by Lindsey Hart
“Good thing,” he capitulated easily. “Though you were a shit poker player. For real.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent poker player. I go out with friends sometimes and play and I actually win money.”
“What? Like one night out of a hundred?”
“Fuck you, Jesse.”
The way she said his name filled up the kitchen. It was oddly gentle and somehow intimate attached to the first two words preceding it.
“Sure,” he winked at her and watched her face go adorably scarlet. “Now, about that whipped cream.”
“Yes. Yes, I still love whipped cream with my pie.” The blush never faded, and Syd dropped her eyes to her hands, which were clutched so tightly in her lap it looked like she’d just shed years of doubt and become suddenly and ridiculous devout. “What kind of pie? It’s probably some sick combination like strawberry rhubarb. Rhubarb. Like whoever puts that stuff in shit should be shot. Whoever invented it should be shot.”
“I’m pretty sure that would be… uh- mother nature?”
A small smile tugged at Syd’s lips and his cock responded to it like it was her hand doing the smiling. Like… wrapped around his cock.
He gave his head a shake as he opened the huge door of the industrial looking stainless-steel fridge. It really was overkill. And mostly empty, since the bastard could house enough food to literally feed fifty people.
He produced a can of whipped cream and a box of pie, obviously purchased from the store.
Syd let out a squeal as soon as she saw it. “Seriously? You said you made it.”
“I actually didn’t say anything about making it. You were the one who made the assumption. And by the way, I like rhubarb.”
“I know,” Sydney shuddered. “Your mom used to grow it in her backyard right at the end of the garden, where everyone could see that huge abomination. You used to go and pick it and break the leaf off and eat the stem raw.”
“I did dip it in a bowl of sugar. I liked it. I still do. What’s wrong with your teeth and tongue fuzzing up a little? It’s no worse than eating a granny smith apple.”
“Also, an abomination, unless dipped in caramel and nuts with a stick shoved up its ass.”
Jesse set the pie and the can of whipped cream down on the counter. “Do apples actually have an asshole?”
“Yeah. Of course. It’s that little weird crusty flowery looking circle thing at the bottom.”
He slid the pie out of the box, which just happened to be peach. It did say that it was made in the store’s bakery, on site, so that should count for something. Was it really store bought then or did that come down more on the side of homemade?
“Pretty sure that’s not an asshole.”
“It’s definitely an asshole.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Would you eat it?”
His eyes flicked up and too late, Syd realized what she’d just said. She dropped her eyes to the can of whipped cream. “I see you splurged,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Got the really good expensive stuff.”
“I figured you still liked to eat it straight out of the can. Do your bite of pie, full mouth of whipped cream routine. I always loved watching you do that.”
“You don’t even like whipped cream.”
“No. Still can’t stand it, even the homemade stuff. I think it ruins pie.”
“Just like I hate rhubarb and apple assholes.”
“Pretty much.” He raised a brow. “So… you want the can, or should I squirt it on top?”
Syd grinned. It pretty much split her face in two. And stopped his heart. One second it was pounding away in his chest, ba-bam, ba-bam, ba-bam and the next second, apparently, he was in cardiac arrest because there was no beating going on at all. Like- zero. His hand curled over the can and what do you know? Maybe he wasn’t in danger of dying- at least as long as Syd didn’t mention eating assholes again- because his heart slammed back into action so hard that it hurt.
“Pass that can over here.”
He slid it across the counter, towards Syd’s waiting fingers. They curled around it, perfect and dainty, with blunt square nails, trimmed short, like she used to keep them because she hated getting dirt underneath. They weren’t fake and they weren’t polished, since Syd literally hated anyone touching her hands and her feet and despised salons. She hated the fussiness of nail polish and never wore it. He was glad to see that hadn’t changed.
“Thanks.”
While he cut into the pie, which looked and smelled amazing, Syd shook up the can of whipped cream. He slid her plate over a minute later. She cracked the seal on the whipped cream, and just for old times’ sakes, bit off a piece of pie, scraping her teeth along the fork because she knew he hated it. She shook up the can and pointed it at her mouth.
Something must have malfunctioned or maybe she shook the can too enthusiastically, with more strength and force than she realized she contained in her small hands, because when she pressed the top, the whole thing detonated.
Straight into her face.
CHAPTER 12
Sydney
Holy mother loving fuck me with a kettle. What the hell just happened?
Sydney’s life divided into two parts. Before whipped cream explosion and after whipped cream explosion.
Because it wasn’t just like the can shot out a little stream or even a big stream. Hell no. The whole thing literally burst, like the entire thing, all over her face.
She was pretty sure, even though she couldn’t see it, that it looked like she’d decided to give herself a new face mask. She let out a cautious sounding scream, not too late or overdramatic, and reached up to swipe at her hair. Yup. It was up there too.
She swiped at her eyes frantically, trying to clear the white sticky goo off them, then out of nowhere, something fluffy was pressed into her hand. A towel.
“Holy farfinugan. Just sit there. Let me get you a wet cloth.”
