“I—I didn’t mean that I’d actually make gooey, flaky French pastries. Because that would be an unqualified disaster,” I say quickly. “No, I meant picking up something yummy, like from Poupart’s Bakery or La Madeleine.”
A cough or a laugh or something in between gets caught in Beck’s throat. He’s biting down on his lips.
“Are you laughing at me?” I know I’ve made him laugh, but, so far, I haven’t felt like he’s laughed at me. But, right now, he looks uncomfortable, and I don’t think I said anything funny.
Beck shakes his head harder, chuckling through his words. “No, I’m just groaning inside picturing what you’ll think of my shabby little farmhouse.”
I stare at him for a second, trying to do what he’s doing. Picturing me in his home. A smile spreads across my face.
“The thought of being inside your house makes me happy.” But that thought made him groan, so then I frown again. “You don’t want me to see your house?”
Beck groans a second time, covers his face, and shakes his head. “Ignore me.”
I snort. “That’d be pretty hard to do. We’re lying down together.”
His smile flashes beneath his hand before he drops it. “Sorry. I just mean I’m being self-conscious.” He shrugs. “And making inferences that might not be based in reality.”
A little gasp escapes me. “I do that all the time! Are you sure you’re not autistic?”
Beck laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe I just feel inferior.”
“To me?!” I squawk.
And, ohmygod, he blushes. I must touch it.
I lift my free hand to his face and let my fingertips just barely graze his cheek. Because I didn’t ask for permission, and touching someone’s face is pretty personal. Still, he was okay mashing his mouth against mine, so this is probably okay too.
When he closes his eyes and sighs, I know it’s okay.
The flush on his cheeks is warm, hot even. Against his golden skin, the color is like a sunset. Beneath my fingers, his face is softer than I thought it would be. His eyes are still closed and his breath deepens, so maybe this feels good to him.
It feels good to me, so I let my fingertips trace over him.
The skin beneath his eyes is impossibly soft. Have I ever touched anyone here? Am I this soft?
I run the pad of my index finger over his sun-bleached brows and trace the smoothed-out creases at the corners of his eyes.
I refuse to think of them as crow’s feet, like his brother said. They are sunshine footprints. He got them from standing in the sun.
Maybe even from smiling in the sun.
God, he’s so beautiful.
I open my mouth and the words just tumble out. “It would be terrible if I made you feel inferior when you make me feel so…” I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat.
Beck peeks his eyes open, looking at me through heavy lids. “So what?”
“Good.” I trace my finger down the bridge of his nose. “Peaceful.” My finger glides over the end of his nose to the frenulum above his top lip. The skin there is so smooth he must’ve shaved this morning. “Gooey.”
He chuckles before kissing my exploring finger. “You make me feel gooey too.” The words sound deeper, like they’re coming from a place way down inside his chest.
Like close to his heart. I think it must be a good place.
I think I would like to lie on top of him and put my ear to that place.
But right now, I’ve reached his lips, and they are a world all their own. My finger slows down and I can’t take my eyes off the lazy way his lips nip softly against me with little micro-kisses.
God, how come touching his lips makes my breast swell? They feel so full and heavy.
