Chapter 15
Warner
Sweet and spicy.
The first taste of Delaney is better than the expensive aged bourbon lingering on her lips. I shouldn’t have kissed her, even if she did ask, but now that I have, I want to keep doing it all night.
A little moan vibrates in her throat as soon as our mouths merge and our tongues touch. Caramel intermixes with a delicate hint of aged oak, making me want to delve deeper to taste every last drop of this stunner of a woman.
With one useless arm, I feel inept. One strap of her top slides down her arm, exposing the top of her perky breast, but my fingers fumble as I reach for the other strap, so I stop. Instead, I run the fingers of my casted arm gently against the length of her neck.
I pull back enough to see the want in her eyes and the frustration that our lips dared to part.
Still so feisty. I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, wanting to savor what remains of her flavor.
She was right about me. I have no patience, especially with her.
Whether she’s talking bullshit, leaving a mess around my apartment, or looking like she does, I want her. “Get on the bed.”
Her back straightens stiff as an arrow, her tits still begging for attention under her shirt.
So damn tempting to tease with my tongue if we don’t kill each other first. Settling her hands on my shoulders, she takes a deep breath while her shoulders fall on the exhale.
“Should we be doing this?” Her measured, panting breaths jade the words.
“Why shouldn’t we? We’re married, remember?
” Do I feel bad for pretending we’re married when I know we’re not?
I lost touch with that emotion a long time ago in business.
Personally, fighting fire with fire is the only way to win, and winning is an aphrodisiac.
Even with my dick as hard as it is, it would be irresponsible of me to take what she’s giving and not give it back.
Something’s on the line. I haven’t figured it out yet, but only an enemy would go to the lengths she has.
When I smile at her, it’s real. I’m beginning to appreciate her company in spite of the spirited streak of hate she holds for me.
I can’t wait to watch her crumple under me.
It will be the best orgasm of her life, and she’ll walk away knowing only her rival could make her feel that good.
When she seems at a loss for words, I add, “Maybe you have a touch of amnesia as well.”
Her eyes follow one of her hands as it glides over my shoulders, dipping with the flow of my muscles, and then her gaze darts back to me. “No amnesia. That’s the problem. I remember it all too well.”
Her body is soft when I slip my hand under the lace of her short, silky top. The white against her skin makes her look even tanner, and the blue flowers dotting the fabric have me wanting to spend hours connecting each one underneath it. “Maybe the universe is giving us the accident to reconnect.”
She grins. “Nice thought, but I’d prefer the universe not try to kill you to bring us back together. Roses. Jewelry. A fancy dinner would have done the trick.” Laughter escapes her without her permission, even as she tries to shut it down so fast.
“I can do that.”
While her hand keeps her gaze occupied, she asks, “Can do what?”
“I can give you roses. Jewelry. Reservations at the best restaurants in the city. Anything you want.” I smirk. “I got us six flavors of gelato delivered instantly.”
“Impressive.”
“Wait until you see what else I can do.”
“I’ve seen firsthand what you have the power to do.
I’m hoping to shine light on the darker parts.
” She runs her hand over my cheek as if she actually cares.
“You can just be Warner with me. No fanfare. No big gestures.” Scraping above my ears gently, she rests her hand at the nape of my neck and leans in.
“Just you and me.” She closes her eyes when her lips press to mine again, and whispers, “You don’t have to be the bad guy.
” Her hand leaves me, ushering in winter without her to keep me warm.
Her smile returns, the one that doesn’t feel like it reaches her heart.
“What flavors of gelato did you get?” Before I respond, she walks into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her.
It's only a few seconds. Not enough time to decipher the code she’s speaking in.
Why am I the bad guy? It was said so casually, but left an impact without her realizing.
A tell? Who does she think I am if not Warner with her?
I suspect I’m not as clever as I think I am, at least not with her.
I reply, “Pistachio,” loud enough for her to hear in the bathroom.
“I love pistachio.” She returns with my robe wrapped around her body like it’s her property now. If she asked, I’d give it to her. It looks a hell of a lot better on her than on me. “What else?” She takes me by my unbroken arm and tries to pull me to my feet. “What other flavors?”