“Don’t take a picture of this,” she pleaded. “And you better not have security cameras in the kitchen recording this, because if any of this footage leaks, I will never forgive you.”
“Look on the bright side. You could get internet famous. You do look pretty funny.”
“I’ll kill you, Jesse.”
His deep chuckle filled up the kitchen, and holy shit… that laugh hit her in all the wrong places. Unguarded places, where she had no business feeling it. His steps echoed on the kitchen floor as she waited. The whipped cream was that stupid aerosol kind and it wasn’t even melting off her face like the homemade stuff would have.
She reached out blindly when the footsteps came near, expecting to wrap her fingers around a wet cloth, but instead, they landed on something hard. And warm. Yikes!
She pulled her hand back like she’d just put it into a tank filled with angry scorpions and prickly cactuses, like- a torture tank meant to induce the worst finger nightmares ever.
“That wasn’t the cloth,” she moaned. God, could it get any worse?
“Definitely not the cloth,” Jesse agreed.
“Please tell me that was above the belt.”
“It was. Barely. Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for you too.”
“That’s debatable.”
Something warm and wet and squishy was placed into her outstretched hand. She unfolded the cloth and brought it up to her face, attacking her forehead first. Holy crap, there was a lot of whipped cream up there. Enough to fill up the cloth with a few passes.
“When did you start going to the gym? I thought you hated all that.”
“Who says I go to the gym?” Jesse’s voice was dark and rich, and way, way too close. Was he leaning in? Getting a kick out of all of it? Filming her frantic swipes at her gooey forehead with his phone?
“I- you- I just…” She realized how stupid that statement was and cursed herself for blurting out the first thing that came to mind. As usual. She’d never really developed that whole skill set of having a
filter. “I felt abs. You never really had abs. I remember in gym class on the fitness test you could do, like, three sit-ups.”
“And you could do three hundred. You used to practice in your bedroom. Make me count for you.”
“Yeah, well… push-ups and stretches too. I liked to be prepared.”
“No one prepared for the fitness test. Besides, you couldn’t run worth shit. I always beat you there. Like lapped you. Twice.”
“Shut up.” She scrubbed at her forehead one last time before she flailed out blindly with the cloth. “Rinse this off. It’s not doing much except smearing this crap around now.”
“Yes, master.”
“Stop it.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “You know, I hate whipped cream… but-”
And then… and then the bastard leaned in. She felt his breath like a hot wave against the cold whipped cream right before he licked her.
Licked her.
With his tongue. His hot tongue. He trailed it in a broad sweep from her cheek down to her chin. She heard him lick his lips and swallow and something violent, a storm of angry bees or something, attacked her insides.
“It’s better than I remember it being.”
Sydney froze. She shut down, too shocked to react. Too shocked to swipe out blindly and smack Jesse’s face like she should have. She still couldn’t see and the fact that she could smack something else by accident, forced her to keep her hands to herself. She couldn’t come back with something snappy either, so she pressed her lips tight together.
Which was a good thing, because Jesse leaned in again, so close that she could smell his dark, spicy scent straight through the whipped cream lodged up her nostrils. And he didn’t lick her cheek or her chin.
He went straight for her lips.
Like he wanted to kiss her until they were both out of air.
His fingers tangled in her hair, angling her head back so that a tingle burst over her scalp. It was nothing compared to the shivery heat pooling in her insides and that attack of the angry bees stinging her all over her body. A volley of goosebumps erupted over her skin and then she stopped thinking about her body’s reaction because, shit, Jesse was kissing her, and it was… god, it was fantastic. Amazing. Mind-blowing.
She couldn’t find the strength to push him away, so instead, she leaned into him and made a whimpering sound in the back of her throat that she couldn’t stop from happening. He growled in response and nipped at her bottom lip, setting her skin on fire just like all that food he used to burn because he was seriously a horrible cook.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he groans against my lips.
“That’s the whipped cream,” she protested breathlessly.
“Nope. That’s all you. Whipped cream doesn’t taste like honey, but you do.”
He ran his tongue across her bottom lip, as if to prove his point, and hello butterflies. They weren’t nice butterflies, though. They were as mean as those bees, filling up her stomach, crashing through her chest in a fluttering flurry that left her gasping for breath.
“You- you shouldn’t be kissing me,” she panted as Jesse trailed his tongue over her top lip, nice and slow, dragging it there, long and slow and pronounced. God, she was on the brink of becoming delirious.
“No?” It sounded more like a question than a statement. “Maybe not. But I like it. And you like it too.”
“I- I don’t,” she protested.
“Maybe you like it better when I nip you then.” He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, scraping his teeth over it, and she mewled, leaning into it because she couldn’t stop herself. Everything he was doing felt so good, and it had been a hell of a long time.
“Maybe you like it when I stroke your tongue with mine.” He did, underscoring his words by busting through the steam of her lips when they parted, finding hers, and stroking it in long, scalding thrusts that made her see stars because she imagined those strokes lower.
Her body ached, her nether regions doing a traitorous happy dance that she should not have been okay with. She wasn’t okay with it. She wasn’t. She kept telling herself that, but she didn’t exactly believe it. It was pretty hard to when her va-jay was currently throbbing and she could smell herself- yes, scent herself.
