Page 18 of Restored Dreams

“Fuck,” Brut groans as he moves behind me, wrapping arms around my waist and pressing his lips to my neck. “Waffles first,” he growls in teasing warning, and I wonder if he’s worked up like me. When I push back with my backside, the stiff length I encounter answers me. “Be good, Lily pad.”

“Was I good last night?” I flirt, and he groans at my ear.

“Too good.” My body heats all over, and I don’t care about food. I only want Brut, but he guides us forward, walking at an odd angle as his feet straddle mine. He keeps his arms around my waist until we reach the kitchen island a few feet behind the couch.

“Sit,” he commands, and I want him to enforce his demand with another smack to my ass, but if he touches me again, we won’t get to breakfast. I sit, and Brut rounds the island. He looks good in the kitchen, removing eggs from the fridge and taking flour from the cabinet. “I owe you some groceries.”

“Brut,” I warn and stop when his returning glare warns me not to say anything.

“So tell me about your breakfast skills, oh master of the waffle iron,” I joke, and Brut commences with stories of teaching Chopper about measurements through cooking. I’m listening to him speak, but I’m also envisioning this hot man coaching his young son. The image does all kinds of funny things to my insides. I always wanted children, but it didn’t seem to be in the cards. I could have adopted on my own, but then the bakery happened, and it became my baby instead. It doesn’t mean I don’t look at young mothers without longing, though. Or single fathers, for that matter.

Brut serves me the first batch, which is more food than I can possibly eat. He asks me to explain where I learned to bake, and it’s suddenly my turn to speak despite the breakfast before me.

“The neighbor.” The truth is a reminder that it wasn’t some sweet granny or my mother like people want to believe, but the neighbor lady who took care of Lauren and me after school. She made all kinds of baked goods, but the first time we made cupcakes, I was hooked. Brut holds my gaze. He knows my family situation wasn’t the greatest when I was younger, and he nods, chewing at his lip. My family situation now is nonexistent.

“What were you making last night?”

My face heats at the memory of two firemen walking in on us. “I was experimenting with a fall recipe.”

“It smelled delicious. Like vanilla and cinnamon and something sweet.”

“Apples,” I explain. “Apple cupcakes.”

Brut moans as if he can taste the treat, and I speak without thinking. “You’ll need to visit the bakery in September when it’s the house specialty.” We just promised no future plans, and Brut looks over the island at me, his eyes growing a deeper blue.

“I’d like that, Lily pad. I’d like that a lot.” Me too, I breathe. Living only in the week is going to be harder than I thought.

14

Rainy day games

[Lily]

After breakfast, I clean up, and Brut sits on the couch. He wanted to help, but I told him, “The cook never cleans.”

He’s reading when I join him on the couch, and that’s when I notice his glasses. Dark rimmed and resting on his nose, Brut takes on a studious look. Hot, naughty professor, I decide, and I want to raise my hand to volunteer to learn something. Instead, I take a deep breath and reach for my book on the tray near my forgotten mug of tea. Although I open the pages, I’m staring at the words, imagining myself straddling Brut’s lap while he’s wearing only his specs. Yes, professor, I say as I ride him. Is this how I earn an A?

When Brut’s hand rests on my thigh, as if he’s read my thoughts, I haven’t read a single word on the page. His fingers lightly stroke over my skin, and the flesh pebbles at the tender touch.

“Cold?” he whispers, and I huff. He shakes his head without looking up at me. “I really wish I knew your sounds.”

I chuckle as I continue to stare at the words blurring on the page, not reading a single letter while his palm squeezes my thigh. We last all of a few minutes before he tosses his book on the tray.

“Let’s play a game.” Under the window to the side of the sliding door, behind the overstuffed chair, is a low shelf with board games. Brut stands and returns with Scrabble. “Up for a word challenge?”

I smile at the possibility. I’d rather play other things, but an official game might cool the jets of my oversensitive imagination. I love word games, and this one is my favorite. Brut removes the tray covering the ottoman and lays out the board. He peers at the inside cover of the box lid before tossing it to the side.

“I suggest we make up our own rules. Dirty word Scrabble.” My head shoots up to look at him as he settles himself on the floor. With one knee raised and bent, his arm perching over it, he’s the epitome of casual with his suggestion. I, on the other hand, want to skip the mind challenge and do something physical…and dirty. Instead, I swallow, ignoring the deep flutter in my lower abdomen. Hold it together, I warn.

“So, what are the rules?” I ask, spreading the wooden tiles within the bottom of the box, then flipping them so the letters are hidden.

“It’s going to be hard,” he exaggerates. “But come up with words related to sex. We each take ten or twelve tiles at a time and see what we can spell from them. Squares on the board remain the same for points. Person with the highest score wins.”

I swallow again as his eyes narrow in a teasing squint.

“And what do we have for the winner, Brut?” I throw my voice like a cheesy game show host, and Brut bursts into laughter. He bends at the waist before recovering.

“Don’t quit the day job, sugar.” The endearment warms my insides, and the fluttering turns to flight. A pulse beats between my thighs at the carefree laughter of this man, and I want to tackle him to the floor, sucking in his sound as he’s always referencing mine. “But actually, let’s wager…” He taps his chin. “Sexual favors.”