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A deep rumbling laugh comes from my chest as I let him have his way with me, my tongue only putting up a playful battle whenever it comes into contact with his.
“Sorry,” he gasps before latching his mouth onto mine again for another minute or so. I don’t stop him until I bring my hand to cup his cheek and find the skin wet. Ever so gently, I guide him with the hand on the back of his neck and the other on his cheek until I can look into his eyes again. They’re just as bright as before, but full of tears now. “Sorry,” he says again.
“Shh, you’re okay.”
“Sorry. Just—fuck, haven’t kissed in years.” He releases a shaky laugh. “Forgot about kissing.” He licks his lips, eyes falling to my mouth. The redirection causes more tears to fall. “Really, really like kissing.”
My chest aches for him, but I don’t let the news ruin the moment. I just kiss away his tears and bring my salty mouth to his until he takes over again, stroking soothing circles on his cheek as I ride out each feverish wave of kisses.
He eventually softens until all that’s left are barely-there brushes of lips, our shared breaths slow and even, his body starting to sway, his tears dried and mouth red. The next time our lips part, I tilt my chin, sliding until we’re cheek to cheek, smiling a little when he shudders at the feel of my stubble on his skin. I nuzzle beneath his ear, inhaling him, pressing a kiss to the freckle I didn’t even know was tucked back there.
“It’s late,” I force myself to say.
“I know.” His fingers flex where they cling to my sides. I can feel the flutter of his pulse against my nose. “Was this—will we do this again?”
“As many times as you’ll let me,” I say, repeating my promise from before. “We’ll take it at your pace, okay? But I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”
He sags in relief, a shuddering breath puffing past his kiss-swollen lips. “Walk me to my room then?”
“Of course.”
And if I kiss him for another endless stretch of minutes with his back pressed to his bedroom door and my hands in his hair? Well… who the fuck can blame me, right?
Chapter Twenty
Nolan
Maison meant it when he said he’ll kiss me as many times as I’ll let him, starting with cradling me against his chest to kiss me good night after walking me to my room, and still not ending nearly a week later.
I’ve been kissed in the kitchen before anyone else was awake, him sweaty from the gym, my hands sticky with pancake batter, a pan sizzling behind us, the kiss tasting of minty toothpaste and coffee. I’ve been kissed by the garden with the roses for his mom, a guard off to the side rustling in the bush just enough to make Maison chuckle against my lips before turning our bodies to block me from view, the autumn air cold as it nips at our cheeks. I’ve been kissed in his office after he’s pulled me into it from the hallway, my back pressed to the closed door, our fingers loosely slotting together, then coming apart to map out knuckles and palms and wrists before slotting together once more. I’ve been kissed late at night in front of the crackling fire, a blanket wrapped around the both of us, limbs all tangled together until we were as close as could be, lips tasting of wine or chocolate or coffee depending on the night. Kisses frantic, then languid, then nothing but shared breaths until I’m half-asleep in his arms and he’s guiding me up and to my room to kiss me good night all over again.
We haven’t talked about it, which is probably not healthy, but I won’t be the first to pop the bubble. Once we talk about it, we have to define it, and there are so many little pieces of us that may not fit right under a definition.
What if he decides we’d be better off as friends? What if we really would be better off as friends? What if he finds out I’m kinky and thinks I’m fucked in the head? What if I really am fucked in the head?
The kisses are nice. No, not nice. Nice is way too fucking tame. They’re electric and exhilarating, a warm thunderstorm rolling through my veins with every pass of his lips against mine. They make my body sing and my heart feel lighter than it has in years. For now, the kisses are enough. More than enough.
For Maison Beckett, I’ll take whatever I can get.
“You nervous?” I ask Maison as I flit around the kitchen putting the final touches on dinner. Carter and Casey will be here soon. From what Maison told me—from what Jake told him—Casey is really struggling and needs a group therapy session, most likely followed by him moving back into the house. Since our next session is tomorrow morning, they decided to make the drive tonight and sleep over.
Maison and Carter have been talking almost every day, either through phone calls or texts, but they’re still far from being okay. They have a lot of shit to work through. I don’t plan on touching any of that, not even with a ten-foot pole, but thankfully Dr. Singh is willing to. Bless that poor man.
“I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say so there won’t be any reason for him to get upset.” He sighs. “I’m going to tell him that I support him and Trav and I’m happy for him.”
Before I can offer any sort of advice, he swoops down to capture my lips in a kiss that’s slow and sexy and… tastes like butter and sour cream? I pull back with narrowed eyes. “You stole a bite of my mashed potatoes.”
He does a terrible job of fighting his shit-eating grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I can taste it!”
“You sure?” he asks, his voice low now as he leans in again. “Maybe double-check.”
I roll my eyes but accept the second kiss, parting his lips with my tongue and gently swiping it against his. Definitely ate my mashed potatoes, the asshole. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him while simultaneously walking us back against the counter. I can’t help but grin into the kiss, too fucking happy to care about the mashed potatoes anymore.
“Hey now,” he murmurs, lips still brushing mine with every syllable. “You taste like mashed potatoes too.”
“I’m the cook. I have to taste them to see—”
