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The look in his eyes sharpens as his hand begins to work faster. “They call it food porn for a reason.”
“You’d make the food. I’d make the coffee.”
“We’d eat. I’d pour what’s left of the caramel on your tits and I’d lick it off, taking my time.”
I’m hit by a stab of arousal at the image of us in my kitchen. I’m sitting on the counter and my shirt’s pushed up. There’s caramel everywhere, sticky rivulets of it working their way over my nipples as Nate sucks on them, lapping up the mess. I’m laughing, and so is he.
I press my fingers to my clit. Electricity bolts through me, making my back arch.
“Then we’d shower,” he continues, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “You’d—yes, you’d get on your knees and suck me off. I’d wash your body and eat your ass.”
I moan. “Jesus, Nate.”
“Tell me you don’t like it.”
“Of course I like it.”
“We’d go for a hike afterward. You pack a picnic, I pack Lucy, and we take in the leaves on the most beautiful day of the year.”
My heart twists. “Sounds like the best day already.”
“I’m”—he thumbs his crown and hisses—“not done yet. We’d come home, take a nap.”
“A naked nap?”
“What other kind of nap is there? Afterward, we’d do a little reading by the fire, then we’d sip whiskey while we prepped dinner. Something ridiculous, like homemade pasta—papardelle—with brisket and a pumpkin-sage sauce.”
“In this fantasy, I’m never fitting into my pants again.”
“In this fantasy, you won’t ever be wearing pants again.”
My clit pulses, an ache settling in my stomach. I want this fantasy to be real.
Could it be? If only I knew what still kept us apart—because I know some things can and will keep us apart—I could begin to imagine what a future with Nate would actually look like.
But maybe that’s why he still hasn’t told me his reasons for walking out on me like he did. He’s protecting me by keeping me from getting in too deep.
Too late, I want to say.
“My family,” I say instead. “We’d have my family over for dinner. Yours too.”
Nate’s hand goes still. His expression contracts, and I feel a flush of embarrassment. “Milly.”
“This is my fantasy too.”
“And in that fantasy, do you have our brothers punching each other in the face at the table?”
“Because this is a fantasy, they’d all get along and everyone would be obsessed with each other.”
“That’s beyond fantasy. That’s, like, post-apocalyptic shit. Are we zombies in this scenario? Because that’s the only way I can envision it actually happening, if some worldwide virus ate our brains.”
I laugh, the sound tickling the sides of my rib cage. At the same moment my thighs collapse around my hand, and I have to take my fingers off my clit to keep from coming.
A sense of humor can be the sexiest fucking thing.
“I thought you said Silas is doing better,” I manage.
“He is. But my dad . . .” Nate blinks. “After dinner, I’d read to you in front of the fire.”
The change of subject is not at all subtle. What is it about his dad that Nate’s not telling me? Part of me wants to wring his neck for not trusting me enough to share what’s on his mind.
Then again, am I not guilty of the same sin? Maybe if I trust Nate—if I trust that his reasons for not telling me are good ones—he’ll learn to trust me.
I’d be an idiot to trust a man who broke my heart without explanation. It isn’t like me to extend this kind of faith to someone—this kind of patience. But I’m still in love with him. What else can I do but hope things are different this time around?
Then again, am I stupid to hope when this man’s future and his fantasies were wrapped up in a different woman twelve hours ago? You don’t just fall out of love.
But maybe Reese and Nate had fallen out of love a while ago. Maybe they only realized it when they stared down the barrel of actually committing to each other. I’ve seen it happen before with other couples.
“I’d want you to read me some romance.” I put my fingers back on my clit. “Something by Olivia Gates, with a forbidding castle and an arranged marriage to produce a much-needed heir.”
His hand begins to move again, and his smile is back. “What is it about forbidding castles that are so sexy?”
“The brooding Scottish lairds that live there.”
“Aye, lass,” he replies in that terrible brogue of his, “I do believe yer on to somethin’, yeah?”
I’m laughing again, my hand instinctively moving to the Scotland tattoo on his forearm. The heaviness between us is all but forgotten. A rush of lightness grips my chest, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m leaning in and kissing him, our mouths meeting with a sharp intake of breath.
