6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
B raxton
When I open my front door that evening, I’m not expecting the sunshine that’s Rose Flowers to be standing on my doorstep, let alone carrying a casserole dish. I’m surprised she rang the doorbell this time. She’s breaking her routine with a hand delivery, and I don’t like it.
Her curves are mouthwatering in an orange sundress held up by strings of fabric on each shoulder. Lord help me, this woman is enough to make the angels sing, and the rich aroma of whatever she holds in her hands is making me salivate like her damn dog. Why does she have to be so irresistible?
"Ms. Flowers, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask gruffly, my arms crossed in front of me, attempting to hide both my desire and delight in seeing her, thinking it would just take a simple tug of one of those orange strings to set free one luscious breast. Despite my desperate need to have her, I can’t … no, I won’t encourage her.
Rose's face flushes a pretty shade of pink, and she stutters a greeting. "H-hi, Braxton. I... I couldn't help but notice you haven't been to Salty's, and I know you're new in town, so I thought...Well, I’ve been wanting to make sure you felt welcome and eating home-cooked meals…" Her words trail off as she adjusts the tray in her hands, her blue-green eyes darting everywhere but at me. Her shyness is endearing, though I’ll be damned if I’ll let it tempt me.
"I appreciate the effort, but I don’t need anyone to feed me. I’m perfectly capable of doing so myself.” I snap. Pissed at myself for sounding like an ungrateful asshole.
Rose looks defeated and her cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson. "Well, I- I... I mean, I thought you might be lonely, and I assume you’re working a lot, and I just..."
Taking pity on her, I try taking an edge off my usual gruffness and uncross my arms. "It's alright, Rose. I'm just surprised." Likely because I can’t remember the last time someone cared enough to cook for me, let alone a beautiful woman like Rose.
"Well, I-I should probably be going," she tries to pass off the dish.
Before I can stop myself, I bark, "Come in."
As she steps inside, the scent of her perfume, something like wildflowers and lemon, wafts through the entryway, immediately brightening the large space.
"Wow, your house is... um, big," Rose remarks, glancing around the cavernous foyer.
I grunt something in response as Rose gushes, setting the tray down on the island in the kitchen. "It's absolutely lovely, I’m sure, once it's... lived in." Realizing what she’s said, she quickly corrects herself. “I mean, it just still has that smell of a new house.”
Raising an eyebrow once again at her choice of words, I don’t comment. Instead, I watch, transfixed, as she bustles around my kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets as if she belongs. To my surprise, I don’t mind. Which is odd, because I hate people in my private space. With Rose, it seems different. I find myself enjoying the domestic scene of the moment so much, I’m already wondering how to prolong her visit. Keep her here. Not let her leave.
What the hell is wrong with me? Now I’m thinking of holding her captive just so I can selfishly keep her to myself. She’s driving me so mad, I’m sounding like the villain in one of my crime novels.
Great. Now I’m having dirty thoughts of Rose tied to my bed.
Get a grip on yourself, man. If she knew what I was thinking right now, her ass would be out the door and she’d send her devil dog to eat me, then have me arrested.
She sets one place at the large bar in front of me, then sits beside me, not eating. Our knees are almost touching, the air between us crackling with tension. Stealing a glance at her, I can’t help but admire her. Her dainty feet in her leather flip-flops are dangling freely from the tall barstool, and it’s adorable.
“Are you not joining me?” I ask her because my mother instilled some manners in me.
Just thinking of eating some of her cooking with her witnessing my reaction makes me feel guilty. I’m going to have to sell this. Make it look like it’s okay for human consumption.
“Oh no, I ate earlier at Salty’s. I just thought you might enjoy some home cooking. Please eat.” She seems so earnest, so excited about feeding me. She spoons a large helping onto my plate.
I watch in dismay at the size of the serving. Again, remembering my manners, I say gruffly, “By the way, thank you for the other meals and baked goods. It was very thoughtful. People where I'm from don’t leave meals for strangers.”
She glows with pride when she responds, waving me off. “No problem. I’m a Southerner. We always cook. I’m not great at it but I thought, I’m going to go out on a lamb and try it."
She laughs.
I stare at her a moment, confused by the messed up idiom, then realize she’s serious when she doesn’t clarify. I don’t correct her.
"So tell me, Rose," I clear my throat as I take a bite, moving the conversation forward like a socialized person would, and ask, "Aside from being an amazing cook,” Okay, I may be overselling it. “What do you do for fun around here?”
As the first bite of what appears to be some sort of casserole hits my tongue, I’m unable to control my reaction. Immediately, my eyes widen and I stop chewing, my face cringing.
“Oh, no! Are you okay?” Alarmed, she jumps down. “I didn’t even think to ask about allergies! You aren’t allergic to egg or dairy, are you? Or nuts? Or are you vegan? If you are, it should be fine because there’s shrimp and oysters in there.” She assures me. “Oh, and tater tots, but no meat.”
Wringing her hands, Rose has tears in her eyes. “But what if you are allergic to shellfish? Or nuts? Oh, mother-of-pearl! I may have just killed you! Do you have an epipen?”
Choking down the bite with a drink of water, I hold up my hand to stop her bumbling meltdown. “I’m fine. No allergies.” I hate that she's so upset. “It’s really … um…good. Delicious, see?” Cramming another forkful in my mouth, I rub my stomach in appreciation. “Sooo good!” I mumble, trying to swallow what may be my last meal.
