39 Birdie #3
When he finally stops, I feel hollowed out.
I’m buzzing, fingers trembling as I loosen my hold on his hair.
It’s deliciously mussed. His dark curls look windswept.
He rocks back on his heels, gazing up at me covetously.
A girl could swoon getting looked at like that.
His mouth is wet with my release, his pupils blown black, swallowing the usual stormy grey.
His firm hands graze up my thighs, proprietary and warm, keeping me open to his gaze.
I fight the urge to clamp my legs shut. God, he can see everything from that angle. And the way he’s looking at me has me feeling breathless and vulnerable. His thumb brushes over my soft curls before it’s dipping down again. He presses on my clit, making my legs quake.
“Oh my—” I bite my bottom lip to hold back a whine. Then he soothes me with a soft circle. My poor clit is still throbbing from the aftershock of my orgasms. I know he can feel it too. The confident jerk smirks. If he winds me up again, he’ll ruin me for sure.
R.I.P., Birdie Rhodes.
Okay, you can’t make jokes about people dying. Not when there’s an empty grave with his name on it out by the vegetable patch.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my thighs.
Oh, god, he’s going for it. And I’m going to let him. Third time is most definitely a charm. But then it’s his turn—
“Yoo-hoo!” Hortie calls, rattling the back door open. “We’re home!”
My orgasm haze pops like a soap bubble. With a garbled shriek, I slip off the edge of the counter and all but topple to the floor, my legs still too jelly-like to support my weight.
Jasper rises to his feet, cool as a cucumber.
Unlike me, he’s still fully dressed. And the height of the kitchen counter disguises anything he might be revealing through his jeans.
A flick of his hand, and he’s fixed his belt.
Then he casually wipes his mouth, erasing all evidence of what he was just doing to me.
Meanwhile, my bare ass cheeks are pressed to Hortie’s clean kitchen floor!
I flop like a fish, trying to right my outside-in pant leg and untwist my panties so I can put them back on.
To add insult to this epic humiliation, Pickles takes this moment to appear.
Trotting around the corner, tail in the air, he spies me on the floor.
Okay, if Jasper is a witch, then this cat is definitely not a cat. Yellow eyes glowing, he plops his furry butt down and watches me silently fight with my twisted underwear.
“What’s going on in here?” Hortie says from the other side of the island.
“Nothing,” Jasper replies.
Lord, I don’t know how we get out of this one!
“Nothing?” Hortie repeats. “Then why do you have the same face on that you wore when you were fifteen and you drove Ruby’s tractor off a cliff?”
“Nothing’s going on,” he says again. “You’re just getting paranoid in your old age.”
Silently as I can, I slip the untwisted panties back inside my jeans and inch the denim up my leg as Hortie chuckles.
“Old, am I? Well then, fine.” I picture her tossing up her hands and turning away.
“If you say it’s nothing, then I guess it must be nothing.
Who am I to argue with youth and brilliance?
” She walks away towards the other end of the kitchen, still safely blocked by the island.
“I’m making myself a drink. After the day we’ve had, I’ve earned it. Heck, I’ve earned two. You want one?”
“Sure.” Jasper uses the excuse of Hortie’s turned back to glance down at me. The cocky fucker is fighting a smirk. Does he think this is funny? I swear, I’m gonna bite him. Piranha style, right on the dangler. We’ll see if he laughs then.
There’s a clinking sound of bottles in a cabinet as I finally slip my jeans back up over my bare ass. “What kind of drink do you want?” Hortie calls. “Looks like we’ve got a full cabinet here. Old-fashioned? Gimlet? Margarita?”
Each option makes Jasper coil tighter. I can hear the growl rising in his throat.
“Oh—I think we have a little sweet vermouth. We could make Negronis—”
“Hera’s tits, Hortie, I don’t care about the fucking drink!”
There’s a final soft clink before the cabinet clicks shut. Then Hortie says, “Well, why don’t we let Birdie finish getting dressed. Then we’ll ask her if she has a preference. Does that sound good, dear?” she asks a little louder. This question is clearly meant for me.
Sighing, Jasper glances down. “Sorry. I tried.”
“Not very hard,” I mutter, buttoning my uncooperative jeans.
“He was never any good at espionage,” Hortie calls.
“And if you two plan on continuing to have premarital relations around the house, perhaps we can employ the sock-on-the-door method of alert? You know, for the old grannies living here who definitely don’t need to see Jasper’s full moon rising over the kitchen table. ”
Jasper groans, while I try my best to sink through the floor. Sadly, it doesn’t work.
“Honestly, Pickles,” Hortie huffs at the cat. “What is the world coming to? Don’t they know we eat in here?”
Tugging my shirt back on, I rise slowly to my feet, praying I don’t look as thoroughly fucked as I feel. Daring to look Hortie square in the face, I smile. “A margarita sounds lovely.”