Chapter Twenty-Two
Pepper
I wake up Saturday morning to my empty bed but not an empty house. The faint smell of coffee hangs in the air, and the clothes we’d left strewn around the room in our haste to get naked are draped over the chair by the window with the sketch of us from Paris. It feels like a dream, that Clay is here, shattering my comfort zones one at a time. I’ve never had a man spend the night at my house. I lie still, surrounded by his scent on my sheets and my body, expecting to feel strange or anxious about him being here, but I don’t. I like seeing his clothes on my chair and knowing he’s downstairs. That should bring anxiety, too, but it doesn’t. It’s that thought that rattles me.
I climb out of bed, put on the T-shirt he wore under his sweater yesterday, and head into the bathroom. I use the toilet, and as I brush my teeth, I see the evidence of our wild night in the red mark peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt. I touch it absently, thinking about last night.
After much back-and-forth, Clay somehow convinced me to let him download the footage of our sexy office encounter— We’ll laugh about it when we’re old and gray —before deleting the original and the backup. He talks like we’re a given and we have a future, and he makes it easy to get caught up in it with him. I know we have things to talk about and figure out, but I’ve never felt like this, and I’m not ready to rock the boat.
I put on my fuzzy slippers and head downstairs. There’s Motown music coming from the kitchen. I peer around the corner and see Clay dancing in his black boxer briefs by the stove, singing along with “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” as he cracks eggs into a pan. Holy cow, the man can dance, but he sings as off-key as I do! He cracks another egg and spins around, catching me watching him.
He grins and belts out the lyrics, dancing over to me. He takes my hand and spins me around, making me laugh. “Sing with me, Reckless.”
“Trust me, you don’t want that. I’m worse than you are.”
“Impossible.” He sings louder, holding my hand and dancing around me. “Come on, baby. Let me hear you sing.”
I shake my head.
When the song ends, he turns off the stove and draws me into his arms. “You look adorable in my shirt.”
“You look adorable in my kitchen.”
“I took a picture of the sunrise for you.”
Sadness moves through me. “You should’ve woken me up to watch it with you.”
“I kept you up late. You needed your sleep so that brilliant brain can function at work this morning.”
I’m touched that he remembered.
His lips find mine as “My Girl” comes on. We dance and kiss and laugh, and he sings every word to me. I feel like his girl, and I like it. When “Last Night” by Morgan Wallen comes on, one of my favorite songs, I have to ask, “What are you listening to that has Motown and country?”
“One of my playlists. My parents love Motown. I grew up watching them dance to it.” He starts singing the country song, about me calling my mom and him calling my bluff and how he wouldn’t trade my love for anything else. It’s just a song, but I get swept up in it, and in him, like I do with everything else he does, and I start singing about how we’re not over yet.
“That’s my girl!” He whoops and spins me around, and my insecurities about my singing fall away. When the song changes, he tugs me against him and runs his finger along the collar of my shirt. “You’re marked again.”
“Mm-hmm. I have an overzealous…” I scramble for the right word. “Friend.”
His brows slant. “Like hell you do. You have an overzealous boyfriend.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that word?” I tease.
“I’ll give you old .” He slaps my butt, then kisses me. We fall into a sexy slow dance. “I don’t care what you call me as long as you know you’re mine and are off-limits to other guys.”
“Then it goes both ways.”
“That’s cool. I’m not into guys.”
I roll my eyes.
“You know I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He kisses me again, his hands slipping beneath the back of my shirt. A wolfish grin appears. “You’re naked under here. Are you trying to make me crazy?”
I laugh as he backs me up against the counter. “That was my plan.”
“You wicked thing.” He brushes his scruff along my cheek. “I could get used to mornings like this.”
So could I, but…
That nugget of truth bears a reminder for both of us. “Don’t get too comfortable, Braden. You have time now, but things will change when it’s football season again.”
“Let’s not worry about that. We’ll figure things out as we go.”
“I’m not great at not having a plan,” I say honestly.
“As I recall, not only were you excellent at not having a plan in Paris, but it was your idea.”
“Yes, but that was a one-day fling. This is…something else.”
“Yes, we are.” He kisses my neck, sending tingles down my chest. “Figuring it out as we go is a plan. This is new for both of us. There’s no playbook, and I know it’s not what you’re used to, but neither was having sex in your lobby, and you enjoyed that.”
Boy, did I ever.
“Don’t stress, babe. Let’s just enjoy each other and see where it takes us. Think you can do that?”
“I can try.”
“Good girl.” He kisses me, then turns back to the stove. “Hope you like scrambled eggs.”
“I do. Do you want toast?”
“Sure. How long do you have to work this morning?”
I put the bread in the toaster. “Just a couple of hours.”
“Perfect. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll meet you at your office. You can show me around town, and we can go in search of hobbies.”
“Hobbies,” I repeat, thinking about how much I learned about him yesterday.
“Yeah, you know. Those things we don’t have. Maybe we’ll find something we’ll both enjoy.”
“I like that idea. What are you going to do while I’m at work?”
“I met a kid who plays for UVA yesterday at the track. His name is Ben. I told him I’d run some drills with him when I have time. I’ll text him and see if he’s still up for it.”
“That’s really nice of you.”
“I love working with kids, and he was excited to meet me. I think it’ll make his day.” He draws me into his arms again. “Now, how about I make yours?”
“Yes, please,” I whisper, and pull his mouth to mine.
He lifts me onto the counter, kissing me like he can’t get enough, and I’m pretty sure I never will, because the way he kisses makes me desperate for more. He whips my shirt off, lowering his mouth to my breast, sending heat searing down my core. Grabbing his head, I arch into him. “Clay.”
“I’ve got you, baby.” He moves a hand between my legs and crushes his mouth to mine, fracturing my ability to think. Our kisses are hot and hungry as his fingers work their magic, taking me up, up, up , until my entire body tingles and burns, and all at once my orgasm crashes into me. I cry out, and he lowers his mouth between my legs, using his teeth, tongue, and fingers, driving me out of my mind. My vision blurs as waves of pleasure pummel me. I’m gasping and moaning, each wave more intense than the last.
The smell of burning eggs hits me. “Clay,” I pant out, but he’s relentless in his pursuit of my pleasure, feasting and teasing, sending me right up to the peak again. I cry out as smoke billows from the stove, but we don’t stop. He intensifies his efforts, and I bury my hands in his hair, rocking against his mouth, unwilling to be deterred from enjoying everything he has to give.