It’s almost maniacal how she transitions from one mood to the next.
The serious side is gone. Her upbeat demeanor keeps me on my toes, literally.
I walk with her hand firmly attached in mine.
Selfishly, I like this side of her. It’s almost like we’re not trying to fuck each other over.
The good in her brings out my better side. “Chocolate with blood orange mixed in.”
“Incredible.”
Like her.
I’m such a sucker for a pretty face and lips that taste like the finest liquor that money can buy.
I’m a fucking fool for this woman’s attention.
Why does it feel like sunshine on a cloudy day?
I eat it up, not realizing how starved I’ve been to have someone look at me like I hung the moon for them.
I’m sure the feeling will fade as fast as it came on, but I’m going to enjoy the moment.
How can I not when the gleam in her eyes resuscitates the very organ I didn’t think could be saved?
She almost skips to the kitchen, as the anchor weighing her down—me—has finally been released.
Her joy is contagious, and all because of gelato.
I knew I could convert her over from ice cream, but I’m learning she didn’t lie about the sweet tooth.
It’s definitely a way to this girl’s heart.
I just wish she craved to finish what was started in the bedroom more.
The ache in my belly subsides, but my lingering blue balls have me shifting for a better position on this stool.
“Raspberry, stracciatella, lemon, and a lavender basil mix. I went out on a limb with the last one.”
“What flavor are we starting with?” I ask as I settle in to watch her maneuver around my kitchen.
With the freezer door open, she peeks back at me. “We only get to try one?”
I would laugh, but she’s dead serious. “Let’s try them all.”
The pint containers are lined up on the counter in front of me before she leaps in excitement and then scurries to the silverware drawer. Looking inside, she says, “Tell me this isn’t real silver.”
The judgment doesn’t bother me. I have expensive taste, but I’m not that extravagant.
“It’s stainless. I prefer stainless steel to having to maintain silver.
Anyway, it’s only me here, so I don’t need anything fan—” Our eyes lock across the small space, both of us, apparently, realizing the grave error we’ve made at the same time.
As my wife, she would know the answer.
As her husband, I wouldn’t have responded like I did.
But here we are, stuck in a tangled web in the aftermath.
I’m not sure what to say when it actually goes so well.
I managed to flip my mood in accordance with hers.
Why’d we have to fuck it up? The reality of what we are now is exposed, lying like a death of something good.
“I . . .” I release a heavy breath and then look down to stare at the counter like I’ll find a plan on how to proceed in the swirls of the stone.
“Big or little?” she asks, holding up two spoons and carrying on like our secrets aren’t closing in on us.
Following her lead, this one time, I reply, “Big.”
“I’ll take the little spoon.” She comes over and hands me the spoon without making eye contact.
Another tell that I’m positive I’ll read too much into.
As she takes the lids off the containers, she asks, “Can you eat with your left? You did fine with a burger and fries, but gelato is a different ball game.”
We didn’t get away with anything, but she’s a master sidestepper. “We’ll see.”
She grasps the bottom of the chocolate blood orange pint. “I’ll hold it. Dig in.”
I scoop the creamy treat and take the spoon into my mouth, slow to slide it out. Watching her spoon dive in after mine, she doesn’t waste time tasting it. “I like that one.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“I can see why. Or taste why.” A giggle bubbles up like champagne—the unexpected, quiet burst is something to be savored.
I end up smiling for several reasons, but mainly because it’s odd how things with her evolve from one minute to the next.
I was tasting her not fifteen minutes ago, and now I’m eating gelato like it stands a chance against the sweetness of her lips.
The slip with the silverware doesn’t seem to matter as much.
Knowing that this is probably an act, like everything else she does, doesn’t deter me from starting to appreciate her quirks.
Grabbing the base of the next pint, she says, “Try it and guess the flavor.”
I already know what it is by the color, but I’ll play along. One bite is all it takes to confirm what I knew. “Pistachio.”
Sliding the spoon from between her lips, she licks the corner and says, “Salty and sweet. I always did have an affinity for the opposites.”
“Opposites attract. Like us?”