AllFreeNovel
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“It’s true. Do you bench press trees, cars, and entire cows?”
“Something like that,” I shrug nonchalantly.
“Can I still eat cake off your eight-pack? How do you even have an eight-pack? You know you have an eight-pack, right?”
I lean in, right near her ear, and inhale her vanilla scent. She smells like vanilla all over, and I don’t mean the nasty vanilla in the cake. No, this is some amazing vanilla. It’s her brand of vanilla—Lindy vanilla. I suckle her earlobe into my mouth and graze my teeth just past the small diamond stud there. I trail down, kissing and laving my tongue over her neck. She bucks and mewls against me, and the heels of her boots dig harder into my ass.
“I changed my mind,” she pants. “Can you eat cake off my non-eight-pack?”
“I could. Or I could strip off those jeans and eat you until you come so hard that you forget there’s even such a thing as cake.”
“Oh. My. God,” she says on a sharp inhale. “I…”
“Or not if that’s too soon. It’s too soon. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry. I…I’ll still eat cake off you if you want. Off your stomach, or your breasts, or…shit, maybe that’s too soon too. I…”
“No, I want you to.” She sweeps her nimble fingers up my neck and grasps my hair, tugging me down for a wild kiss. “I want you to,” she pants again. “It’s just that, umm, I…no one has…”
That stops me cold, and I pull away, the room suddenly spinning. “You’re not a…a…are you?”
“No, I’m not a…” Her lips twitch. “And I’m not a virgin either. I just…I’ve never…I haven’t had much experience with this. And uh, it hasn’t been…I…I don’t know. I have some hang-ups about things, but it’s something I don’t want to talk about right now. I didn’t think I could do this since it’s not vanilla, it’s bright outside, and we’re in the middle of the kitchen, but I…yes. Will you please eat me? I want you to eat me more than I think I’ve ever wanted anything.”
She doesn’t have to ask me again. I have hang-ups too, and I have rules I’ve enacted in the past. The big R-word doesn’t happen because I don’t do relationships. People don’t spend the night, and I don’t go on second dates because it means strings. When I’m lonely, I look for other lonely people, and I always make it clear that I was damaged enough and am now just looking for a good connection for a short time. There are a lot of other people who are lonely, busy, damaged, or just like being single. There are also other ordinary uncursed people out there who don’t want things like marriage, kids, and happily-ever-afters because they know it’s not how the real world works. They know it’s messy, complicated, and time-consuming, and they just don’t want that.
But if Lindy told me right now that she wanted something messy, time-consuming, and complicated, I might be down.
What the fucklesticks? How am I supposed to deal with that? She’s literally the most dangerous person on the planet to me. She’s my soulmate.
But I still want to strip her bare, even if it means risking feeling something, finding a way to not let her go, and even if it means…good lobster and cheese, even if it means breaking all the rules. That’s what it means.
Granny’s voice comes back at me, which usually is a boner deflator, but not when I’m looking at Lindy, and she’s looking back at me with one eyebrow raised, her eyes dark and heavy with anticipation, fear, adrenaline, and desire.
The curse doesn’t have a timeline. One day or one year…
Is that how it went?
More like one day, or one year, it will scramble my noodle and turn me into a pile of mush that I no longer recognize as myself, and it’s okay because maybe my old self wasn’t so shit hot anyway.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my knees on the kitchen floor, tugging off Lindy’s boots. One goes sailing past the island while the other arcs through the air and lands straight in the center of the cake with a squishy whoomph. Lindy giggles, and I snort. She unzips her jeans with shaking hands and rips open the button, wriggling hard on the counter. I tug from the bottom. Skinny jeans are very, very complicated as they’re like a finger trap. The more I pull, the tighter they seem to stick on.
I finally have them somewhere around her knees when I look up. And gah! Just gah! She’s. Not. Wearing. Any. Sort. Of. Panties. No boy shorts, no thong, no bikini cut, no satin, no lace, no cotton. She’s smooth and bare, glistening with dewy drops of shimmering moisture. Perfect. Utterly perfect. Her pussy is the most perfect pussy on the planet, more perfect than anything in existence, even the most perfectly cooked juicy steak, the most succulent pizza, or a bacon-topped cheeseburger.
