Sweet Cheeks

by K. Bromberg

  The words are out before I can stop them. The transparency of the moment taking over and speaking truths I can’t take back. A confession I don’t think I even wanted to admit to myself.

  There’s a falter in motion. A second where our eyes meet and our emotional guard is lowered. And then the moment takes over.

  A growl deep in his throat as he slides his hand back up my midline between my breasts before pushing me to lie back onto the flour-coated granite slab behind me. His hands hook around my thighs and pull me toward him.

  A moment of separation. A curse as his feet pad from the room before coming back. The telltale rip of foil.

  Anticipation builds. His fingers part me and cool air touches my heated skin. The thick curve of his head as he presses it against my wet center. I widen my thighs. Close my eyes. And revel in that soft, sweet, all-consuming burn as he slowly pushes his way into me.

  Good. God. Yes.

  My back arches. My hands press flat against the cool counter. My breath catches. The ache builds, inch by agonizingly slow inch until he’s sheathed root to tip.

  His soft groan of, “Jesus Fucking Christ, Saylor,” is enough of a response to tell me he feels the same way I do.

  His fingers tighten on my hips and desire is reflected in the touch. My muscles tremble. My eyes are closed, mind lost to the thought of how, after all this time, only one person has ever made me feel like this: full, complete, wanted, desired, loved.

  And then he moves. Dragging my mind from thoughts that will just complicate matters and flooding me with the slow and steady rhythm he pulls us into. I’m swamped with pleasure immediately. The warmth is so intense. The manipulation of every part of me overwhelming. It’s been so long.

  He pushes all the way into me and grinds his hips so the base of his shaft adds a touch of friction against my clit. On his withdrawal, the crest of his cock rubs against the pleasure point of nerves inside. Then he eases almost all the way out, teases me with just the tip and then begins the slow slide back in.

  I’m drugged by his adept skill. His insatiable finesse.

  My eyes flutter open to take in the sight of him before me. Muscles tense, teeth biting into his bottom lip, head angled down to watch where we’re joined.

  He looks up and meets my eyes. A dare and a warning flash in his expression. His nonverbal advice to hold on as he begins to pick up the pace.

  The unmistakable sound of our bodies connecting, uniting, separating, and then starting the process all over again fill the kitchen. My body glides on the flour beneath me. Backward with each push in, then toward him, as his hands on my hips pull my ass over the edge of the counter again. He uses the unbalanced weight of my hips off the edge to push into me until he bottoms out.

  His guttural sounds. The unrelenting pace. My name groaned on his lips. The grip of his hands on my flesh. The harshness of the granite beneath me, and his hardness within me.

  Our words are as frenzied as our movements. Like we can’t get them out fast enough and at the same time want to draw this out as long as possible.

  Right there.

  More.

  Oh God.

  So tight.

  Deeper.

  So good.

  Oh God.

  Saylor.

  My body chills and heats. An ache like I’ve never experienced before tears through me making my want turn desperate. Makes my moans become demands. And without warning, I tumble over the edge into that delirious free fall of ecstasy. My mind shuts down. My body takes over. An explosion of heat. A desperate gulp of air. A cry of his name. My muscles contracting around him so that even the slightest movement from him brings me such intense pleasure that I want him to stop and not stop simultaneously.

  I’m swamped in the bliss of the orgasm. Lost to its euphoric haze.

  And then Hayes can’t hold back anymore. He starts to move again. To pump and thrust. To worship and take. To own and possess. Then it’s my name on his lips followed by a ragged cry of release. A few more pumps of his hips before the room falls silent save for the ragged draw of his breath.

  Without a word, he slips out and leans forward to press his forehead against my chest, lips against my belly, and just stills there for a moment.

  I thread my fingers through his hair and revel in the warmth of the moment. In the difference of making love to the man now versus the teenagers fumbling in the dark that we used to be.

  And the line we rehearsed earlier today comes back to my mind: It’s only ever been you.

