8. Addison
Addison
# Who knew that making gingerbread houses is not the most exciting use for ginger?
I burrow further beneath the covers, enjoying the soft, warm duvet and the knowledge that I don’t have to be anywhere but here for a while.
And then reality slaps me in the face. Chase Hunter is here. Outside this very room right now, sleeping on the sofa in my living room. So much for my peaceful few days away. Damn him messing up my alone time.
Alone time immediately makes me think of my vibrator, still tucked away in the inside pocket of my suitcase.
Lonely and feeling unloved, much like me.
And while it’s not an overly noisy instrument of pleasure, it’s a distinctive sound, isn’t it?
One that can’t be explained away by any other means.
Can’t even pretend it’s my electric toothbrush, because who brushes their teeth for ten whole minutes?
And I would be mortified beyond all redemption if Chase heard me getting myself off while he was in the room next door.
Arrogant jerkwad would probably assume I was thinking about him and his insanely toned abs, or his cerulean-blue eyes, or maybe that smile that can melt panties at fifty paces.
And I absolutely would not be thinking about any of those things, and I would definitely not be remembering how skilled he is with that mouth.
It’s been eight years after all. A girl doesn’t still fantasize about one night eight years later!
And now I really want my vibrator. However, there’s nothing to stop me from going old school and using my fingers.
So, I slip my hand into my panties, circle my already swollen clit and arch my back as familiar waves of pleasure start rolling in my core.
But I can’t get Chase’s stupid face out of my head.
Can’t stop remembering how good he made me feel—the kind of high I’ve never been able to find since, if I’m honest. However, like they always do, those good feelings inevitably lead to the bad ones—what happened after our night together, and the most intense heartbreak I’ve ever experienced.
Damn you to hell, Chase Hunter.
With a sigh, I jump out of bed and pull on my comfy slippers. I need some soothing ginger tea, then I can face whatever fresh hell this day has in store for me.
I have to work to suppress a snort of laughter when I leave the sanctuary of my bedroom and see Chase sleeping on the couch.
He’s so tall that his feet are hanging over the end.
His arm is thrown over his eyes, probably to shield them from the intensely bright winter sunlight streaming through the window directly in front of him—the one we didn’t close the drapes on.
I try not to let my gaze linger on those incredibly toned abs he has, nor the delicious V that disappears beneath the garish purple and orange blanket we found in a closet last night, and fail abysmally.
Objectively, he is a fine specimen of man candy. And I’m only looking.
“Need coffee,” he groans, and I tear my eyes away and scurry to the kitchen before he finds me staring at him.
I fill the kettle and grab the box of ginger tea I brought with me before popping a teabag into a purple mug while I wait for the water to boil.
When the sound of Chase’s feet signal he’s in the kitchen too, I don’t turn around, steeling myself to not react to his incredibly muscular chest and arms. He has the kind of physique that makes a girl think about being picked up and pinned against a wall or bent over a kitchen island.
Pity, his personality is so disappointing.
He begins opening and closing cupboards and he mutters curses under his breath with each one. “Where is the goddamn coffee?” he finally snaps.
I spin around and offer him a sweet smile. “I don’t believe there is any.”
He frowns, like I have just told him the most ridiculous thing in the history of mankind. “What kind of fucked-up, backwater place doesn’t have coffee?”
“Um, the kind where you rent a cabin and have to bring your own supplies?”
He grunts, sounding like a Neanderthal, and also surprisingly hot, which I ignore. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee in your box of whatever-stuff-you-grabbed-from-your-apartment-before-you-left?”
“A, how dare you assume that my box of carefully curated essentials is stuff I grabbed from my apartment ? And, B, no, I do not.”
He eyes me with suspicion and then he crosses the kitchen, heading straight for my box of random crap I totally threw in there last minute, and peers inside. “Ah, I see you prepped well for your four-day stay in an isolated cabin in the woods.”
Internally, I’m wincing, but I tip my chin up and maintain my air of righteousness.
