Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
My mouth remembers; my hands absolutely fucking do.
That’s in my bones now and not going anywhere.
“Ready?” she asks, not looking up, like we do this every night.
“Yeah.” I reach for the masher. Our fingers land on it at the same time and linger there. Neither of us moves.
She smiles first. “Pumpkin is yours.”
I open the cans and dish the puree into a bowl. She mashes—slow, deliberate presses that send up warm sugar. I measure flour and sugar; she levels the cups with a neat swipe of her finger.
“Cinnamon?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Does Benny like cinnamon?”
She does, so I sprinkle it into the bowl. Butter melted. Eggs cracked clean. We pass bowls back and forth, shoulders bumping. I turn to grab the whisk and catch the bowl with my elbow. A soft splat. Batter streaks my forearm, and a dot lands high on my jaw.
“Hold still,” she says, laughing under her breath. “You’re making a mess.”
Layla steps in and takes my wrist, turning it so she can see the smear. Her thumb skims over it once, slow, gathering pumpkin from the ridge of tendon. She doesn’t use a towel to clean it off.
She looks at it, then at me—heat in her eyes.
I lift her arm instead.
“I’ll clean it up,” I murmur, then bring her hand to my mouth. Lick her thumb clean, then the spot below where I know her pulse is thumping. I see her breath hitch in her chest when I kiss along the thin skin there—one, two—before I release my grip on her hand.
Mmm . . .
We try to return to the bowls like civilized people. It lasts all of nine seconds.
My finger dips into the batter bowl for a dollop of sugar clinging to the metal side, and I dab it on the corner of her mouth at the same time she’s asking, “What should we do tomorrow while Benny is at school?”
I can think of dozens of things to do . . .
Most of them involving nudity.
“After I’m done with practice, we can hit the grocery store. Or have late lunch in Old Town Scottsdale, which is always fun. Swim. Glow-in-the-dark mini golf once the sun sets. Totally up to you.”
“So many options.” She stares at me, wide eyed and excited. “Hiking in a canyon sounds amazing. That’s something I’d love to do.”
I rack my brain, going over my schedule.
“We’d have to do that early early, though—I can have the sitter drop Benny off at school so we can leave before the sun rises.” I nod. “Beat the heat. I’ll pack water and hydration packs, you bring . . . I don’t know. Sunscreen?”
“Why are you saying it like that, you weirdo.”
’Cause I get to rub it on you if you’ll let me.
“I’m just being responsible,” I deadpan. “Host with the most.”
“In that case, I’ll put you on bottle duty,” she says, steady, cheeks flushed. “You can do my front and back.”
I’m useless. I stare, mixing spoon suspended above the bowl as I gawk at her. This is officially the first time she’s flat-out flirted with me.
Her eyes flick to the spoon, then up to me. “You okay there, Host with the Most?”
“Define ‘okay.’” I set the spoon down before I drop it. “You can’t just hand out assignments like that and expect motor skills to continue.”
“All I did was mention rubbing on sunscreen.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll be fully clothed.”
Will we?
Will We?
She bumps my hip, laughing under her breath. The last cup domes up neat. She sets the scoop down, wipes her fingers on a towel, then turns and leans her lower back against the counter—open invitation or my wishful thinking.
Either way, I step in.
Kiss her.
She rises onto her toes and meets me, lips as soft as I remember—but warmer—a sexy little sound catching in her throat. When I angle, she answers, fingers curling in the fabric at my sides. The kiss is slow and deep and impossible to walk away from, especially with her gentle fingers slipping under my T-shirt, palms warm on my back.
Every sane idea I had leaves my brain and goes straight to my twitching cock.
I haven’t fucked in ages, and suddenly, my dick has a problem with it.
A big one.
My palm finds the warm notch of her waist beneath the hoodie, thumb tracing lazy circles I can feel in my teeth. She hooks a finger in the collar of my T-shirt and breathes me in like it’s oxygen.
A laugh bubbles out of her when I trail to her jaw. “You always like this?”
No. “I’m never like this.”
I cook but barely bake. When I agreed to muffins, I pictured a box mix—definitely not this from-scratch stuff Layla has magically produced.
My fingers grip her ass, her back against the counter. Kneading her cheeks, wanting to lift her so I can look her in the eye. “Come here.”