  I wake with a start. The room is darkened. My arm is numb from where Saylor’s head rests on it.

  Saylor.

  The goddamn drug I forgot about. The yardstick I’ve measured all against. The one woman I’ve always wondered what-if about.

  Well, now you know, Whitley. Ten times better than you remembered. Richter-scale sex. But how does knowing help the situation?

  Fuck if I know, but holy shit was that incredible sex.

  And then it hits me. Is she the real reason I stayed away from Tessa in the weeks before coming here? We weren’t dating. I’d even told Say that. But spending that small amount of time with Saylor, our one hour of fun in our old stomping ground—the tree house—was clearly enough.

  I hadn’t ever been interested in Tessa. A good lay? Sure. Available? Yes. Emotionally connected? Not a chance in hell.

  Tessa could never hold a candle to everything Saylor Rodgers is.

  I shift on the chaise and turn so I can see her face and watch her sleep. Take in the soft lips and long lashes. The freckles I used to tease her about, and that stubborn chin she’s lifted more times to me during our lifetime than I can count.

  And I know my hunch is right. Tessa—perhaps any woman—pales in comparison to Saylor.

  How in the hell did this happen? And why the fuck do I want to lean forward, taste those lips, and do it all over again?

  Because it’s Saylor.

  My afternoon run was supposed to cure this want. The exertion should have staunched the unexpected need and calmed the ache in my gut I’ve had since we walked down the path together last night. And yet it did the complete opposite. Each step of my jog was a pounding reminder how much I wanted her and an affirmation that the ball-tightening kiss we’d had was more than just for show.

  I kissed her because I wanted to. Had to. Couldn’t resist not knowing if she still kissed the same. Tasted the same. Made that same little sound that used to get me hard in a split second (but in all fairness, for a teenage boy, a cool breeze could do that).

  And selfishly my ego wanted the fucker, Mitch, to see she was with me. Call it a dickish move, tell me it doesn’t matter because he’s getting married and didn’t fight hard enough to keep her, but I know it does. I’ll make him wonder what I have that he doesn’t. A bigger dick? A larger bank account? A better personality?

  Yes, to all three.

  So fuck, the kiss might have been a combination of all the above, but the sex? That was all me. All want. All greed. Everything I need. And fuck yes, it was against my better judgment. But sure as shit, my better judgment is not communicating with my dick.

  And now I’m screwed. Because all I want is more.

  I scrub my free hand over my face to try and figure out how that’s possible, and I’m greeted with the scent of her pussy on my fingers. I’m hard instantly. I want to take her like this with flour smeared on her cheek and some still peppered in her hair. With a pan of cupcake batter on the counter still not baked. A mess all over the floor. And the bastard she was supposed to be marrying having his rehearsal dinner somewhere nearby.

  I need to mark her in some way. Own her the same damn way she’s owned me in one way or another since that first day I knocked on her screen door, told her I was the new kid on the street, and asked if her brother could come out and play.

  She was all sweet and soft, and straight lines and innocent in every way imaginable. That’s how I remembered her. And since I walked in the cupcake shop I’ve f
ound out she’s still sweet but also a helluva lot of feisty. Her innocence is matched with unwavering confidence and those straight lines of hers have turned into gorgeous curves.

  Curves currently warm against my body and calling me to run my hands over them. I fight the urge. Need to wrap my head around the words she said during sex—I’ve always wanted you—and how they made me feel. Still make me feel. Possessive. Alive. Scared. Relieved. Protective.

  You’re never supposed to believe the words someone says during sex. You know they’re jaded by the act. And yet, deep in my gut, I know she meant them.

  She moves in her sleep. Brings her knee up to rest against my dick and fists her hand over my heart.

  There’s an ache in my chest. A feeling I choose to ignore. The longer I stare at her, watching her chest rise and fall, I realize the ache is more of a twinge and the twinge is jealousy. Of Mitch. Because he’s had a million moments like this that I never did. He wasted them. Took them for granted.

