Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
My friends wear out their welcome quickly, especially when Adam and Lovie come in from the porch and Dakota makes no effort to hide his thoughts on the one-bed issue.
“It’s arguably the fan-favorite trope, Fanning, and you’re misusing the privilege. It’s a disservice to romance lovers everywhere.”
I usher them out the door after that, promising to update them in the group chat the literal second any additional kissing and/or base running occurs. I try to point out that if I were able to text while Adam was running the bases, it wouldn’t be very noteworthy. They don’t agree.
Their unexpected visit coupled with my rude awakening throws off the rest of my day, and I end up showering right after dinner, forgoing the usual Wheel of Fortune .
I’m keyed up in a bad way, so when I grab my clothes before my shower, I also grab my vibrator. What Adam and Lovie don’t know can’t hurt them. I manage to keep it down, but it’s a challenge.
I think I’m free and clear until I throw open the bathroom door afterward.
Adam does his casual lean on the opposite wall, his eyes trained on my bundle of dirty clothes. And the vibe, clearly visible among them. “Whatcha got there?”
“Clothes,” I say. I don’t try to hide it.
He raises an eyebrow, and I know he won’t let this slide. “Is that so?”
Despite my flaming cheeks, I am the picture of cool, calm, and collected. You can Urban Dictionary that phrase and my picture will pop up. “That is so, yes.”
Adam points at the bundle, where my fingers now have a death grip on my vibrator. “Where do you wear that?”
I arch an eyebrow of my own, calling his bluff. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Maybe.” His teeth snag on his lip, but it’s not enough to hide his wicked grin. “But I can probably … fill in the gaps for myself.” His voice is drenched in honey. “I have a pretty active imagination.”
“Yeah?” I pout my bottom lip, make my eyes the slightest bit wider, joining in his little game. “Active enough to call them fantasies?” I move my hair off my neck, but a drop of water slides down and disappears into my cleavage. Adam tracks it the whole way.
His eyes snap to mine, pupils blown. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he echoes.
Then he utters what is potentially the most sexually charged question I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Did you think about me?”
I must have taken my shower too hot, and my skin is having some delayed reaction to the scalding water. It’s why I break out in goose bumps. “I—what?” I’m squeaking . Since when do I squeak ?
Adam steps closer, his gaze steady but unreadable as he tucks a wet lock of my hair behind my ear. “In the shower.” Another drop slides down my chest, and he watches that one too. “You touched yourself.”
As his mouth nears mine, I draw a breath, his sunshine scent mixing with that of my soap. “Is that … is that a question?” And if it is, why is he asking when he already knows the answer?
His grin takes shape against my neck, and he inhales deeply enough that it moves my heavy hair. “My question is …” His voice is so low I strain to hear him. “Did you think about me ? Did you pretend I was the one touching you?”
“None of your business,” I try to say, except it comes out as a gasp, because one of his hands has slipped to the front of my sweats, pressed firmly to my stomach and hovering above the waistband.
“Can I show you what I think you did?” He is so, so casual, when I’m so, so close to falling apart.
I don’t trust myself not to moan, so I keep my lips pursed tight. But I nod.
His lips descend on mine. He’s gentler now than he was last time. That day, he kissed me like he needed my air in his lungs to live. Now he kisses me like he knows I’m not going anywhere. A lazy cherishing of my mouth, experimenting to see the ways our lips fit together. We won’t discover them all right now, but we can certainly try.
And I hate him for it, because he’s right. I have no intention of ever not kissing him.
I drop my clothes to grab at his chest, his neck, his anything , to pull him closer. He pulls back just long enough to realign our mouths, an even better fit with nothing between us now. A sound rumbles from his throat that I memorize instantly, a grumble-groan of want. His hands explore me, the curves of my waist and spine and ass. Everywhere. The heat of him throws me headfirst into a singularity. There is nothing but this.
My eyes flutter open when he breaks away, our foreheads resting against each other. Waiting. He’s near panting. So am I.
This, yes, now , I tell him again with the tilt of my hips, the nod of my head, an open invitation. He accepts it, teeth dragging from jaw to ear to jugular. His breath is hot on my throat as his hand slides an inch lower.
Over his shoulder, a picture on the wall catches my eye, and I gasp as his fingers disappear beneath the waistband of my joggers.
“Wait,” I moan, unable to hold it in any longer. “Stop, wait.”
He removes himself from my body all at once. I’m left shivering in his sudden absence. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, but I’m too struck by what I see to placate him right now.
“No, Adam …” I swallow the rocks in my throat. “Look.”
He turns to see what I do.
My grandparents’ wedding picture, taken in 1964. Lovie’s hair was red, chopped off at her shoulders like mine. Her eyes are my eyes. I have her jaw, her cheekbones. Even her nose.
And my grandfather, Bobby. Dark hair, pomaded perfectly, aside from one piece near his crown that refused to follow direction. He’s clean-shaven, but there’s still a shadow around the edges; his face is chiseled and perfectly imperfect.
His eyes are navy blue.
“No wonder she gets us confused,” he says, gaze jumping between the picture and my face.
“No kidding.” With the light from the bathroom and the hallway, the reflections of our own faces become ghosts next to my grandparents’.
My grandmother thinks Adam and I are her and her husband, because sixty years ago, we might as well have been, minus one glaring difference.
“They’re married. We’re not. It’s different.” I step around Adam, resting my finger on the dusty glass atop their gold wedding bands.
Adam chuckles, grabbing my outstretched hand and knotting our fingers together. “You don’t have to try and convince me, Elle. It’s just a picture.”
“This doesn’t bother you?”
His hands messed up my hair earlier, and he fixes it now, clearing it from my face with concentration and care. “It’s just a picture,” he says again, tilting his head to capture my gaze.
There are a thousand emotions warring in me right now, and I can’t name any of them. From down the hall, the Jeopardy! theme song starts playing.
Adam straightens. “I should get back.”
“Right,” I say, bending to pick up the things I dropped when Adam and I collided.
“Elle,” he says from the bend in the hallway, cautiously optimistic. “I’ll save you a seat?”
He doesn’t say kissing me again was a mistake, that whatever we just did shouldn’t or can’t or won’t happen again. He says nothing of being weirded out by being my grandparents’ doppelg ? ngers. And for as long as I’ve known him, Adam has said exactly what he thinks. He’s never held back to spare my feelings.
Before I realize it, I’m nodding. “Absolutely. Your ass is mine tonight.” Mostly I’m talking about the game show.
Adam disappears around the corner with a smile, and I’m more worked up now than I was before my shower. Before I head out to the living room, I fire off a text to the group chat.
Elle Monroe: Which one is second base again?