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Suddenly, I remembered the night he started seating me on the inside of a booth at Sidecars. We’d always sat at a high-top table before that, but he’d complained one night he didn’t like having his back to the room. When he’d moved us to a booth, he’d nudged me in first, every time. Now I saw it through a different lens.
My chest filled with warmth. “You sneaky little shit.”
His brows lifted. “Who, me? How so?” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait, did Sam tell you about Lonny? That traitor.”
Lonny was another Sidecars regular who was always trying to get in my pants. “What about Lonny?”
“What were you talking about when you called me sneaky?”
“Nothing. What about Lonny? Whatever it was, Sam didn’t tell me.”
“Good. He wasn’t supposed to.” He leaned down and sucked on my collarbone a little. It made me gasp, but I was determined to hear the story. I yanked him back up by his hair.
“Not so fast, Casanova. Tell me.”
He sighed and propped his head in his hand. “I overheard him asking Sam for your number one night, after you’d already shot him down a million times, so I gave him Bret McGraw’s personal cell number.”
I thought of the big-ass left tackle who was probably the only player on the entire Rigger roster who didn’t hesitate to spout anti-gay bullshit under the guise of his devout faith. This, while the man slept around on his wife at every single away game and had arranged for at least one Rigger cheerleader to get the Plan B pill. And it hadn’t been because of the generosity of the man’s spirit.
I couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Poor Lonny. I hope Bret wasn’t too hateful to him.”
Tiller scoffed. “Lonny lost any chance with me when he cupped your junk right after you’d politely told him no to a drink.”
I wrapped my legs around him. I wanted to hump his dick, rub my body all over his until we both came, screaming. But I wanted information even more. “You saw that?”
Instead of answering, Tiller took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply. The taste of him, the feel of his warm exhalations and his strong fingers on my face were enough to make me lose my train of thought.
When he pulled back, his eyes were laser-intense on mine. “I watch you all the fucking time,” he admitted. “I didn’t even realize I did it at first. Sam asked me what was going on between us, and I looked at him like he was crazy.”
His words surprised me. “When was this?”
“Two years ago. When he found out I was taking you home for Fourth of July.”
My heart fluttered around like a sheaf of paper caught up in a wind turbine. “Your cousin’s wedding?”
He nodded. “I wanted you with me. I wanted… I wanted you with me.”
It had sounded like he was going to say something different there but changed his mind. And that was fine, because the words he’d said were enough for me to finally stop riding this line between talk and action. I wanted him. And I wasn’t willing to wait any longer.
I knew this wasn’t real or permanent. I knew it was a stolen moment where we were only slaking a temporary thirst before returning to our real lives and the rules we needed to abide by. But I still wanted it. Desperately.
“Kiss me again,” I whispered. And he did. Only, he didn’t start with my lips. He started with the top of my foot and spent the next hour dropping openmouthed kisses along every single inch of my body until I was gasping and begging. A pool of precum puddled on my stomach, but every time I reached for my dick to give it some much-needed attention, he batted my hand away.
When I was finally on the verge of coming untouched, I whimpered one final “Please, Tiller. Please make me come. Please.”
And he took me into his mouth and down his throat until the sparkles at the edges of my vision became my entire world.
The following morning I woke up confident enough to try my spinach-and-herb soufflé idea. I’d picked up the ingredients at the local market our second day in town, but I’d been putting off making it for fear of fucking up. Somehow I’d gotten it into my head if I could successfully make this soufflé, I would be good enough to follow up with Gary and Erica Civetti. If the soufflé flopped, I wouldn’t call. I knew it was silly, but that’s where my brain was.
Waking up in the arms of a man like Tiller Raine was enough to make me feel invincible, though, so we were doing this.
I started the process with a strong cup of coffee and some final research about the use of potatoes to help keep the soufflé from flopping.
