Chapter Twenty-Four #2
"Excuse me?" I asked, face scrunching up, watching as she bit into the peach. I swear my cock went rock solid just seeing that, imagining the sweet sticky taste all over her lips, her chin, maybe a little on her neck from where she reached up to toy with her necklace chain.
"My mom has always, as far back as I can remember, gone to plant stores or even Home Depot and walked right past all the beautiful green and flowered plants and found the rack in the back with the plants with yellow or crinkly brown leaves, with dying flowers.
And she would pick those to bring home."
"Why?"
"Because she said that there was nothing wrong with the plants, that they were just forgotten, unloved.
She told us that all anything or anyone in life needed to thrive was the right environment, some sunshine, good food, water, and love.
I don't think she's ever lost a plant in all these years.
So she will appreciate you bringing her a dying plant. "
"I actually have some fucking thing made of half brown leaves hanging in my kitchen. Dusty gave it to me as a housewarming present. I haven't killed it, but it seems like it is determined to die sooner or later."
"That's even better. She will like it even more if you bring it to her because 'you heard she could save it.' She'll fall in love with you right then and there."
"Alright. I can do that. Any other tips?"
“For what? To make them like you?" she asked, throwing the peach pit in the garbage and not the compost bin she kept on the small balcony because 'stone fruit pits take years to break down.' "Since when did you care if people like you?" she asked, brows furrowing.
"Your parents aren't 'people,'" I told her.
I'd never 'met the parents' before since none of the situations I'd had with women could be called relationships, let alone serious ones. This was new ground for me. I wanted to be sure of my footing.
It was important.
Because she was important.
"We will pick up a bottle of Devil Tears when we get there."
"Why would I bring your father his own whiskey?"
"Because you would tell him that it is the best you've ever had. Blowing smoke up people's asses is always a good way to make them like you."
"Well, it wouldn't be a lie," I told her, stepping into the kitchen space, spreading my arms to the island and counter, preventing her from passing.
"What?" she asked, brows pinching as she looked up at me.
My hand lifted, going behind her neck, sinking into her hair, turning, curling, pulling just to the point of pain, her air gasping inward as I exposed her neck to me, leaning down to trace my tongue up the skin, peach hitting my tastebuds.
"Oh," she said, voice airy, hands resting on my arms, holding herself upright as her legs went to jelly when my fingers tugged a little harder.
"What?" I asked when my head lifted again, finding her eyes bright, her smile amused.
"Who'd have thought peaches could be so erotic? Well, I guess that band. You know?"
"That band? No, probably not without more than that to go on," I told her, my own lips curving up.
"No, you know them. Everyone knows them. They did that song about peaches. Like it was a couple dudes. Their name had numbers in it. Or was just numbers. Oh, this is going to drive me crazy..."
"You done blabbering about music?" I asked, smirking as my hands sank into her hips, yanking her up off her feet, planting her down on the counter. "I'm in the middle of something here," I added as her head angled back, smile going flirtatious.
"Well, by all means," she said, planting her arms on the counter behind her, leaning back, "proceed."
My hands snagged the hem of her tee—my tee—and pulled it upward.
Reagan rarely dressed down. Her fucking pajamas—when she wore them—looked like she could wear them to a club.
But she'd taken to grabbing my shirts off the floor in the morning, slipping into them.
She said they smelled good, and I actually did find her sniffing them sometimes.
It was weird, but that little action always made my chest feel off.
Tight, almost. I didn't know what that meant, but, yeah, I liked her in my shirt.
The only thing I liked better was her out of my shirt.
My hand fisted the material up by her clavicle as my lips closed around her nipple, sucking hard, making her breath hiss out, making her back arch, pressing her harder against my mouth as my tongue started to trace over her slowly.
"112!" she yelled.
"The fuck?" I asked, jerking backward, looking down at her, her eyes bright, her smile triumphant.
"The band. 112."
"Never heard of them."
"Sure you have! They had like that one hit. "Peaches and Cream," she clarified. "Which is not about peaches or cream," she added.
"Yeah, babe, I know what it's about," I told her, eyes rolling even as my smile curved upward. "Are you done?" I asked, brow raising. "I was about to taste your pussy, but if you’d rather give me a musical lesson..."
She didn't want that.
