Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 32

Thirty-Two

Jean-Michel

I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat of Tiff’s car, bracing.

For a fight.

For another flash of that temper she gave me in the kitchen of her parent’s house.

Instead, she slipped from her father’s room when the doorbell rang and the night nurse showed, greeting her and then taking my hand, drawing me from the house.

I expected anger after we climbed into the car.

I expected it as we drove back to my house.

I expected it when we parked in an open spot in my garage and she turned off the engine.

“Why are you staring at me like I’m a bug?” she says softly, reaching into the back seat and snagging her purse.

“You’re pissed,” I say then admit, “And I’m bracing.”

Her mouth quirks. “For what?”

“For the explosion.” I reach over the console, brush my fingers over her cheek. “I know I overstepped.”

Her mouth quirks further. “By about a mile.”

“I’m not going to apologize.”

She sighs, but her eyes are dancing. “Of course not.”

“Baby—”

“Today was a shit day,” she whispers, and my stomach clenches. “But it was a shit day where I didn’t feel alone, so really, I need to be thanking you for that.”

“Tiff—”

“Thank you, honey.” More whispering.

“Dammit, buttercup.”

“What?” It’s still a whisper.

“I keep thinking it’s impossible for me to like you more, but somehow I do.”

Pink on her cheeks.

Her tongue darting out to moisten her bottom lip.

“Jean-Mi.” Another whisper, but a needy one this time.

I heed that need, settle my hand on the side of her neck and draw her closer.

Hot breath on my skin, warm brown eyes on mine.

She looks like an angel with the overhead light shining down on her, and I can’t resist.

I kiss her.

Not gently, not coaxing her into meeting the thrusts of my tongue, the long drags of my mouth. The best part? She’s right there with me. Leaning back into me, slipping her hands into my hair, gripping the strands tight, and kissing me back with all the enthusiasm she can muster.

Which is a fucking lot.

Which has that kissing turning to touching, to slipping my hands under her shirt and getting to stroke all of that silken skin.

She gasps when I cup a breast, when I roll one taut nipple between thumb and forefinger.

And then she’s climbing over the console, clambering onto my lap, taking the kiss from hot to scorching. I groan, draw her closer against me, kiss her deeper, fucking her with my tongue, wishing I was fucking her with my cock.

There are far too many layers of clothes between us, far too little room in this seat.

But I can’t tear my mouth from hers.

Not yet.

Not as she straddles my waist, settles heavily on me, and begins rocking.

I drop a hand to her waist, change the angle slightly, shifting her, and she gasps, mouth tearing away from mine. “Honey,” she groans.

“I like that,” I say, cupping that ass, keeping her close. “But I like it when you call me Jean-Mi more.”

She rocks harder. “Jean-Mi.”

It’s a plea and a demand.

It’s everything and more.

I buck up into her, matching her rhythm, keeping her close, guiding her up the edge.

I feel the shudders in her body when she moves, know she’s right fucking there.

“Come for me, baby,” I order. “Find it on me now, buttercup. Right now.”

“I—” Her head falls back. Then she jolts. “Oh, God.”

Hand diving into her hair, I draw her forward just in time to taste her moans on my tongue as she comes apart.

Fucking perfect.

Fucking mine.

“Honey,” she whispers as I carry her, loose-limbed and hazy-eyed, into the house.

“Yeah, buttercup?”

“Are you going to let me take care of you this time?”

Christ, that’s a tempting fucking offer.

But it’s late and she’s tired and we’ve been moving really fucking quickly.

“No, baby.”

I kiss away her tired protest then carry her to my bed, tuck her close, draw the blankets up over us, and hold her tight as we both find sleep.

As I find peace.

I don’t know exactly when I become aware of my bed being empty, the mattress and pillow beside me cool to the touch.

But I do realize it eventually, coming awake and rolling to my side, eyes searching the bright room for clues to where my fucking woman might have gone—and done it for long enough that the mattress and the pillow beside me have grown cold.

Sighing, I push up to sitting, toss the blankets back.

It’s much later than I would normally sleep, but considering all that’s been happening lately, I figure I’m due.

The question is why the woman who should be resting next to me, isn’t.

A sliver of worry slides through my stomach.

Maybe she was pissed last night.

Maybe she’s gone.

Maybe—

I sniff. Freeze.

There’s the smell of something delicious in the air—sweet and salty and…

I’m moving out the door before I even process it, tramping down the stairs, striding through the hall, and stepping into the kitchen.

Then going still.

She’s barefoot, wearing my tee, the hem hitting her right at mid-thigh.

And she’s humming softly to a pop song as she spoons batter onto the griddle.

It happens—right then and there, in an instant, between one heartbeat and the next.

I fall.

Or maybe it’s less fall and more knowing that I’ve slipped that final inch into love with Tiff Hernandez.

“Oh!”

I smile as she rotates toward me and jumps in surprise, her hand pressing to her chest.

“Baby,” I murmur.

Pink cheeks. “What?”

“Why aren’t you in bed beside me?”

“I wasn’t tired, and we missed dinner last night. I figured you’d be hungry.”

I’m hungry, just not only for food.

“You didn’t want to wake me?”

A shrug, those pink cheeks getting pinker, and fuck, how is she possibly this sweet. “You needed your rest.” She nibbles at her bottom lip. “I hope that’s okay.”

“No,” I mutter, “it’s not.”

She stills. “I?—”

I cup her cheek. “It’s way better than okay, buttercup.” I drop my forehead to hers. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s more .”

“Jean-Mi,” she says softly. “Honey, really, it’s just pancakes.”

My mouth twitches. “It’s more than that and you know it.”

A sigh. “If I don’t agree with you, are you going to start finding things to issue orders about?”

“Probably.”

She giggles and shakes her head. “I knew it.”

“So smart,” I brush my lips over hers, punctuating each word. “And sweet. And kind. And funny. And beautiful.”

“It’s literally just pancakes,” she says dryly. But I see the warmth in her eyes, the softness.

She knows, same as me, it’s not just breakfast.

“It’s more to me,” I tell her softly.

She exhales. “Okay, fine,” she says as she turns back to the pancakes. “It’s more to you. Just like”—she spins to face me, pressing her hand to my chest, resting it just above my heart—“everything you’ve been doing for me is more too.”

God, this woman is going to kill me.

Because what I’ve been doing is nothing .

And yet, it means as much as her giving me time to rest, as making me breakfast, as smiling up at me in that beautiful, beautiful way.

“Baby?”

“Yeah?” she asks, scooping up the pancakes, loading them onto a plate.

“You tell no lies.”

She grins and passes me a plate.

I take it, watching as she loads up the griddle for the next batch.

“Baby?” I ask again.

“Hmm?” she murmurs, her focus on the pancakes.

“After we eat, I’m going to show you exactly how much more.”