“Cheez-Its.” He pulls the box out and inspects it. “That are three weeks past their use by date. Raisin bran.”
“It’s good for your bowels.” I repeat what my mom told me when she bought me that box over six months ago. Why are you talking about bowels, Addie?
He blinks rapidly, like he wants to remove my words from his brain. “A half-empty packet of Oreos.”
“Half-full, actually.”
“An open packet of family-size M&M’s.”
“They were sealed. I opened them on the way here if you must know.”
He reaches inside the box and pulls out a small packet of trail mix. “Oh, yeah. You’re real prepared, Addie.”
“Well, we are in the woods. Tell me where there is a more appropriate place for trail mix?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls out the box’s last item. “And half a bottle of bourbon.”
“Obviously.”
“Tell me you didn’t open that on the drive here too?”
I snatch it off him. “Of course not. Although had I known I was going to walk into the cabin and be visually assaulted by your semi-nakedness, I would have taken a good slug when I got here.”
He doesn’t react to my insult, maintaining his usual frustrating air of self-confidence, or self-importance. “You say semi-nakedness like I did that on purpose, but I’d just got out of the shower.”
“You’re semi-naked right now.” I wave a hand in the general direction of his chest area. “Don’t you own any shirts?”
“I just got out of bed,” he protests. Then he cracks his neck and winces.
“Or off of the couch—the most uncomfortable one I’ve ever had the displeasure of sleeping on.
” I feel a pang of guilt. He really did look uncomfortable on there.
“And, besides, we’re discussing your frankly abysmal box of carefully curated essentials . ”
“It’s still a whole lot better than what you brought. Where is your contribution to our pantry, by the way?”
“I’ll remind you that until two days ago, I was booked into a luxury suite at the lodge.
You know that place with a restaurant. And room service.
And a coffee machine,” he groans while scanning the kitchen area like some finest Columbian beans may magically appear before our very eyes.
And now that niggling guilt is back. Chase gave up all that comfort for me, and while it was wholly unwelcome and unnecessary, it was Brax’s doing and not his.
And I, of all people, know how difficult it is to resist a request from my brother.
He does this sad tone and these puppy-dog eyes that make people instantly bend to his will.
I put the bourbon down and pass Chase the box of tea. “I have ginger tea too.”
He pulls a disgusted face while examining the packet.
“Hey, it’s better than plain old water. At least try some.”
“I hate ginger,” he growls.
I can’t help but giggle, reminded of my college roommate and her hilarious ginger experience.
Chase scowls, obviously his lack of coffee exacerbates his already disappointing personality. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I’m not laughing at your coffee addiction, promise. You reminded me of someone just now is all.”
He discards the tea like it’s offended him and then fixes me with a stare that makes goose bumps break out all over my skin, and I’m not entirely certain I don’t like it. “Who did I remind you of and why?”
Okay, well now he’s not so calm and composed.
I guess a lack of coffee and jokes he’s not in on are the things that push his buttons.
I take a mental note and store it away for future reference.
“Darcy, my friend from college. She hates ginger too.” I snort a laugh this time, which is very inappropriate given the reason for her hatred of the delicious spice.
But Darcy laughs about it now too. In fact, we laughed about it together just a few months ago.
He folds his thick forearms across his muscular chest. “Care to elaborate?”
I shouldn’t, but Darcy won’t care and they’re never likely to meet, so why the hell not? “So, she spent a few semesters as someone’s sub.”
He looks even more confused. “Like a substitute teacher?”
“No, Chase. A sub, like a submissive. The guy she was with was a dom.”
“Okay,” he says, interest clearly piqued as he takes a seat on the stool behind him.
“She enjoyed being a bratty sub and she was really into his punishments, but this one time…” I snort another giggle, an incredibly unsexy one at that. “He punished her with ginger.”
The look of absolute bewilderment on his face is almost adorable. “Ginger?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of ginger-figging?” I ask with an exaggerated gasp. Even though I’m pretty sure I’m one of a select group of people in this world who does know what that term means.