In fact, she grabbed the nape of my neck as her back went flat, dragging me between her thighs, a place I never tired of being because I'd never heard anything in my life that sounded half as good as her begging me to let her come.
It never took long.
Sometimes, I was generous, I let her come against my mouth.
Other times, like now, I didn't let her. I got her to the brink, then eased her away. With my mouth, with my fingers. Over and over. Until her entire body was shaking with the need for release, until her sounds were cries instead of moans.
Then and only then did I slam inside her, work her clit as I fucked her—hard, fast—until her pussy spasmed around my cock, as she cried out my name, her entire body going taut before going completely boneless, spent.
When I walked back into the kitchen after hitting the bathroom to deal with the condom, she had music blaring, her hips moving around to the beat about fucking peaches that weren't peaches at all.
It was a strange moment to have the revelation I did right then. While she loaded silverware into the dishwasher, bumping her ass outward as she did so, singing about getting freaky in a limousine.
But that was the exact fucking moment that I fell in love with the woman.
___
Exactly one week later, we were ushered into a plane, first class because her parents had insisted and because Reagan listened to my rant about how it wasn’t necessary and promptly ignored me.
And I had to admit, it was nice to have some space, to have a complimentary drink, to not have some asshole leaning back into my lap because he couldn't stay awake on a five-and-a-half-hour flight.
"If it's possible, it looks deader," Reagan declared as she unpacked the pothos houseplant I had brought to her mother, the plant she had first seen and declared that it was damn near impossible to kill them and that she was suddenly worried about my ability to properly care for Mal when she wasn't around.
"You're just pissy because your pussy loves me," I declared just loud enough for the group of twenty-somethings standing outside the airport to chuckle as Reagan's cheeks flushed ever-so-slightly.
I found it was damn near impossible to truly embarrass the woman. I guess with outgoing, crazy people in her life like Luis and Krissy, she had long since overcome any such thing as social embarrassment.
"Okay here we go," she said, leading us over to the sedan where the driver with our names on a board was waiting.
"They sent a driver." I said it more to myself than her, but she sent me a smile as she slid her arm through mine.
"You'll get used to it."
I highly doubted that.
And that was even okay with me.
"Jesus Christ," I hissed when the car turned into a driveway. "You can't be serious."
"I explained it," she insisted.
She had. Described it. Even in a lot of detail. But I didn’t think it was possible for me to grasp the size of it until I was face-to-face with it.
This was what a twenty-six-million-dollar mansion looked like.
Enormous.
Ostentatious.
But undeniably impressive.
"Walk now, gawk later," Reagan suggested, handing me the plant and the whiskey as she grabbed her purse and the bag full of electronics she'd made me carry on. "Okay. Deep breaths."
"Are you talking to me, or yourself?"
"Yes," she answered, stabbing a finger into the doorbell.
She didn't bother to ring the bell at the Mallick house anymore, already comfortable with that familiarity. I thought it was interesting that she didn't feel that way about the home she had mostly grown up in.
"Honey!" her mom greeted, throwing open her arms, pulling her daughter against her body, dragging her inside the door as she did so.
Her father and I looked at the two of them then each other, both nodding.
"Mr. Hoffman,” I greeted, tucking the plant against my body so I could offer him my hand. "Nixon Rivers."
"Nixon, nice to meet you," he told me, giving me a hard shake, the kind I imagined all fathers gave the men their daughters brought home to meet them. The kind of handshake that said he might be twice your old, but he would fuck you up if you gave him a reason.
"You too, sir. I wanted to bring you some whiskey. Yours is the best I've had. I can't say I ever had it before Reagan, though."
"A connoisseur."
"You could say that," I agreed.
"What was your objection to ours before?" he asked, calm, casual, genuinely wanting an honest answer as he welcomed me into the foyer.
"Honestly, the price-tag," I told him, shrugging. "I make a good living, but I would consider that a 'special occasion' bottle, not the kind of bottle I would always have stocked in my bar."
"Our Reagan has been telling us to cut the price-tag," he said, nodding. "I think we need to give that some serious thought."
He would soon get to see the results of doing so, but I was biting my tongue on that.
Again, his gaze went to his wife who was still holding onto Reagan like she was afraid she'd disappear if she let go even an inch.