Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
MadMarch: Question. If Plankton is serving chum, and Mr. Krabs is serving krabby patties, -)
Pen
Though we haven’t formally discussed things, August comes over every night he’s not out of town. I guess we’re living together in a way, but it’s more like we can’t seem to be apart and make the effort for that not to happen. And I like it. I really like it that he comes home to me.
The thought enters my mind again when I hear the front door open and August call out, “Where’s my girl?”
A happy smile forms as I shout back that I’m in the kitchen.
It’s evening now. Golden light sits heavily on the trees and glitters on the pool’s surface.
I’ve spent the day studying and writing papers—despite August’s chiding—and then vacuumed the house, which is my least favorite chore.
Now I’m relaxing by listening to Goldfrapp and cleaning off the vegetables I harvested from the garden earlier.
It isn’t something I ever thought I’d enjoy but here we are.
These tomatoes are thriving because I tended to them, and I find it satisfying. Besides, they taste damn good.
A pair of big hands settle on my hips, as soft lips find the exposed column of my neck. “Hey.”
Smiling, I reach back to cup his cheek. “Hello.”
His mouth roams over my sensitive skin. “Whatcha doing?”
“Prepping dinner. I hope you’re ready to eat.”
“As it happens . . .” With a deft move, he spins me around and sets me on the counter. A grin flashes before he kisses me. Soft, deep, luscious. I melt into it with a gasp, my hands wrapping around his neck to keep him close.
I haven’t fully disclosed everything to August regarding sex.
He doesn’t know that I never got involved with anyone else because I only wanted him.
Confessing that might sound stalkerish. And, in all honesty, I didn’t want to be so hung up on August that all others left me cold.
I’d found myself annoyed by my body’s stubborn resistance to alternate lovers, and its equally stubborn insistence on having him.
It’s an awful thing to crave someone who never looks your way.
Now that’s changed. And there are times—many times lately—that I feel as if I’m navigating a dream. He wants me as much as I want him. There’s a heady joy in that. But it’s not like the pretty fantasies I had as a teenager. Sex is messy, sweaty, tiring, addicting. Freaking perfect.
Had I known what I was missing, I just might have—as August suggested—burst long ago. I’m glad I didn’t know. I’m exceptionally glad I found out with him.
Clever fingers trail up my hips and snag the waistband of my panties. He pulls them down with a dark chuckle as I make a small sound of shock.
“August . . .”
My panties fly across the kitchen, and he sinks to his knees and eases my thighs apart. Now eye level with my pussy, August hums in satisfaction. The sound sends a hot thrill through my core.
“What are you—”
He tugs me forward and presses his mouth against the plump swell of my clit. “Eating,” he says with a proprietary lick.
And it feels so good. There’s nothing like it . . .
A groan tears out of me as he feasts. Weakly, I grasp the silky strands of his hair and hold on, hold him closer. The kitchen fills with the lewd sounds of his mouth on my slick flesh and my needy cries.
We don’t speak for a long while. Not when I finally come, gasping and trembling. Not when he eventually stands and unzips to free his hard length to sink it into me. Not until the sun sinks behind the trees and we’re both breathless and shaking from our exertions.
And all I can think is: Don’t let this end. I don’t ever want this to end.
Long bouts of sex, I’ve also come to realize, can leave you starving.
While August mops up the bathroom floor—we got a little too frisky in the shower after our kitchen activities—I cook up a quick chicken Milanese.
When the thinly cut, breaded chicken is golden and crisp, I set it on a caprese salad of ruby-red tomatoes, bursting with sweetness, and bright green leaves of herbaceous basil fresh from the garden.
Creamy pillows of buffalo mozzarella, rich olive oil, and inky ribbons of balsamic vinegar finish it off.
I must say, I’m proud of my efforts. Cooking isn’t something I’ve done much of over the years. But I’ve been taught how, and being able to do it here in this kitchen makes me happy.
