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“Sure. Where you going?”
“Left my mug on the porch steps.”
She disappears and returns, walking past me to the coffee maker. I take the chance to slap her ass as she goes by, watching the way it jiggles. Goddamn, it’s perfect. I’m going to flip her on her hands and knees tonight so I get to watch it shake. That’ll be the perfect end to a long day of travel.
We talk while I cook, about nothing and everything. She asks about the last time I was at the cabin, which wasn’t much to write home about. It was during Christmas, when I didn’t have anywhere else to be. Coen was traveling in Europe; I was at home feeling sorry for myself—I don’t add in that last part because it has to do with Dad. That makes me wonder about her father, who I haven’t asked about. I know he was a problem for a while for Coen, not wanting him around Sabrina, but I never delved deeply into why. Maybe, sometime over the next few days, I’ll get her to open up.
We’re both locked up tight, I’m learning that.
“You want a glass of wine?” I ask.
She leans on the counter, giving me a flirtatious look through her lashes. “Wine with breakfast for dinner? Sounds like you’re trying to seduce me.”
“I don’t have anything else,” I say, reaching under the cabinet and taking out a bottle of red. “We can save it for dessert.”
“Let’s do that.”
A current goes through her words. I don’t think I’m going to have to work hard to seduce her. Serena and I can’t seem to keep off each other; it might be easier if we could. She goes into the living room, pacing in a circle and looking at the decor. I study her from the corner of my eye. Whisps of her golden hair hang loose, and the rest is braided down her back, hanging almost to the middle. It leads my gaze to her round ass, barely contained in those tiny shorts.
My dick twitches. I turn off the stove and reach for a plate.
“How hungry are you?” I ask.
She turns. “Pretty hungry, but I don’t want to be stuffed.”
“I can—”
“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I walked right into that one.”
Two plates in hand, I go into the living room and sit on the couch. She slides up beside me and takes one, curling up. The gas fireplace hisses softly. It’s a big contrast to the last time I was out here with nothing but a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to keep me company. That was a rough year. I was still struggling with my dad, struggling with my aunt passing, even though it had been years for both. The holidays are hard for people like me, I’m well aware. So I pulled in, like a turtle in a shell.
Serena has made me painfully aware, I don’t want to do that anymore.
This feels better.
“You know, you’re not a bad cook,” she says when she hands back her empty plate.
“That surprises you? I’ve been on my own for a while.”
“No, that surprises me.”
“Which part?” I rise and bring the plates back, returning with our wine. She takes one and has a sip.
“The part where you’ve been on your own.” She shifts so she’s lying with her head on the armrest. I sink down, gathering her calves into my lap.
“Why? I run my finger up her thigh.
“Because,” she says, considering me, “you’re rich, hot, and have a big dick.”
“Other things matter, too.”
“But not to everyone,” she says. “How many women have you slept with?”
I cough on my wine, swinging my gaze around to give her a stern look.
“That’s not useful information,” I say.
“It’s useful if I want it.”