  And anger. Because he didn’t think enough of her to fight for her. She’s worth the goddamn fight. Especially when her temper’s raging, and her stubbornness reigns.

  And relief. That she knew better and walked away from him. That Ryder called me to cash in the IOU and that when I walked in the villa tonight she looked at me with those wild eyes of hers that told me so much more than her lips ever would.

  The irony’s not lost on me. How can I be pissed at Mitch when I should direct it all at myself since I’m the asshole who walked away from her and left the door wide open?

  But it’s easier to blame him. To despise him. Because if I do then I don’t have to look too closely at myself and wonder what this all means. How this will play out. How the weekend’s going to end when we return to our respective worlds.

  Then what?

  Walk back into the lives we lead knowing this is still here between us? Resolved and unresolved?

  Shut the fuck up. Live in the moment. Enjoy the killer sex and having her around. Sex doesn’t mean commitment. Doesn’t mean love.

  Love?

  Where the fuck did that thought come from?

  She murmurs something I can’t make out. Pulls my attention when it’s never left her. Then moves again. I can’t help but smile when she brings her hand up to her earlobe and rubs it between her thumb and forefinger.

  And fuck if a feeling doesn’t surge through me—warms me when it shouldn’t—at seeing her do that. At knowing she still does it. That ache is back in my chest but this time it’s not from jealousy.

  Not hardly.

  She murmurs again. Snuggles closer against me.

  Haven’t I always loved her in some way, shape, or form?

  It’s just the shared history. The reconnection with someone who has known me since way back when. A person who can still finish my sentences even after all this time.

  Keep telling yourself that, dude. Maybe you’ll believe it hasn’t always been her.

  She mumbles something. A soft laugh follows. And that fucking tinge is back with a vengeance when she mumbles again, but this time, the word is clear as day. Mitch.

  I wake slowly. I’m nestled in the satisfaction of sex and the unmistakable warmth of Hayes’s strong body against mine. Groggy but content, my eyes flutter open to find him staring intently at me. His bicep flexes beneath my neck.

  The lazy smile on my lips is as automatic as the post-sex stiffness I feel in my muscles when I stretch my legs out. “You’re not plotting a way to put mustard on my cheek and tickle me to smear it, are you?”

  The solemn lines of his face transform instantly with the laugh that falls from his lips. His eyes warm, and his hand moves to the side of my face where he rubs his thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. The action makes every single part of me sag in contentment.

  “You wouldn’t have a spare feather lying around, would you?” His voice is raspy, sleep drugged, and so damn sexy.

  I laugh and snuggle closer to him. And I’m not sure that’s even possible, considering I’m already halfway on top of him on the chaise longue we made our way to in that awkward-post-sex moment we should have had, but didn’t.

  And why was that? Why are we so comfortable with each other, when in reality we don’t really know each other anymore? We’ve had different life experiences. Reached different milestones. He lives in glamour and glitz, and I live in cupcakes and frosting.

  Because it’s only ever been him.

  I shove the thought away. Clear my head of the crap I was overthinking before he walked in here and sexed me up so good I sat down on the chaise with him and fell asleep like a guy would. Because how wrong were my thoughts? How off-base was I?

  I absorb the moment. The feel of his hard body next to me. How his hand absently plays with my hair. That carnal grin and look in his eyes that tells me he wants to do me all over again. And I definitely wouldn’t say no because holy shit, the man has perfected some serious skills during the years we were apart.

  “No. No feathers. No mustard,” I say with a nod of my head.

  “Just flour and sugar,” he deadpans. He laughs and it rumbles through his chest and into mine. How could I forget the plume of flour and the granules of sugar beneath my back?

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Let’s just say you’ve given a whole new meaning to the term sweet cheeks.”

