me last night, I overslept. I barely remember waking up at dawn to sneak back to the guest room. After a shower and dressing in my party outfit, it’s ten in the morning.
I follow the only noise in the house, which comes from the kitchen. Bell and Flora are surrounded by baking ingredients, from a heavy bag of flour to a carton of eggs to a colorful array of mixing bowls.
“Morning,” I say.
Bell whirls around, and her eyes double in size. “Mila!”
My heart drops. What was I thinking, wandering in here like this without considering how it might look to Bell? I should’ve waited for Andrew to come get me. I look hurriedly at Flora for direction, but she just shrugs, so instead I address Bell. “I hope you don’t mind that I stayed in your guest room—”
“You . . . look . . . beautiful.” She covers her mouth with both hands. “You’re wearing that to my party?”
“Oh.” I look down at my dress, a colorful DVF wrap from the spring collection with enormous, budding flowers in pink, orange and red. “Yes. Do you like it?”
“I love it.” She tiptoes toward me, holding out her hands.
“Bell, honey,” Flora says. “That’s an expensive dress. Wash your hands first.”
Bell has her father’s purple-blue eyes, and they’re saucer-sized with wonder. Her giddiness reminds me of standing in my mother’s impressive, Texas-sized closet, surrounded by glamorous pieces that always smelled of Chanel No. 5. As much as I shelled out for this dress, I’d rather spoil it than this moment—a young girl’s budding love affair with fashion. “It’s okay,” I say. “You can touch it.” I hold out the fabric. “This is Diane von Furstenberg. The fabric is silk. Flora’s right—it is delicate and beautiful, so you want to treat it with respect.”
Bell wipes her hands quickly on her pajamas and then gently takes it in her small hands, stroking one of the flowers.
I glance up at Flora, who’s smiling at us. “Where’s Andrew?” I ask.
“He and Antonio ran out to pick up some last-minute things.”
“Antonio?” I ask.
“My son. Pico.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Right. Should we start the cake?”
Flora hesitates and nods at Bell. “It could get messy, especially with this one.”
Bell goes rod straight, as if possessed by some great idea. “Daddy has an apron. I’ll get it.”
“You look very . . . put together,” Flora says while Bell rummages in a closet.
“You mean overdressed.”
“Just a touch. The heels alone—you’ll sink in the backyard.”
There are jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers in my duffel bag, but I purposely chose this dress. It may be a party for a seven-year-old, but it’s a party nonetheless. I wouldn’t wear anything more casual if it were in the city, after all. This is who I am, whether New Jersey likes it or not.
Bell finds the apron and brings it to me. “Here you go.”
“Do you think I should change, Bell?” I ask, taking it from her.
“No,” she says. “Please don’t!”
“Me neither.” I tie the apron around my waist and neck. “I can’t think of a better occasion to dress up for.”
Flora chuckles to herself, muttering, “It won’t last.”
Bell squeaks. Her face is bright red with exertion, and I quickly figure out she’s doing her best to hold in a laugh.
“What?” I ask, following her gaze. I hold out the apron and crane my neck to see it upside down. There’s a silhouette of a man with a spatula next to a grill. I read it aloud. “I Like Pig Butts and I Cannot Lie.”
Bell bursts into a fit of giggles, wheezing from her effort to keep it in. Her glee spurs my own. Laughter travels up my chest, and soon, I’m no better than her, an immature pre-teen laughing at a butt joke.
“Now there’s a sound I could get used to,” I hear from behind me. I turn around. Andrew fills the doorway in a black t-shirt and jeans, his muscles straining as he holds several canvas shopping bags. My already big smile widens. “Hi.”
He looks me over, hair to shoes, then fixates on my chest. “Nice apron.”
“It was that one or World’s Best Dad,” Bell says.
“You have a point,” he says, winking at her. “That title’s reserved.”
Another man comes into the kitchen, shouldering Andrew out of the way to slump groceries on the island. “Good God. Your dad went a little crazy at the store.”
Andrew shrugs a shoulder. “Don’t want to run out of food.”
“They’re first graders, not wild animals,” the man says.
Andrew arches an eyebrow at me as he sets his bags down too. “You’d be surprised.”
I
return his stare, and suddenly, I forget anyone else is in the room. With just a look, last night’s lovemaking rushes over me. He promised me all sorts of naughty things in his bed, yet all he did was treat me like a princess, give me an orgasm, and let me fall asleep on his chest.
I like being here in his kitchen, with his friends and family, but I also want to be alone with him. Can there be romance with a young child in the house?
“Bell, Antonio,” Flora says. “Let’s get the rest of the groceries.”
“There’re only a couple more bags,” the new person—Antonio—says. “And is anyone going to introduce me to the city girl?”
I put out my hand. “Amelia. Nice to meet you.”
He wipes his palm on his jeans and takes it. “Call me Pico.”
Andrew glares at him. “Listen to your mother and get lost, a-hole.”
“Oh,” Pico says, nodding with a sly grin. “Got it. Come on, Bell. How about a piggy-back ride?”
“Yes,” she screams and hops on before he’s even at her level.
The three of them disappear, and not a second too soon. Andrew closes the space between us and gathers me in his arms. “You disappeared on me this morning,” he says in my ear.
“I told you I would.”
“It’ll be the last time.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” he says. “You sleep under my roof, you’re in my bed. Understood? I’ll have a conversation with Bell first chance we get.”
“Okay,” I relent. What’s he doing to me? I used to be immovable when I wanted my way, and suddenly my argument is a simple “but” followed by my submission?
“What’re you smiling about?” he asks.
I shake my head. I can’t explain, so I just say, “You.”
“You look sexy as hell, by the way.”
“Is it the pig butts that do it for you?” I tease.
“It all does it for me—apron, dress, heels, hair. You’re way too beautiful for a kid’s party.”
“This is me,” I say. “City girl. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.” He kisses me on the lips, then the corner of my mouth, making his way to underneath my ear. Sliding his hands down my backside, he takes two handfuls. “God, I love this ass. It’s enough to get me worked up again.”
The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue Book 2) Page 35