“Ginger what-now?” Everything about him, his tone and the look on his face is priceless, and it is deliciously satisfying to see the great Chase Hunter so perplexed.
“It’s where…” I can’t speak, creased with laughter now and tears rolling down my cheeks.
Poor Darcy. “It’s where a piece of ginger is…
” I take a second to compose myself, sucking in a few deep breaths through my nose.
“Inserted.” I make a pushing motion with my index finger.
“Somewhere that would burn. You know what I mean?”
Chase’s mouth is hanging open and he’s staring at me like I’m growing an extra head before his eyes.
“Chase, come on! Don’t make me say it. Raw ginger would burn, right? And it was a sexual punishment. It’s often coupled with spanking.”
He stares at me, and then… “So, this guy shoved a piece of ginger up her ass!”
Finally, he gets it! I nod, lips pressed together, before I start laughing again.
His face is twisted in horror. “Surely, that would sting like a motherfucker?”
“Well, it’s a punishment, so that’s kind of the idea.”
He shudders. “Why the fuck would he do that to her?”
“It was all consensual. Like I said, she was his submissive. They were actually very cute together, but after that, she couldn’t even bear the smell of ginger.” I clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing again.
“Fuck!” he mutters. “How long did she have to…”—he looks like he’s searching for the appropriate term—“...endure the ginger for?”
“Only a little while. She said the burning didn’t last more than half an hour, but while it did, it felt like she was sitting on a spike made of fire from the devil’s own secret level of hell .
And then afterward he made her feel better by…
” I close my eyes and take a breath as more laughter tries to bubble its way out of me.
“Let’s just say it involved a snow cone and leave it there, okay? ”
He nods. “Probably for the best.”
“So…” I need to redirect this conversation away from BDSM punishments and the sex that inevitably follows, at least in Darcy’s ginger-figging experience, and to a much safer topic. “Clearly, we need to furnish our pantry. There’s a store a few miles along the highway.”
He raises a brow. “You mean your carefully curated box of essentials isn’t going to cut it?”
“Well, it would have been perfectly acceptable for me, but now you’re here, and apparently you need coffee, so…” I shrug. I will never, not even under pain of death, admit he was right about my abhorrent lack of planning.
“Coffee, yes. And some actual food.”
“Sounds good.”
“And some ginger, of course. You never know when it might come in handy. Especially now I know how kinky you are.” He winks and it does something to my insides that makes my legs want to wobble. And yeah, I know exactly what that’s about but I’m not going to pay it any mind.
“I am not kinky,” I whisper.
“You booked a cabin with a fucking sex dungeon. Do your parents know? Do Brax and Eva?”
“No, they do not and you are never going to tell them, Chase!” I tell him, mortified at the idea.
He shrugs. “I guess my silence could be bought.”
Asshole! “Bought how exactly?”
He hums, head tilted to the side and now all manner of sexual favors are racing through my head. “How about you don’t drive a stiletto heel through my heart this week, and I won’t tell your family about your sexual proclivities. Deal?”
I swallow down my disappointment, because had he suggested buying his silence with a blow job, then I would have absolutely stabbed him through the heart with a stiletto. But the libido is a curious thing, wishing for things it has no right to wish for.
“Deal, ass-face.”
“Oh, real mature, douche-nugget,” he fires back.
I toss a dish towel at him and try not to laugh.
And I try even harder not to think about how easy this is, just me and him.
How comfortable it always was when it was just the two of us, and how we’d sometimes laugh until we couldn’t breathe.
He was safe and reassuring. He was a part of my life, and a part of me.
It took me a long time to unlearn all of that, and just a few hours in his company are enough to have it all rushing back to me as though we’ve never been apart.
We had such a great thing together, and then we ruined it for one night of sex. And that’s on me as much as him. But that’s the unfortunate thing about mistakes, no matter how well you fix them, you can never unmake them.