Sweet Cheeks

by K. Bromberg

  The massage Hayes booked for me was meant to be relaxing. Meant to make me forget everything that was to come tonight with the rehearsal dinner. Kind of hard to do when each time the masseuse slid his hands over my skin, all I could think about was how I wanted Hayes’s hands on me instead.

  Add an egg. Beat the mixture. Is he as worked up over this as I am? Crack another with one hand while I keep stirring with the other. Add that one in. Stir. A dash of vanilla. Stir.

  Because since our kiss earlier, the only thing stronger than the desire owning my body, is the confusion ruling my heart.

  The constant reminder to myself that the kiss was all for show.

  For Mitch.

  For his family.

  For his friends.

  Whatever combination of the three standing on the golf course while Hayes pulled me against him and kissed me. Senseless. Thoroughly. Handily.

  It was all for show.

  I repeat the phrase. Tell myself I can’t be hurt by it because I knew it was going to happen at some point. A simple kiss to convince the wedding party that Hayes and my relationship was legitimate.

  At least we got it out of our systems. But it’s definitely not out of my system—not by a long shot—because that kiss was anything but simple. It was a no-holds-barred, steal-your-breath, make-you-want-without-regret kiss.

  Hence the reason I’m still so damn emotional over it a few hours later.

  Sift the flour with the baking powder. Check the oven to see if it’s at temperature yet. Is he questioning himself now like I am? Wanting more yet not acting on it because he realizes it’s an all around bad idea? Add a pinch of salt. Or is this all a scene to act out in a comedic script to him? Lift my eyes and stare at the view beyond but not really see it because I’m lost in thought. Lost over everything really when it comes to Hayes.

  I kept thinking that if we kissed under the guise of it being for onlookers, it was going to help rid the ghost of us from my memory. But I was so very wrong. Now I feel like it’s awakened them rather than bury them for good.

  Stir.

  He’s an actor, Saylor. This is what he does for a living. Plays to the crowd.

  Stir.

  He was just playing the part. It was a kiss. A moment. And then he turned it off like a light switch the second you were out of sight of everyone else. Just like he did when we ran lines.

  Stir.

  You’re reading too much into it, Saylor. But if it was all an act, why did Hayes murmur those words against my lips? Why did he hesitate pulling away?

  A part of me thinks it was more than show. Hopes it was. Doesn’t hope it was. Jesus, I’m a mess. And yet I was there. I sensed his hunger behind the kiss, felt the intent in his touch, and saw the desire in his eyes.

  Pick up the rubber spatula. Scrape the batter down the sides of the bowl.

  Ships,

  Just in case you need to busy your hands in batter.

  - Hayes

  The note he’d left me on the counter catches my eye again over the edge of the bowl. The one I had found on top of a stack of ingredients, bowls, and utensils when I walked into the kitchen from my post-massage shower.

  If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have known that when I’m confused I use baking as my therapy. Use the comfort it brings to help me work through my thoughts.

  No. If he didn’t care, he would have acted more like Mitch: focus on him. On his needs. His wants. Without a thought to my need for a mental recess.

  But he does care. The note. The ingredients. The cooking instruments. Ensuring the villa had cupcake trays and liners. Understanding I’m confused and need this to help me work through it. All of those things say he does.

  Don’t they?

  Check to see if the oven has hit temperature. Hands falter mid-stir.

  I had to have misread him and his intentions. Had to have thought there was more to his touch than there really was, because afterward, he dismissed me without a second look. In fact he almost seemed irritated with me, like I did something wrong.

  Ready to spoon the batter, I pick up the metal cupcake tray from the counter behind me and slam it down onto the granite top a little harder than necessary. The sound reverberates through the house but does nothing to abate my frustration. This is so screwed.

  Place the cupcake liners in the tray. Count the rows. Placate my obsessive thoughts.

  What if I’m wrong? What if Hayes wanted to kiss me? What if he shared in my curiosity and wanted to know if there was anything lingering between us so he took advantage of the moment?

  And damn, what a moment it was.