Or maybe that was him. Because she could definitely smell his dusky, manly scent rising up all around her, and god, it was hot.
She broke the kiss, panting, one hand flailing blindly to plant itself in the center of his chest and push him back a step.
“We have good body chemistry, Syd, admit it.”
“So what?” she ground out. “We might have good chemistry. That doesn’t mean anything. That’s not enough.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a start.”
He left her sitting there, breathless on the barstool, unable to see anything and still unable to move and stumble away. She was almost willing to flee to the front door and take her chances with the media scrum probably still outside. She’d live in a cave for the rest of her life if she had to, to avoid the tabloid rages that branded her a heartless hussy. Yeah. Even if Jesse made good on his threats to ruin her life, it would probably still be better than taking her chances with him in here.
Before she could think further though, he was back with the cloth. He’d rinsed it out and it was warm and reassuring when it hit her skin. God, it felt like heaven. She was tired. Still a little hung over. Her insides were a mess, and honestly, she was getting tired of fighting herself. She had her walls up, big time, but those walls were rapidly crumbling, broken down like they were the first time by a few illicit kisses.
He wiped away the whipped cream in slow, soft passes, so gentle that it made her want to cry, for some incredibly stupid reason. His hand at the back of her neck, strong, solid, burning right through her, all that heat going to some very inappropriate places- namely her nipples and between her thighs- made her want to cry too.
He massaged the cloth in slow circles, wiping gently, like he was afraid of hurting her. She wanted to snap that she wasn’t going to break, but then he left, and she found herself leaning forward on the stool, trying to capture the last vestiges of his body heat.
After rinsing out the cloth, he was back. This time, he had a pot or a bowl of water, because he dipped the cloth in and there was a splashy sound directly to her left. His hand was back at her neck, strangely protective, intimate, so large and warm that she couldn’t stop the sigh before it escaped her lips.
“Why do you keep fighting this, Syd? I know that the last time wasn’t a mistake. I know you were scared. I just don’t know why. I would never have hurt you. I never would. You’ve known me your whole life. At least… you did. What was there about me that was so terrible you had to leave for ten years and never look back?”
Sydney was glad that her eyes were closed, because the storm brewing behind them was hot and furious and keeping them pressed tightly shut helped contain the flurry of tears that wanted to escape.
A lump clogged up her throat, so that when she tried to speak past it, she couldn’t get any words out. She had to press her lips tightly together to keep the sobs inside that threatened to bust out. How could he not know? You’re a thousand times too good for me. I’ll only hurt you.
She was tired. So tired of fighting, so tired of running, so tired of everything. So tired of pretending, of telling herself that it was a mistake. That she felt nothing. That it could never work. She was just so tired.
So instead of leaning away from the soft strokes of that washcloth, she leaned into them. Into the capable hand steadying her at the back of her neck, into the one wiping away all that stupid whipped cream.
Finally, finally, he ran the cloth over her eyes. He had another towel, something fluffy and dry, that he used to dry her face off.
“There.” He stepped back and she found herself missing his warmth again.
She opened her eyes slowly, tentatively, and blinked.
She had to blink again because Jes
se was sitting there, on the barstool right beside her.
Looking at her like she was everything.
Beautiful. Adorable. Strong. Amazing. A goddess. Looking at her with complete and utter adoration. And it broke what little resistance she had left, because she knew that she was none of those things.
She leaned forward, nearly falling off the barstool, but he met her halfway, his strong arms closing around her shoulders, tugging her into the hard wall of his chest. Her hands splayed over his dress shirt, her fingers digging into the hard muscle below. He was so different. He definitely worked out, because even in college, his shoulders weren’t so broad, his pecs so hard, his abs, his arms… the list went on. She’d loved his body. Always. He was perfect to her. He wasn’t just her best friend. He was the only man in the world that she’d ever truly wanted. Like, not just wanted on a physical level, but on a mental, emotional- god, even on a spiritual level.
Because that’s what it was when his lips met hers. Gentle. Crushing. Searching. Bruising. Frantic. All-consuming. It felt like her spirit, her soul, her inner essence- whatever it was- it felt like it was all tangled up with his. She’d always felt like that. Always.
He might look different. He might feel different. He might have the crazy masculine body of a guy who’d grown up, fully, who worked out and took care of himself, the body of a sex god, but he was still the same dorky kid she knew and loved. Deep down in there, he was still Jesse and he’d always been so perfect.
It broke her.
Being in his arms- it felt like coming home.
It was dangerous. He was dangerous. He was everything he knew she couldn’t fight and she was so tired. So tired of fighting. Just- so completely exhausted, so when his arms wrapped her up and he carted her up easily against his chest, cradling her legs and letting her throw her arms around his neck, when he carried her easily through the kitchen, down an impossibly long hall, and into a bedroom that was even more extravagant than the shower had been, with a huge king bed, ornate furniture, tiled floors, and fancy ass lighting, she didn’t fight.
She didn’t even fight back when he set her down on the bed and told some robotic assistant to dim the lights.