Chapter 45
HART
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“LAUNDRY WAS NOT the way I thought we’d be spending this day.” The dial clicks into place beneath my hand—cold wash, quick cycle.
Efficient. Easy.
I press start and step back as the motor kicks in, followed by the soft hiss of water rushing into the drum, and then the thud as the agitator begins to spin.
“I reckon,” I say, turning to Jade. “Bathing in honey wasn’t on my agenda either.”
She leans her buttocks on the dryer, arms crossed, wearing nothing but a robe. And I mean nothing. I know damn well I put her bra and panties in the washer, humming beside me.
Stark naked under there and damned, if my dick doesn’t twitch with the knowledge, telling my eyes to do an obvious sweep—which I happily oblige.
Fuck, the way my eyes drink her in, you’d think I hadn’t got laid twice in a damn hour.
The terry fabric of her robe is barely tied, hinting at everything but hiding way too much, and making it hard to think straight.
But it’s her face that stops me cold—that smirk.
“You really know how to use that thing.” She nods toward the washer, as if she’s impressed or surprised that I can add a scoop of detergent and turn a couple of dials.
I raise a brow. “You mean the washer, or what we did back in the guesthouse?”
“Making a woman come three times under my touch is good for my ego.”
Making her come?
Fucking paramount.
She laughs. “I’m talking about the laundry machine. Your efficient stain-cycle knowledge is turning me on.”
I lean a hip against the washer, arms folding across my chest. “What can I say? I’m a man of many domestic talents.”
“Mmm, a man who knows how to separate lights and darks. Do you also know how to load a dishwasher?”
“Please,” I say, mock offended. “My Ma taught me the old-fashioned way. We wash dishes by hand in our households. Men and women. You don’t get a free pass because you’re a dude.”
“I like the way your mama raised you.”
I take a step toward her. “Oh, yeah?”
She nods. “What other notable things should I know about?”
I stop in front of her. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”
“I do like grilled cheese.”
“With caramelized onions, if I’m trying to impress.”
Her brows go up. “Are you trying to impress?”
“No, ma’am.” I glance at the washer, and then back at her. “You started that honey episode. I’m just cleaning it up the way I was raised.”
I close the rest of the space between us and slip my arms around her waist, wishing neither of us were wearing these terry cloth robes.
My fingers brush the knot of her robe. “You know what I’m craving?”
She wraps her arms around my neck. “Dessert?”
I tilt my head, pretending to think. “Depends. You mean actual dessert, or”—I glance down at her mouth—“the kind I’m thinking of right now?”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Are you trying to imply I’m edible?”
“Oh, I’m not implying.” My hand drifts just slightly, just enough to make her breath catch again.
The soft sound is music to my blood ears.
“I’m making a statement.”
She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “Confident, aren’t you?”
“Only when I know I’m right.” I lean in, close enough to brush her ear with my words. “You look like dessert. You smell like dessert. But I know you taste better than both.”
She exhales a laugh, one hand gripping my forearm. “You talk like that and I might let the robe fall off by accident.”
“That would be tragic.” I sprinkle kisses down her throat.
With one of those delicious sounds of hers, she tilts her head, giving me access. Her pulse flutters against my lips. My lips trail down her velvet-smooth skin to the small hollow at the base of her neck.
My mouth finds hers, and her lips part. I take the invitation, savoring the taste of her. She moves with me, hot and hungry, her body arching as my hand slides up her spine.
The kiss turns rougher.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Just heat.
I tug her in tighter, pressing into the barrier of her robe. I want it gone. I want mine gone. I want to lift her on the dryer and have my way with her right here.
But I stop, just enough to breathe her in, lips still brushing hers. I wait for her eyes to open. When they do, they’re glazed, famished, and unfocused.
I grin. “Come on.” I ease back enough to take her hand. “Let’s get out of this laundry room before I forget how to be a gentleman.”
“Forget how,” she pleads, pulling me back. “Show me all the ways you aren’t a gentleman.”
I kiss her. “I want to show off some of my kitchen skills.”
“I believe you.” Her lips are on mine again, and her hands reach under my robe.
I push my hips back, out of her reach. “Damn woman, you’re a horny little thing.”
Her mouth’s back on mine, and I let her, all lips and tongue and enjoy that soft, frustrated sound she makes when I don’t push it further.
But I break the kiss again.
“You keep that up, we’re never making it to dessert,” I say against her mouth.
Her eyes flicker open, a little wild. “I am dessert.”
God help me.
I groan, pressing my forehead to hers. “You’re making it very difficult to control myself.” I slide my hand down her side, letting my fingers skim the edge of her bare thigh beneath the robe.
She grins. “Then don’t control yourself.”
I shake my head, laughing as I retake her hand, this time firmly. “Kitchen. Now. Before I start making poor decisions on top of the dryer.”
She sighs dramatically, letting herself be led. “Fine. But I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be poor decisions, and there better be chocolate involved.”
I guide her out of the tiny room, glancing over my shoulder. “Oh, there’ll be chocolate.”
I take a quick look in the kitchen before tackling my task. The lace curtain above the sink appears to have been hanging there since the ‘80s, yellowed at the edges, yet still holding on.
The smooth, speckled laminate countertop is barely wide enough for a cutting board—or her ass. Yeah, those thoughts pop into my head. But I’ll make it work, make both if I have to.
“Perfect, dessert is ready.” She peels the plastic wrap from the corner of the chocolate pecan and coconut squares. “A little square each and then back to the laundry room just in time for the spin cycle.”
I slide the container out of her reach. “That ain’t dessert.”
“Oh, really?” She rests her rump on the cupboard, her palms resting flat on the countertop.
The fabric of her robe brushes just above her knees, and the slit opens where one sexy fucking leg juts out. Her hair is still a little damp from the shower, falling around her shoulders in loose waves that are sexy as all hell.
