Rae huffed a laugh. “Sure thing, boss.”
Her fingers trembled as she attempted to squeeze the limes. I continued to stroke her, keeping her body pinned tight against me.
“This pretty pussy is wet,” I breathed against her ear.
“Mhmm,” she answered.
I spread my fingers. The audible tear made her jerk.
“Did you just rip my new tights!”
Sliding past her panties, I pinched her clit. “They were in my way.”
Rae hissed. “Nico.”
“Yes, cherry-bomb?”
Her hips rocked into me. Her breath quickened.
I slipped a finger into her silky heat, groaning as her muscles clenched it tight. Madonna santa, she was already close. I pumped my finger in and out, then slid a second deep inside.
Rae whimpered.
I continued to stroke her clit as my teeth sank into the pulse on her throat. I sucked. Hard. Liquid warmth flooded my hand. Her head tipped back and an unholy moan escaped her lips.
“Nico!”
“Come for me,” I demanded, laving my tongue over her pulse.
She slammed her hands on the counter. “Are we preparing for your guests or are we—”
While she’d exploded, I pulled my fingers from her sex and pushed them into her mouth. Grabbing a lime, I replaced the taste of her with the citrus.
Rae swallowed. “That’s a whole new twist to tequila shots.”
I chuckled. “I’ll let you finish.”
Checking the rice, which was almost done in the pot on the back burner, I tossed a stack of tortillas, both soft and hard shells, onto the baking sheet in the warm oven. Rae moved to the fridge and poked around.
“Looking for something?” I turned and caught a peek at her ass. My dick pulsed greedily. I liked her in my kitchen, and not just because she was fucking hot. She belonged here. Cooking had never been more enjoyable.
“Nah, I’m good.” Rae shut the fridge.
I frowned at the orange bottle and bag of veggies she took the island. But hell if I was going to interrupt. She seemed at peace here. She wasn’t hiding who or what she was, from her heavily pierced ears to the bare feet, toes painted a sultry black. But it was more than that. The trauma of early had melted away, for which I was immensely grateful. She was undeniably the strongest woman I’d ever met. The world wasn’t going to hold her down.
Magnolia Rae was the kind of woman who bounced back swinging—laughing in the face of hell and making cocktails in celebration.
She measured the carrot juice, dumped it in the pitcher, and then added the rest of the margarita ingredients.
“Do you have cayenne pepper?” Rae asked, pulling the long-stemmed carrots from the bag.
“I do.” I crossed my arms over my chest and watched as she washed then peeled the edges of the carrots. The strips she tossed in the pitcher, the veggies she plopped in the four tumbler glasses on the counter.
“Can I have it?” Rae turned around to face me. “Please.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
But I didn’t move.
