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“It’s nothing.”
“Come on, Sparkplug, don’t get all shy on me now.”
She bites her lip in that way that’s quickly becoming my favorite gesture in the whole damn world. Then she lets it go with a sigh, high-pitched and breathy, and it’s all too easy to imagine her making a similar noise as my finger circled her hole, getting closer, and closer …
“I guess you could say I’m not really the boyfriend type.”
Good.
Her curves are carved of heavenly gradations, her hair is casual and messy and yet captivating. Her eyes pierce and her voice is like an angel’s song. She’s motherhood material and fuck-me-now material all rolled into one. She’s the perfect package and I feel my chest soaring in victory at the thought that she’s not attached.
Not that I can do a damn thing about it, I remind myself.
She turns back to the bacon and I move my gaze down to her legs, praying to the bathrobe gods that they lift hers up just a few more inches. I imagine the curvature of her ass, the tempting way it would peak for me.
A touch, that’s what I’d tell myself.
Just one touch.
But the moment I felt the warmth of her skin, I’d become a savage. Or rather the savage inside of me would break loose and I’d have her pressed against the wall, shivering and squirming and squirting against my hand.
She finishes the bacon and dishes it onto plates, carrying it over to the bar.
She sits at the bar, one stool over, perhaps sensing the animal desire spreading through me like a berserker’s drug.
I bite into the crispiness of the bacon, feeling and hearing the crunch, the taste spreading satisfyingly around my mouth.
Goddamn, she can cook too. God save me.
“Verdict?” she asks, nervousness in her tone.
“Amazing, Sparkplug,” I say. “Fucking glorious.”
“Jeez,” she giggles intoxicatingly. “I’ve never had my cooking described like that before.”
“Don’t let any of the men at college know how well you can cook,” I joke. Or at least I try to make it sound like a joke. Really I’m mentally dismembering any asshole who’d ever make the mistake of thinking she’s his. “You’ll have them lining up from coast to coast.”
“Men?” she laughs, taking a piece of bacon as she shakes her head. “Nah, all we have at college are boys. Immature little boys.”
I chuckle knowingly. “Twenty year olds can be pretty immature … present company excepted, of course.”
I add the last part quickly when she shoots me a fiery pout straight out of hell. But then if it’s from hell, I’m going to get to sinning real damn quick so I can join her there.
“I guess – you know if I was going to have a boyfriend – I’d want him to be experienced.”
My heart thunders in my chest, my pectorals going tight, throbbing, my manhood flaring now like a rocket ship ready to take off.
And then, even if I know it’s dead wrong, I find myself sliding my hand along the counter, toward hers.
I find myself getting closer, annihilating the distance between us, my need to feel her flesh so overwhelming it drowns out thoughts of Fiona, thoughts of betrayal.
You know this is wrong. You know this road leads to disaster.
I try to picture Fiona’s face if she ever found out.
But all I can see is Sadie, her bright eyes, the redness of her cheeks, my sassy anxious Sparkplug.
“Do you have any idea how fucking—”
“Hello?” Fiona calls from the hallway. “Is that bacon? Oh, God, please tell me it’s bacon.”
I snatch my hand away and Sadie does the same, both of us turning from each other, even as I sense the magnetic pull willing us both to turn back.
Fiona walks in a moment later.Chapter SevenSadieThe four of us – Saul, Fiona, Jasper, and me – sit on the backyard porch in our winter coats. Even Jasper has a fluffy jacket, white with black spots just like his natural coat. Our cocoas throw steam into the air, whirls that dance and shift, and all I can think about is half an hour ago when Saul’s hand slid down the bar and—
And what? What was he going to do?
The thought strikes that he was going to kiss me, going to grab me and take me right there. I still hover in a world of disbelief, though, each time the recollection punctures my mind. It just seems so impossible, so unlikely, that my mind starts positing other scenarios.
Fiona isn’t really my friend, this is all a twisted long-game trick and she’s convinced her dad to pretend to be attracted to me like some twisted joke?
But that doesn’t make sense. Fi and I have been through too much over the past couple of years for that to be true. She was the one who held me the night my parents’ died, for Christ’s sake.