  But now I’m drowning in perplexity. In bewilderment. In the fear and desire of wanting him to kiss me again despite knowing that wanting more is only going to lead to getting hurt again. And in the confusion over how a single kiss from Hayes can wind me up tighter than a spring when not once in the six years with Mitch did he ever make me feel this way.

  But Hayes pulled back. He erased the emotion from his face and walked away—again—as if I irritated him.

  I spoon batter into the cups. A little more forcefully than I should. With each scoop my anger builds. My emotions wrenched open like a can opener.

  Scoop.

  What? I’m not good enough for him anymore? Not posh enough? Not pretty enough on the Hollywood starlet scale of beauty?

  Scoop.

  Well, screw you, Hayes Whitley. Screw you and your Academy Award and your walking shoes that you still seem to wear.

  Scoop.

  Tears blur my vision. Rejection burns brighter than logic. Hurt resurfaces when I force myself to admit that I knew exactly what I was getting into when I arrived here.

  Scoop.

  I should be mad at myself for not keeping a leash on my emotions. For not remembering how devastating Hayes can be on my heart. For letting the ladies in Starbucks and their catty comments fuel my temper so I screwed over my own sensibility and accepted Hayes’s offer to come here.

  Scoop.

  Just call it off, Saylor. Tell Hayes we already made our point today in the clearing—that I’m deliriously happy with a much more successful man than Mitch—and then hop on a plane. Leave all of this tumult behind and keep what’s left of your heart and dignity intact.

  Scoop.

  Get a grip, Say. You’re letting one kiss make you lose your ever-loving mind and jump to conclusions that are all supposition.

  I blame it all on him. From taking the trip down memory lane with the old Hayes I used to love and then switching gears and having new experiences with the mature Hayes who brought me here. The one who makes unexpected observations, makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, and who doesn’t care if he’s covered in cupcake splatter so long as I’m not mad at him.

  The one who came here to try and help me gain some kind of redemption and hopefully save my store.

  I brace my hands on the edge of the counter, hang my head, and remind myself why I’m here in the first place. To save the bakery and to restore my reputation.

  Not for the more than enjoyable distraction of Hayes Whitley.

  When I lift my head, the distraction himself is standing on the other side of the kitchen. Shirt off. Chest heaving. Running shorts on. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw muscle pulsing. Eyes locked on mine.

  My breath catches. At the sheer beauty of him. At the force in his expression. At the raw emotions rioting through me just from the sight of him. At how every single part of me stands at attention when his hands fist at his sides and his muscles tense.

  Hello, distraction.

  I hate him and love him, want him and don’t want him.

  He takes a step forward. Stops.

  I remind myself to breathe. To say something to break the hold he has over me. To ignore the sudden ache in my lower belly and that slow burn of arousal that coats my skin in goosebumps.

  “I went for a run.” His words are strained. Hoarse. And yet I’m not exactly sure why he’s telling
me the obvious.

  “I’m making cupcakes.”

  He nods his head as if this is a normal, everyday conversation. But it’s far from it if the way my body is reacting to every single thing about him can be used as a barometer.

  My nipples harden and my mouth waters. My body aches in places I’ve never felt before as I take him in. The way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. The fine mist of sweat on his chest. The flex of one of his pecs causes me to realize I’m staring. I look up and notice the barely there arrogant smile on his lips before meeting his eyes again.

  “I keep telling myself that we can’t do this, Saylor.”

  His words cut through the tension settling around us. Throw water on the sexual fire sparking between us.

  And even though his words say no, every single thing about his body says yes. The predatory posture. The gleam in his eyes. The tautness of his muscles. Visible restraint that a part of me wants to test. I wonder how hard I’ll have to push before it snaps.

  I know without a doubt that snap will sting, but for some reason I have a feeling when it comes to Hayes Whitley, the sting might just be worth it.

  Another step.

  Predator toward prey.

  “Can’t do what?” My voice is barely a whisper. The tight buds of my nipples press against my thin bikini top and communicate what the rasp of my voice can’t. I want you. Kiss me. I only want to think about here. And now. And the way you make me feel.

