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“What’s that saying? ‘A watched pie never bakes?’” I should keep my hands to myself. I don’t. With a gentle touch, I push a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
She closes her eyes again, her lips plump and inviting. I didn’t kiss her before. Maybe I was a better man then. Because now? Now, I put one hand to her throat and brush my lips against hers.
She clutches my shirt.
I kiss her harder, tasting her as she tentatively returns my touch. She’s so hesitant. Is this her first kiss? The thought stokes the primal part of my brain--I want to own her first kiss, her first fuck, her first everything. I slide one hand down to her ass and pull her against me, then angle her head and run my tongue along the seam of her mouth.
She opens for me, and I delve inside, my tongue stroking hers as she melts in my arms, her body languid as I clutch her to me. She’s soft, warm, and smells like the dessert we’ve been talking about. I want to taste her all over. I push her back against the kitchen counter, pinning her there. A moan escapes her, and I swallow it, then trail my fingers down her throat to her breast. Cupping her, I drag my thumb across her nipple.
She jolts and opens her eyes. “Heath.” Shaking her head a little, she says, “We just met. I’m not good at this.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me.” I kiss the tip of her nose but back off. I want her to be comfortable with me. Too much too soon is a sure way to spook her. Despite the ache in my cock and the need that beats at my heart like a battering ram, I turn away from her. “We better start on dinner.”
“Are you mad?” She sounds so fragile.
“Of course not.” I throw her a smile over my shoulder. “Just hungry. And there’s always dessert.”
She lets out a breath. “Good. I mean, good that you’re not, you know, mad, because then it would be awkward. Wait, did me saying ‘awkward’ make it awkward?”
Does she have any idea how cute she is? “Not at all.” I pull out a roast chicken, broccoli, and some rolls. “I got the chicken already cooked and we--” My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hmm?” She grabs the broccoli bunch and stares at it as if it’s an utterly foreign object. “Green.”
For the first time, I wish I could ignore my phone. But I know I can’t. The Brotherhood has strict rules in place when it comes to offering jobs. Too many refusals and you’re the one on the chopping block.
“Sorry, but I have to take this.” I pull it from my pocket.
“It’s cool. I’m going to cook this broccoli to within an inch of its life.” She fumbles it, and it hits the tile floor. “Well, crap.”
“Just rinse it. It’s fine.” I hurry from the kitchen and out into the windy night.
Putting the phone to my ear, I give my name.
“Hello, Brother. I have a job.” It’s Sister Jezebel. She’s given me many jobs over the years.
“Local?”
“No.”
“Can no one else take it, Sister?”
“No.”
I glance back inside. Lena appears to be scolding the broccoli.
“When?”
“Immediate pickup.” As Sister Jezebel says it, a dark sedan pulls onto my street.
Fuck.
“Do you accept, Brother?” she asks.
I give Lena one more look. Her scolding has turned into a conversation with the roast chicken. I want to stay, but I can’t. Not this time.
“I accept.” I pocket my phone and stride away from her, the warmth of her house at my back and the coldness of the job ahead of me.
7
