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Then she looks around us at the mess of margarita ingredients and abandoned drinks. “I guess it’s official. I’m not much of a cook. Because this kitchen sees more sex than it does cooking.”
“You don’t hear me complaining.”
When Lily slides off her kitchen counter, she holds her hand out to me. “How about you fuck me in my bedroom for a change?”
“I’ll fuck you anywhere and everywhere you want, babe.”
“Let’s go, kid.”
I mean it, I will follow this woman anywhere and everywhere. I’m going to fuck her so good tonight. She’s not going to reach for that little vibrator again when she could be reaching for me instead.
chapter twenty-one
lily
Jameson takes my hand and follows me to my bedroom. I changed the sheets tonight. Not because I thought he might come over. Because I was so pissed at him and full of manic anger energy. Probably.
“Not sure your bedsprings are up to this, Lemon. I’m going to break your back tonight. You know how horny I am after you torturing me for more nights than I can count?”
“Guess I’m about to find out.”
“Yeah, you are. Get over here, babe,” Jameson says quietly behind me.
“Maybe I’m going to break your dick instead?” I tell him, laughing.
He flinches. “That sounds painful. But I’m intrigued. Do your fucking worst to me, Lemon. I can take it.”
He grabs my arm and tugs me to him. When he kisses me, I taste myself on him. I taste so freaking good, mixed with tequila, and with Jameson. He presses his hands against my face, moving me how he wants, while he kisses the hell out of me. My hands press against his chest, and then slide down to the hem of his t-shirt to pull it up. He releases my lips only long enough for me to pull the shirt up and over his head. Then he’s kissing me again. But I pull back and push him away.
In that split-second, I got an eyeful of Jameson’s chest. All lean, defined, muscle, and smooth skin. Scattered with tattoos.
And a new tattoo of a lemon the size of my palm.
“What the hell is that?”
“What the hell is what, babe?” Jameson asks, his voice husky as he kisses my neck.
Pushing on his chest, I shove him away from me. “That! What did you do, Jameson?”
He rubs his hands over his ribs, where a lemon the size of my palm with green leaves and white flowers that look a little too much like lilies instead of citrus blossoms is now inked on his ribs. Maybe no one else would notice, but I know my flowers. Citrus blossoms and white lilies both have five petals, and they look pretty similar. But the flowers on Jameson’s tattoo have five pointed petals, and the distinctive orange stamen that will dye literally anything they touch. Those flowers are freaking lilies.
“You like my new tattoo, babe?”
“No,” I tell him. Yes.
“Well, you better get used to it. It’s kind of permanent.”
“You better have got that tattoo because of a love of lemonade or a debilitating fear of scurvy, kid. And you can never call me Lemon in front of anyone else now that you have that. Never.” I don’t even want to know what he was thinking when he got that. This is just sex. It can’t be anything else between us. He’s too young, and this town is too damn small for it to be anything else.
Running my thumb over the lines of the tattoo, I can’t stop staring at it. It’s in color. Bright yellows, whites, and every shade of green. The almost neon splash of the orange stamen. All of Jameson’s other tattoos are shades of gray.
Forcing myself to pull my hand away, I look back up at his face. “I’m going to pretend there’s not a big-ass lemon tattoo on your ribs. I don’t see it. It’s not there. I need your pants off. Now.”
Reaching down between us, I undo his belt, and then his jeans. Then I grab the waistband of his boxer briefs and push everything down his hips.
He kicks off first one boot and then the other and steps out of his pants and socks.
“I need to see all of you right fucking now,” Jameson growls, his forehead pressed against mine.
