I hook my fingers around his forearm at the same time he pushes the box against the wall with his foot, and we both walk out to greet our brand-new dining table.
“It’s so pretty,” I say in awe, running my hand over the rich pine before pulling out a seat.
“We picked a good one.”
I look up at James and beam. He smiles back. “What?”
He shrugs, innocence heavy in his downturned smirk. “I just think…it’s a nice table?—”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s brand new…”
“Okay…”
“Shouldn’t we…baptize it?”
My brow furrows, though my smile doesn’t wane, and I play dumb. “What. Like calling a priest to bless it?”
“Calling a priest is the furthest thing from my mind.” It’s easy to follow his lead when he’s so smooth. The tether between his brain and his hands is always in sync—never a disconnect—and he always touches me in one fluid motion. His fingers over my thighs. His hips nudging mine. His strong thigh bracing me against the edge of the table.
“You know, we have people coming over in a few hours,” I remind him. A small housewarming in our small one-bedroom. “We should probably start dinner.” His lips travel down my neck at the same time his palm slides the skirt of my dress up higher. Until I’m all panting breaths and hot skin, and my protest dies on my tongue.
But he reassures me, nonetheless. “We’ll make it quick,” he promises through a raspy whisper.
I think I nod, or something in the affirming category, and I get a blurry glimpse of him falling to his knees as my eyes grow hooded. My head tips back, his wandering fingers trailing up my stomach and under my bra, all while his mouth finds my trembling inner thigh. A small tug, and my butt lifts from the cool wood, my underwear gliding past my hips.
It’s hard to focus on anything because my senses feel like they’re all swirling in a tornado. How his tongue plays with my clit, sending a thrill from my stomach up to my throat. How his fingers dip inside me, like he’s searching blindly but still somehow able to figure out all the right buttons to press. How his arms manage to keep my knees parted, giving him prime access.
“James,” I gasp, gripping his hair just to have something to hold on to. Hard wood bites into my shoulder blades, but the pain is so deep in the recesses of my mind. What’s a little discomfort when James is playing me like a fiddle? He does this tease, tugging me back and forth to the edge of sanity. Until I’m tipped completely over.
I’m a heaving, pliant mess by the time he crawls over me. His palms braced at my side with a smug smirk on his lips. “Hi.”
I laugh. “Hi.”
He kisses me, and I taste myself on his tongue. “Hi,” he says again.
“Baptized enough?”
“Not even close,” he answers with a determined shake of his head. “But we?—”
“Have dinner?”
“Exactly.”
“How have you been dealing with James’s kombucha obsession?”
James takes his plate after I’ve loaded his portion of chicken piccata, placing a perfectly sliced lemon sliver alongside his chicken breast. I cackle in response to Sylvia’s question, and James frowns at me.
“Excuse me,” James argues, turning his scowl in Sylvia’s direction, to which she laughs with a playful taunt. “I now purchase them wholesale from a local organic store. You know that. I was buying them when I was living with Tommy.”
“I know,” she confesses, poking her sauce-riddled fork in his direction. “I just wanted to make you feel uncomfortable.”
James rolls his eyes as he twirls his fork over his plate.
“You know, the taste isn’t too bad,” Kyle chimes in. “Once you get past the vinegar scent, it kind of grows on you.”
“And it’s healthy,” I add. I feel James’s hand land on my thigh, giving me a soft squeeze.