  His hand slaps my ass in a playful manner but doesn’t leave. Rather he digs his fingers into my flesh there and uses the leverage to pull my body up at the same time he leans down. Our mouths meet somewhere in between.

  The kiss is soft and tender with an underlying edge of hunger. Or is it desperation? I’m not sure, but I let him take the lead. Allow him to choose the direction of what happens next because I honestly wasn’t sure how the what happens next was going to play out between us.

  But this? This I can handle. The soft caress of his hand. The slow lick of his tongue. The warm heat of his breath. The feeling of sinking into him rather than running away. The comfort instead of the panic.

  Or maybe he’s just distracting us from voicing the questions we should probably be asking.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs as he ends the kiss. “Definitely sweet.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh but can’t deny the little charge to the ache within me that he seems to constantly keep stoked.

  He continues with that lazy draw of his finger up and down my biceps. I’m so content, so fulfilled, that it takes more than a few minutes for it to hit me. The darkened sky. The time of day.

  “Oh my God. We missed the rehearsal dinner.” Hayes’s arms hold me still as I try to sit up.

  “Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath hitting the crown of my head. “I rethought our strategy.”

  “You what?” I lift my head to meet his, shift so I place my hands on his bare chest and rest my chin on top of them. The action is natural, and something about it also feels so incredibly intimate.

  “I rethought our strategy,” he repeats with a resounding nod of his head. “They saw us today. Laughing. Kissing. Not caring who was watching. So I kind of think that by not showing up, we’ll let them assume whatever they want to assume we’re doing.”

  “Like swimming with turtles.” I love the surprised look on his face at my benign suggestion.

  “I was thinking something a bit more satisfying.” His fingertips trace up my spine. Goosebumps follow their path, but my body warms beneath his touch.

  “More satisfying, huh?” I decide to play along. “Like karaoke?”

  His laugh rumbles again. The bite of his teeth into his bottom lip holds my attention. “What was that lyric again?”

  “Addicted to love, I think.”

  “Nice try. Funny how you change your tune now.” He shakes his head.

  “Whatever, Captain.” I fight my smirk but lose the battle when he shifts me so I’m lying more on top of him than not. The unmistakable feel of his hardening dick presses against me and wakens my sex-drugged senses.


  “Watch it, Ships. You’re trying to distract me from explaining my new game plan.”

  And oh, how I want to distract him.

  “Right. Sorry. Where were we, again?”

  “Thinking of something more satisfying to do than attend a stuffy wedding rehearsal dinner because neither of us are in the wedding and therefore have nothing to rehearse.”

  “Correct,” I say, following the logic I’ve always thought but never voiced out loud when Mrs. Layton insisted that all guests attend the rehearsal dinner. They’ll have traveled a long way to see you, Saylor, the least we can do is feed them twice. Ugh. Her voice has no place in my head right now. Not with Hayes beneath me, and his lips so damn close to mine.

  “And so you were telling me what might be way more pleasurable than sitting in a formal dining room trying to decide which damn fork to eat your salad with when all you really wanted was a pepperoni pizza with jalapenos on half of it.”

  I laugh. And then melt at the fact that he still remembers my favorite pizza toppings. “Right. Yes.” I straighten my shoulders and narrow my eyes to pretend like I’m thinking of an answer. “Something pleasurable. Hmm. Oh, I know. We could make cupcakes. I always find that extremely satisfying.” I purr the last words out. Taunt him. Test him. Wonder how he’s going to finish this game we’re playing.

  He hums in his throat and the sound winds through my body. “While I know your batter is addictively sweet . . .” he darts his tongue out and licks his lip, his inference loud and clear, “. . . like I can’t wait to dip my fingers in it and taste it again sweet. But no, I think there is something more pleasurable we should do to make missing the dinner worthwhile.”

  My breath is ragged and my lips fall lax as the memory of look in his eyes as I licked my arousal off his fingers replays in my mind.

  “Like what?” My question is a hushed whisper. Lust thick in my voice.