  His chuckle is soft. Low. Strained. He’s closer now. Within touching distance. He reaches out to the bowl beside us on the counter, runs a finger around the edge of it, and brings it to his lips. He waits to make sure I’m watching him as he sucks the batter from it. And damn it to hell if the groan he makes when he pulls his finger from his mouth doesn’t pluck on the strings of desire running throughout me.

  “What can’t we do, Hayes?” I ask again. Have to. I need an answer to know if what I think he’s saying and what I want him to be saying are the same damn thing.

  Another step.

  He withdraws his finger from his mouth as he angles his head and holds my gaze. Waiting. Gauging. Anticipating. I can feel the heat of his body. Hear his steady inhale of breath. And I’m more than ready for his touch when he reaches out and places his hand on the side of my neck.

  “Everything.” He licks his lips, glances down to my mouth, and then back up to my eyes as his thumb rubs ever so slightly over my collarbone. “And nothing.”

  “Oh.” My mind spins. My body aches. Every part of me wants.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  He leans in and brushes his lips against mine. It’s just a simple taste of a kiss but with that singular action my reasons disappear, my heart tumbles, and my body aches for him.

  “A terrible idea,” I murmur and this time I take the initiative and kiss him back. A soft part of the lips. A barely there brush of tongues.

  “Horrible,” he whispers before matching the depth of my kiss and adding to it. His other hand comes up to frame the side of my face, his thumb resting just beneath the line of my jaw so he can control the angle of the kiss.

  “Awful.” Our bodies mesh the same time our tongues do. His body still hot from his run. Still firm. Still slick with sweat.

  “Stupid,” he whispers. A slight smile forming on his lips before he dives back in to taste and take. Taunt and tantalize. Demand and offer.

  I moan. Can’t help that I do because there’s a dominating tenderness to his kiss. A forgiving relentlessness. A desperate calmness. There’s no rush to it. No hurry to get to the next part.

  Thoughts escape me with each dance of our tongues. With each tug on my bottom lip by his. With each soft directive of his lips moving against mine.

  My hands skim up the sides of his torso, loving the feel of the bunching of his muscles beneath my palms. He fists a hand in my hair and changes the angle of the kiss. Choreographs the next step in our slow dance of desire.

  “Saylor.” My name on his lips in that gravelly tone scrapes over me. Drags me from the haze his kisses have pulled me under. He leans back so our eyes can meet.

  Seconds pass. Questions, wants, needs, flicker through his eyes. Should we? Can we? How is this happening again?

  His jaw pulses. His dick is hard against my hip. His waning control reflected in the tightening of his fingers in my hair.

  My lips part. Yes. Yes.

  Because it’s us.

  But I can’t give the answers because I’m silenced by the moment and by the bright burn of arousal coursing through my body. By the need to want and the want to need this connection with him.

  By acknowledging that I love him. Probably always have.

  “I’ve never been able to resist you. Not then. Not now.”

  Not ever.

  Our past and present collide in one sweeping moment of time. Our mouths meet again in a savage union of lips and tongue and want and desire and greed and hunger. Our hands slide and grab and feel and possess each other’s flesh.

  We’re a frenzy of movements. Of not being able to touch each other quickly enough, and yet wanting to slow down and take our time with this reunion that has been years in the making.

  His mouth is on the underside of my neck. His hands are pulling down the straps of my swimsuit, then palming my breasts. Thumbs run over the tips of my nipples sending a tsunami of sensation through my body.

  His lips lace hungry kisses against the sensitive skin to my ear. I fumble with his shorts while he pushes down my bikini bottoms. My cool hands slide beneath the waistband to find him hot and hard and ready. My mouth falls open from his teeth scraping over my nipple while his hands are everywhere and not enough places all at the same time. The evidence of what I do to him stiff in my hand.

  His hands are on my waist. My feet leave the floor, and the hard granite of the countertop is cold beneath my ass. There’s a clatter of utensils. A thud of something falling over. A plume of flour in the air. But Hayes doesn’t miss a beat. He steps between my thighs and pulls my ass to the edge so I’m perched there, needing his body to ensure I don’t fall. And then he claims my mouth again in a kiss that promises possession and surrender.