It is hands down the most atrocious thing I have ever put in my mouth. Did she say nuts ? With shrimp and oysters? Tater tots? That definitely explains the crunch and the fishy taste, but there is something else I can’t identify is creating an odd texture. Eyeballing my next bite, I see what appears to be something small and green and determine it must be peas.
Damn, this is nasty , but I’m going to eat every last bit of it, even if it kills me. Because this sweet, innocent angel made it just for me. No way will I let her know Honeybun wouldn’t even touch this meal, or would have to be rushed to the vet if he did.
“Oh, thank you. It’s my grandma’s recipe.” She smiles, her relief palpable. At that moment, all I can think of is that I've made her happy. I also think of her poor fucking grandfather. If he was subjected to these meals, I’m assuming he was utterly devoted to her grandmother. One would have to be to tolerate these meals on a regular basis and live through it.
“Your grandfather was a lucky man,” I mumble, forcing the rest of the meal down with more water, praying I make it through the night without any side effects involving my bathroom or an emergency room visit.
Laughing, she says, “He was a shrimp boat captain, so he appreciated anything she came up with that had shrimp.”
Rose's laughter fills the room, and I actually find myself smiling in return, a feeling so foreign yet intoxicating.
After forcing down my atrocious dinner, I help Rose with the dishes, deliberately crowding her near the sink just to be near her. By the way her breath quickens and her continuous rambling, I’m pretty sure she’s as flustered by me as I am by her.
Scrambling to think of a way to keep her with me a little longer without sounding like a needy creep, I ask, “Would you like to join me for a glass of wine, Rose?’
Her eyes widen and she gulps. “Sure. I need to check on Honeybun soon or he’ll come looking for me.”
I don’t doubt he would. The dog has no boundaries.
I grab a bottle of my favorite wine and glasses, indicating the large sofa in the living room. She sits on the edge, one hand nervously playing with her long blonde hair and curls that fall almost to her waist.
Being the ass that I am, I ignore the rest of the sofa and sit next to her, so close our thighs are touching. She draws in a surprised gasp as our hands graze when I hand her the glass of wine. Mutual attraction sparks between us.
“So, um, tell me about your work as an author. That sounds exciting, to be so famous and have millions of people reading your novels, waiting for your next work.”
“Not so much. I prefer my privacy.” I respond tersely, taking a sip of the wine, then soften my tone. “I write because I enjoy putting words to paper, not because I want to sell millions of copies. Although that’s a nice bonus.” I’m leaning back on the couch, one arm stretched out behind her, desperately wanting to sink my fingers into her soft curls and play with them.
“No offense, but I don’t read thriller novels or watch your character’s movies. I get way too anxious and worked up. I’m more of a smutty romance gal. Lots of steamy love scenes.” She winks at me as she shares that nugget of information and my pulse jumps with erotic thoughts of her reading words that turn her on. Immediately, I know I need to get my hands on those books. See for myself what she likes. What turns her on? What makes sweet Rose tempted to touch herself beneath her covers at night? The idea of Rose getting herself off is too much, and I shift as I feel my cock come to life, not wanting her to be freaked out by the creepy old guy with the hard on.
Her genuine interest and disarming smile soon thaw my standoffish attitude and have me sharing my worry over my writing slump, something I’ve not shared with my publisher or family, save my brother. She’s easy to talk to and is hanging on to every word. I’ve never had this easy back and forth with a member of the opposite sex. Most females I associate with are obvious in their intentions to bed me and get their hands on my money. No one has ever shown an interest in my actual writing.
The desire to kiss Rose, hell, to spread her out on my couch, exposing her creamy curves and claim her as mine is soon too much to bear. The longing for this sweet young girl has a pull I can’t deny. It makes my cock thrum with each heartbeat and it’s becoming unbearable.
“And so then Honeybun decided he wanted to go into the grocery store. I think he was just really fascinated by the automatic doors opening and closing. But the manager called and said…”
I know she’s talking; I can see her plump pink lips moving, but I don’t hear a word of her Honeybun story. All I can imagine is kissing those lips and making her moan in pleasure. I shouldn’t want her. I tried to stay away, knowing I can’t be with her. She’s too young for me.
For fuck’s sake, I’m too old for her. An old, cynical antisocial writer who doesn’t deserve her light or her contagious joy. Selfishly, I’m consumed by her, and I know my resistance is crumbling the longer I’m watching her, entranced by her.
To hell with it .
In a sudden movement, I slam my glass down, sloshing wine on the coffee table in front of us, the echo ricocheting off the walls.
“The manager says his customers love my baby, but…” She jumps at the sound of my glass hitting the table and whatever she’s saying is cut off as she yelps, shocked.
My hands reach for her, placing one on the side of her face and the other behind her neck. I pull her against me, loving the feel of her softness against my hard body. Rose gasps in surprise and anticipation as I thread my fingers through her long, silken strands and take her soft lips. Lips I’ve been craving to taste in a fervent kiss that is both hot and sensual. Our tongues tangle, me dominating her mouth, tasting it with a savage intensity.
Her pert, round breasts press against my chest, stirring a raw, primal desire within me. It’s obvious Rose is innocent, but she isn’t passive. Her nails are digging into my back through my shirt, not enough to hurt, but enough to know my girl is full of wild need. Her trembling hands are clinging to me.
This isn’t about just physical attraction, it’s about the irresistible pull we’ve been feeling all evening. One that started that hot morning of Honeybun’s dip in my pool.
It may have started there, but it’s going to end with my mouth on her pussy. To hell with all my good intentions: my work, our age difference, her innocence. Tonight, she’s mine.