We eat on the wide porch facing the pool. The night is cool but not cold enough to go inside. August has two huge helpings, moaning and groaning as though I’d delivered him heaven on a plate. While it was easier to make than it looks or tastes, his appreciation is satisfying.
I drag a piece of mozzarella through some olive oil and pop it into my mouth. August watches me, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I repeat. He’s clearly in a good mood and wants to talk about why.
“Boyfriend, huh?”
And there it is. My text confession. Warmth wiggles under my skin. “Um. Yes? Unless you don’t want to—”
“I like it very much.” He sets his napkin on his empty plate. The strong lines of his face go soft with a tender expression. “I like that you claimed me in front of my siblings.”
“Is that what I did?” Standing, I collect the plates.
August follows, grabbing our glasses and the serving platters. “You regret it?”
“No.” In the kitchen, I set the plates in the sink. “I prefer it, actually. They should know we’re together now.”
He comes up next to me and follows my lead. “Then why the little frown wrinkle between your brows?”
Instantly, I widen my eyes, self-conscious of the supposed wrinkle. He chuckles and smooths a thumb between my brows. “You do it every time you worry.”
He reads me too well.
“Our family knows the truth,” I say, opening the dishwasher to load it. “But Monica keeps asking what style of wedding dress I like and what sort of wedding I had in mind.”
“Ah.” Leaning a hip against the counter, he reaches out and gently grasps my wrist to turn me around and face him. His expression is solemn. “That upsets you.”
It isn’t a question. But I answer it anyway.
“Of course it does.” I glance down at the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, something I find myself looking at far too much. And it isn’t really mine. “We’re lying to our friends. I don’t like that.”
“What can we do? We’re together now.”
“But not really engaged. Maybe you should take this back.”
He looks at my hand as though I’m offering up a bomb instead. “If you don’t wear the ring, it will look like we’re having problems when we’re not. Then they’ll wonder why you took it off if we aren’t breaking up.”
“Shit. I know. I know! But, eventually, they’re going to wonder why there isn’t any wedding happening.”
“Some people take years to plan a wedding.”
This is offered so half-heartedly that I smile before shaking my head. “I don’t think we’re a couple who would take years.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re contradicting yourself.”
“Well, this is complicated!”
“You’re telling me.”
“Not helping.” With a huff, I run a hand over my forehead. “There has to be some way out of this web.”
His amused expression drops. “This is my fault. I’m sorry, Pen.”
“I’m not upset. Just feeling guilty.”
“Leave the guilt to me. I earned it.”
“No, no. We agreed to be partners in this. That means we share any blame.”
“Okay, but as partners who now have lots of sex—”
“Lots?”
“Tons. A phenomenal amount.” He reaches out and draws me against him. “Record worthy.”
A kiss to the crest of my cheek has my eyes fluttering closed. I rest my hand on his firm chest and tilt my head to give him better access. “That much, huh?”
“Yes.” He nibbles on my earlobe. “I’m calling an audible.”
“Football talk. Sexy.”
He hums, warm breath tickling my skin. “Can I interest you in some ball handling?”
“Less sexy.”
“Damn it.”
Undeterred, he kisses the curve of my neck, his big hands roaming over my back, down to cup my bottom. He’s had me three times since coming home. And still, I want him. My body sways against his as heat and need wash along my skin.
He palms my breast, making a pleased sound when he finds me braless. The blunt tip of his thumb worries my nipple. Lust leaves me floating and weak.
“What were we talking about again?” I murmur, nipping at the column of his neck.
“I forgot.” He hauls me up and carries me into the bedroom.
And so it goes. We insulate ourselves in a blissful bubble of sex and happiness. When we’re together, the outside world goes away. It’s not a situation I’m familiar with, and yet it feels exactly as it should.
Only there’s a small voice in the back of my head that likes to remind me that there’s a vast difference between playing house and seeing things through for the long haul.
I tell that voice to shut it.