Chapter Eight #2
Like a deer in headlights, she couldn’t move except for the hammering of her heart against her ribs.
Even her breath stalled as strong fingers gripped her hip.
Slowly, his body pressed into hers, hot, hard, tummy tugging, and she watched him suck a finger into his mouth and lick it clean, only to go back for more.
Doubling up, two fingers disappeared then reemerged coated with thick chocolate. He looked at her, his eyes dark with an appetite for more than the sugary goodness. His tongue speared and curled around them. Hers darted out to wet her lips.
His eyes close briefly. “Mmm, that’s really good.”
His deep voice rumbled into her back, and she wondered if he was talking about the ganache or the feel of his dick against her ass. Then he stepped back, leaving her drunk on thoughts of other things he could lick.
“But you need a new mixer. That one is a piece of junk.”
“It just needs a new cord,” she said, snapping out of the lust-induced coma he’d put her in, her whole body burning and bristling all at once as she spun to lay the whisk in the sink.
Now that the pans were gone, that piece of junk was the only thing she had left of the woman who raised her.
“Some things are priceless, you know, and some of us can’t afford to throw away something just because we want something shiny and new. ”
Like the girls you fuck then toss aside.
“Hey, I was going to lick that.”
“You’ve done enough licking,” she grumbled under her breath.
“She had a shiny new mixer, but it was a casualty of the break-in.”
His head swung toward Brooke, then back at Jo. “You didn’t tell me about that. When did that happen?”
Brooke chuckled. “The night you got her fired.”
Jo glared at Brooke but aimed her words at Avery. “I didn’t tell you because it’s none of your business, and it wasn’t that big of a deal.” She spooned ganache into a piping bag. “Would you mind taking some of the boxes to your car? We’re running behind.”
When he didn’t answer, she glanced over her shoulder. Shit. He was taking deeper stock of her apartment. Her stomach churned. She could only imagine what he was thinking or how this shithole compared to his castle in the sky.
“Avery?”
“Huh?” He looked at her, frowning. “Oh, sure.”
As soon as he’d loaded an armful of boxes and headed out the door, Jo joined Brooke at the table. “Was that necessary?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it.” One by one, Jo began filling the choux buns with ganache.
Brooke placed the finished buns in boxes. “It’s my duty as your friend to slap some sense into you. You might not see it, but he’s clearly into you.”
“He’s playing a part.” She needed to tell him Brooke knew about their arrangement.
“You keep telling yourself that. And while you’re at it, tell yourself you weren’t melting inside when he fingered your ganache.”
Jo shifted, squeezing her legs together. Sure, she was a hot gooey mess just thinking about it, but she had to remember one thing. “It’s not like that.”
“It should be.”
“Why?” She paused to look at Brooke. “So I can end up bitter and alone?”
“Oh my god.” Brooke closed the lid with a little more zeal than Jo would have liked and flattened her hands on the table. She stared at Jo. “You know I loved your grandmother. She was the best. But she’s got you brainwashed. Sex is not bad. Not all men are bad.”
“I know that.” Sort of. “I just haven’t found one I can trust.”
“You mean you don’t trust yourself.”
Jo could argue that her track record proved she shouldn’t, but she didn’t have time for that. At her silence, Brooke seemed to let it go as they picked up a rhythm again, but no such luck.
“Having sex,” she continued, “doesn’t mean you’ll fall in love and get married. Or get knocked up like your mom.”
Jo stared at Brooke. “She didn’t just get pregnant. She died giving birth to me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But your grandmother always made it sound like the two go hand in hand. Even I’m a little scared when I think about having a baby.” She shook her head. “But what I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to trust a man to have sex with him.”
Jo filled the last bun and moved to the sink. She turned on the faucet then faced Brooke as the water warmed. “Do you think I don’t want to burn my fucking V-card?”
Brooke leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “Then why are you hanging onto it? Guys are different than your grandmother’s generation. They don’t give two fucks if you’re a virgin, and they don’t expect it.”
“You think I’m hanging on to it for a man?” Jo snorted.
“If not for yourself, your grandma, or a theoretical man, then who?”
Jo couldn’t answer that question because she honestly didn’t know. She only knew Chase hadn’t been the right one.
“I’m only going to say one more thing, and then I’m going to shut up.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“If you’re not interested in finding one man, you might as well enjoy the one you’re with, the one with an expiration date.”