  My hands are on his shoulders. His fingers feather over the entrance of my sex, part it, then slide up and back through my arousal. My head falls back. My thighs spread wider, my body instantly giving him access to every single part of me without a word.

  I moan when he slips his fingers into me. A teasing inch at first. A suggestion of what’s to come. And then his mouth is on mine, pulling me under once again. And just when I’m drugged enough, he slips his fingers all the way in, circles them to ignite the nerves within, and rubs his thumb with a hint of touch over my clit.

  My hips buck at the onslaught of sensation. Tongue. Fingers. Thumb. His groan. My plea for more. Then it starts all over again. A slow build up. A soft seduction of my nerves. A murmur of praise. An assault of pleasure.

  The orgasm surprises me. It sounds stupid but it feels so very different from what I’m used to. A slow surge of warmth. A tensing of muscles. Hayes’s name on my lips as the wave rises and pulls me in its unexpected undertow. Drowns me in the surge of pleasure and a wash of desire. My muscles pulse around his fingers as his thumb continues to circle over my clit. My fingernails dig into his biceps and hips twist in pleasurable pain.

  I’m still lost in the orgasmic fog, still on the high from it when he withdraws his fingers from me and brings them to my parted lips. His eyes are on mine—locked and intense—when he coats my lips with my own arousal. I draw in a shaky breath as he slowly leans forward and runs his tongue over the path his fingers left. The moan he emits is sex personified.

  It’s unexpectedly arousing.

  It’s entirely consuming.

  It’s intoxicatingly erotic.

  His lips follow. A brush against mine. When I lick my tongue against my lips to ask for more, his chuckle rumbles through the room.

  “My pace, Saylor. Not yours.
I’m in control now. You may own pieces of me you never even knew, but right now, I’m going to own you. Every single part of you.”

  My blood fires at the words. Libido ignites, and yet I’m stunned into silence. Shocked by his confession. Body rocked by his touch.

  “Hayes.” One word. A plea. A question. A sigh.

  He kisses me again, but this time with more demand. More greed. He’s tongue and lips and little nips of teeth, all the while my body is still vibrating from the remnants of the orgasm.

  His hand is on my neck, holding my head still as he seduces my lips and relights the fire that he left smoldering. My hands reach down and circle his length to stroke the hardness of him. I feel the drop of pre-cum on his head. Smear it around with my thumb before deliberately leaning back and sucking on my thumb.

  I close my eyes and taste him on my skin. Moan softly. When I open them back up, his eyes are ablaze with a hunger that’s new to me.

  “I want you, Say.” His voice is guttural. Desperate. Empowering.

  I slide my hands to my breasts and rub my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. The flour he knocked over coats my hands. Adds a difference of sensation. My lips part in a soft gasp.

  He swallows visibly and darts his tongue to his lips. “Right here. Right now.” He steps into me. Slides a hand up my torso, over my hands on my breasts, and replaces my fingers with his own. The sensation is heavenly. My back arches and my head falls back but not enough to lose eye contact with him.

  And just when I want to close my eyes he dips forward and circles my nipple with his tongue. Then sucks. It’s like an electric current has been sent straight to every nerve in my body. Shocking them aware. Making them feel every singular sensation: the heat of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble, and the vibration of his groan against my skin.

  “No one’s watching now.” He looks up to me from beneath lids heavy with desire. “It’s just you. And me.”

  His words are like an aphrodisiac. A stimulant. An eraser to the errant thoughts I had before he walked in.

  I was wrong. He did want to kiss me.

  “And fuck how much I want you right now.”

  Wanting to test the control he claims to want, I bring a hand to the back of his neck and pull him to me. My mouth is against his. A taunt of a kiss. A nip to his lip. His name a moan. I show him I want him just as fiercely. Running my tongue over the coarseness of his jaw to his ear, I say, “I’ve always wanted you.”