“You’re lookin’ at me like I’m the real dessert you want.” She slowly widens the edge of the robe, baring her upper thigh.
Fuck me.
“We’re looking for something richer,” I say.
“Richer than this?” Her fingertips run along her smooth skin.
I shake my head. “I’m talking about a cake.” I figure if her mama baked cornbread, I can use those ingredients to whip up a cake.
I crack open the fridge, and a wave of cool air spills out. Closing my eyes, I let that cool drift over me, chasing the heat thrumming low in my body.
“You alright in there?” Her teasing tone lights up my insides again.
I mutter a few curse words and grab a handful of ingredients: eggs, milk, and vanilla extract.
“You’re really gonna bake a cake?” She asks like she doesn’t believe me. “Now? In the middle of the afternoon? Wearing a bathrobe?”
“Sure am, darlin’.” I set the eggs and milk on either side of her and slide one arm under her robe.
The robe slips open, modesty falling away with it, revealing the side of her breast and a peak at her dark nipple. My pulse spikes and my fingers tighten in the curve of her waist as I pull her snug against me.
I press my lips to hers. My playful intention quickly escalates to a hunger I almost can’t resist. Her laugh bubbles up, surprised and warm against my mouth.
The cupboard door behind her creaks open when my other hand snags a mixing bowl inside.
When we part, she looks at the bowl. “Did you just use me to get to that bowl?”
I balance the bowl in my palm, giving her a sideways look. “Maybe. But I think you were more than willing.”
“You’re lucky I like you.” Her fingers trail lightly down the open part of my robe, brushing over the exposed skin of my chest.
The soft contact sends a jolt of warmth through me, enough to make me debate scrapping cake time, lifting her ass on the edge of the counter, and eating her instead.
“I am.” My words are more serious than I intend. “I’m the luckiest fucking guy in the world.”
Her lips curve. “I’m the luckiest fucking woman.”
Laughter howls out of me.
The hand under her robe slips out, and I grasp the side of her face. “I haven’t treated you like the luckiest woman, but I promise to make sure you feel that until the day I die.”
“That’s quite a commitment.”
“You’re worth it. You’re worth every damn second.” I kiss her again. “Now let’s bake a cake.”
“We’re at an Airbnb, how do you know if we even have ingredients?”
“Your mama made cornbread.” I start my hunt, opening other cupboard doors for their stash of ingredients. “And someone made those squares, so I’m sure we’ll find everything we need.”
“And a recipe? We left our phones in the guesthouse.”
I tap the side of my head. “It’s all in here.” I drag out a bag of flour and set it beside the bowl.
“You’re serious?” She shifts to face me, her hip still resting against the counter, the gap in her robe widening with every move, exposing more of her skin.
The soft curve is a momentary distraction.
“Up here, handsome.”
Maybe longer than a moment. My eyes flicker her hers, lit with humor and teasing.
“You think you’re baking a cake from memory?”
“You say that like it’s unreasonable.”
“It is. Completely.”
“And yet.” I pull sugar out from behind a box of oatmeal. “Here we are.”
I set the bag on the counter and open the drawers until I find a whisk. Not ideal, but it will suffice.
“What exactly are you trying to make?” She takes the whisk and twirls it around her fingers.
“I’m not trying, and the answer is cake.”
“Cake?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She asks, as if she thinks I’ve forgotten what today is, but at the same time, she’s wondering if maybe I do remember.
I shrug. “Why not?”
I see the moment of disappointment in her eyes, but I will never forget this day. And when we finish, she’ll never question me again.
“Cocoa powder. Vanilla extract. Baking soda. I think we’re all set.”
“We?” The whisk rattles when she tosses it in the pottery bowl. “I haven’t baked a cake since I was a kid.”
“You’ve got the best teacher in town.” I set the measuring cup beside her, pressing up against her front. “And if you’re a good girl,”—I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—“I’ll let you lick my spoon.”
She licks her lips, and the small action twitches my cock.
Fuck, calm down, boy.
How many orgasms in a day is a record, because today’s going to push my limits.
“I guess I could be a really good girl, but only if I get the whole spoon, and not just a taste.” She rises to her tiptoes and licks my mouth.
“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that, right?”
She smiles. “Little ol’ ‘me?”
“Hell, yeah, little ol’ you. You don’t even realize what you’re doing to me.”
Her fingers clutch the collar of my robe, burning the skin beneath. “And what exactly am I doing?”
I inhale sharply. “You’re making it damn near impossible to focus on anything other than you.”
Her fingers trace the edge of the robe. “You know, you could make it easier on yourself if you just stopped resisting.” Her whisper drips with suggestion.
“We’re not getting distracted. Cake first, you second.”
“Promises.” She rolls her eyes.
“Fucking right.” I kiss her hard and step away. “Now, find us a wooden spoon.”
Her eyes widen in delight as she clamps her hands together, practically bouncing on her toes. “To spank me with?”
She’s fucking serious.
Is it always going to be like this with her?
I fucking hope so.
“That depends on how well you behave.”
Her eyes light up Ike a Christmas tree. “I can be very naughty.”
“Fuck, Jade.” I scrub my hands over my face. “We’re not going to make it through this recipe if you keep looking at me like that, and saying shit like that has me hard.”
Her gaze drifts past my chest, lingering where the fabric of my robe tents, and the raw hunger in her eyes nearly shreds the last of my control.
“We’re baking,” I growl.
She pouts.
It’s adorable.
But nothing is going to distract me from this damn cake.
She digs a wooden spoon out of the drawer, then turns to me. The shoulder of her robe slides down, showing off her freckled shoulder.
“Where do you want me?” She slaps the bottom of the spoon on her other palm.
Bloody fucking hell.