A light knock at the door and the sound of it creaking open kept Jo from responding. As did the man with the expiration date who stepped into view. And holy fuck, what a view.
She’d been too worried that he’d heard her talking to Walt about him to appreciate how thoroughly hot he was. This was the first time she hadn’t seen him in a suit or tux.
Instead, a simple off-white western shirt showcased his broad shoulders and tapered to a trim waist. Faded jeans took over from there, hugging slender hips and long, lean legs all the way down to polished but scuffed boots that made her feel better about her own.
And, god help her, she hadn’t missed the impressive package behind the fly. She swallowed as heat unfurled in her chest and spread like butter on a hot croissant into her core.
Brooke scooted close to Jo and gave her a hip bump.
“You’re drooling,” she whispered, then louder she said, “Move over. I’ll finish washing these and lock up.
“Thanks.” Jo straightened away the counter but not before she caught Brooke’s I-told-you-so smirk and Avery’s smoldering caught-you-looking brown eyes returning her assessment.
“You two go have fun—” Brooke smirked. “—while you can.”
“So not funny.” She stuffed her new laptop in the tote bag of catering essentials, just in case things went well and Kate Sullivan was interested in talking shop.
Avery’s fingers brushed hers as he adjusted the strap over her shoulder. The butterflies went wild again, trying to escape the simmering heat in her belly.
She grabbed her purse and the boxes of buns. “I’ll take these if you can get the ones on the coffee table.”
Fifteen minutes later, they’d secured her precious cargo in the backseat of his truck. The wind out of the north still held a chill, but the sky was clear, the sun bright. He started the engine and donned a pair of sunglasses that hid his wandering bedroom eyes.
She tugged the V of her sweater higher and wished her jean jacket wasn’t in the back of the cab on the other side.
As they drove out of the parking lot, he sank lower into the seat, legs sprawled, one hand draped over the steering wheel, one elbow propped on the console. He hooked a thumb at the boxes stacked in the floorboard and backseat. “Do you think you brought enough?”
She smiled at the teasing tone. “I assume you have an army of servants.”
Kitchen staff were often overlooked, and Avery’s cheeks, flushed a light shade of pink under what was left of last summer’s tan—probably from some beach on the Riviera—that told her he was no different. “Right.”
“Giselle taught me to always include extra for staff. And it’s always better to have too much.
Maybe Kate and…” She tsked, trying to remember Avery’s friend’s name.
She needed to be on her game, but Avery’s nearness, not to mention Brooke’s talk of sex and expiration dates, gave her a case of the flusters.
“Bryce.”
“Um, yes, thanks. Maybe they’ll want to take some home. And I made extra petit fours for Melody.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask. What the hell is that?”
“You’ve never heard of a petit four?”
He peered at her over the top of his sunglasses, his gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts above her sweater. “I’m more of a la petite mort kind of guy.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t control the tightening of her nipples or the rampant thoughts of his tongue rasping over them.
She knew what la petite mort meant—the little death—even if she’d never made it there.
Chase and her little bullet had gotten her a few feel-good moments, but nothing compared to Brooke’s ooh’s and aah’s about dying in Aaron’s arms.
“Same thing,” she muttered. “It’s just a little cake.”
Asshole smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. There was no way she’d make it through a whole day if they didn’t get back to the terms of their arrangement.
Which reminded her. “By the way, Brooke knows about our deal, so there’s no need to pretend around her.”
“I know. She told me when you were on the phone. She also told me she’d cut off my balls if I did anything to hurt you. I like her.”
“She’s the best.”
Even when she’s being a pushy ho, putting ideas into my head. Ideas that shouldn’t be there.
Like they weren’t there before.
He took the ramp onto I45 North. “She obviously cares about you.”
“She does. We’ve been through a lot together.” Jo pivoted in the seat, one knee bumping the console, and circled back to what she really wanted to know. “If you already knew she knew, why all the touchy feely back there? Rules, remember?”
“I remember,” he growled, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Tap, tap, tap, tap. After fourth set of raps, he said, “I was…practicing.”
“For what?”
“Something my mom said.” He signaled a lane change. “I think we need to renegotiate some of your rules.”
Caution slithered up the back of her neck. “Why? What did she say?”