Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
CHRISTINE
So it’s a little over-the-top. Overzealous, some might say.
Maybe I should be embarrassed.
But honestly, it’s a miracle I managed to put on a dress instead of showing up in lingerie and a trench coat.
Not that I was actually going to do that.
But I may have considered it.
Only for a second.
Any lingering doubts or insecurities disappear the moment Fletcher opens the front door.
Because clearly I wasn’t the only one. He looks nice . A black button-down shirt and matching trousers—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear something like this. And honestly, thank God he doesn’t work an office job or something because if I saw him in this kind of outfit on the regular, I don’t think I’d be able to keep my hands to myself.
He doesn’t say anything when he sees me, not at first. His eyes travel the length of me, starting with my face, then the dress straps that dangle off my shoulders, the fitted waist, the slit up the leg, revealing my black thigh-high stockings and the nicest heels I own. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he blinks rapidly before finding my face again.
And it’s difficult to tell in this lighting, but I swear his pupils are a little dilated now.
Yeah, definitely worth it.
His usual carefree grin finally makes an appearance as he steps back and holds the door open. He presses a hand to the small of my back as I pass.
“You look…I don’t have words. Truly,” he murmurs.
I bump his chest with my shoulder. “Back at you. Smells amazing in here.”
His smile widens as he leads me to the kitchen. “Word on the street is you appreciate a good chili and baked potato combo.”
“Oh, the street, huh?”
He shrugs. “Casey.”
A stupid smile fights its way onto my face at the sight of the table—draped with a tablecloth I’ve never seen him use, and perfectly set with two places, along with a single rose in a vase and three flickering candlesticks. Faint instrumental music trickles from somewhere.
Fletcher gestures for me to take the seat at the head of the table as he uncorks a bottle of wine. His eyes dart from me to the glass as he pours. “Is this too much?”
I blow the air out of my cheeks as I take the glass from him. “That depends. Did you make dessert too?”
He glances sideways at the kitchen, and I laugh.
“That part’s store-bought, if it helps.”
“Can I do anything?”
He shakes his head and squeezes my shoulder as he passes. “No, just sit tight. Should be ready in a few minutes.”
I turn my chair, sip my wine, and watch shamelessly as he bends over to check the oven. He rolls up his sleeves before pulling out the pan, and I am in heat.
I might not make it through dinner.
It’s been two months since that first night in the hotel—not that I’m keeping track. My thighs involuntarily press together, and I quickly cross them. As Fletcher removes the oven mitts, his eyes find my leg—namely, the good deal of thigh showing from the slit in my dress. I smile a little as he quickly looks away. So the stockings were a good call.
“So,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about next week…”
I dig in my eyebrows. Next week?
“Is it not your birthday?” he asks.
Oh. Oh. I picture a calendar in my head. Yeah, I guess he’s right.
He laughs in disbelief. “Did you forget?”
I shrug. “Well…yeah.”
It’s not like there hasn’t been plenty else going on. And I’ve never been a fan of my birthday to begin with. I’ve spent most of them alone. My mom didn’t believe in birthday cakes—said they weren’t worth the calories. And I didn’t exactly have a lot of friends to invite for a party.
A look I can’t read passes over Fletcher’s face. “Well, I’d understand if you wanted to keep it with just you and Case or something, but if you’d be okay with me being there…”
“Of course I want you there, Fletch. Just—we really don’t need to make a big deal of it or anything, okay?”
He nods, his lips pressed together like he’s suppressing a smile. “Understood.”
Once everything’s ready, he brings over our plates and takes the seat beside me. It is, unsurprisingly, one of the best things I’ve ever tasted—as everything he makes seems to be.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask between bites, though it’s difficult to hold back from shoveling the entire plate into my mouth.
He gives me one of those rare bashful smiles, the one that only comes out when someone compliments him. “Trial and error, mostly. Foster parents left us up to our own devices most of the time, and they did a shit job at grocery shopping, so I had to get creative.” He smirks and sips his wine. “Got a lot better once I ended up with my parents and started using real recipes. My mom’s an excellent cook.”
I smile. “I like your mom. From what I’ve seen of her.”
“Well, the feeling is mutual. She won’t shut up about you.”
“Oh really?”
He chuckles. “I believe her exact words when I told her you and I were officially dating were ‘Well, finally. I was starting to think you had brain damage.’”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “You told your mom about us?”
“She would love to enlist your help with my backyard, which is apparently still unacceptable.”
I glance through the window behind him, though it’s too dark to see much. “I think what you’re really missing is a jacuzzi.”
His eyebrows slowly lift, and I have a pretty good idea of what he’s imagining now. But I don’t pull out the big guns yet. Not until the table is clear and he brings out the dessert—some kind of chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream. I’m practically drooling when he sets it in front of me.
I wait until he takes a bite of his own—his eyes closed, and a soft hum in the back of his throat—before I slide one foot from my high heel and glide it up the inside of his leg.
I catch the way his eyes snap open in my peripheral vision, but I keep my expression perfectly innocent, my attention on my own cake as I cut off a piece with my fork.
“Chris,” he says, his voice coming out slightly strained.
My foot stops before it reaches his knee, then works its way back down.
“Mm-hmm?” I meet his gaze as I wrap my lips around the bite of cake.
His eyes track the movement.
“This is delicious.” I lick the ice cream from my fork, then start my way up his leg again.
He pulls in a deep breath through his nose.
“Chris,” he repeats, though this time it sounds like more of a warning.
I pause, my foot at his inner thigh now, and tilt my head to the side. “Yes?”
The last thing I see is his wolfish smile, then he ducks under the tablecloth.
“What are you doing?” I demand on a laugh, but then his hands are on my legs beneath the table, and I can feel his hot breath against my knee. “I— oh .” He nudges my legs open in my chair, and it takes my brain a beat too long to realize his intentions. “ Fletcher .”
“Keep eating the cake” is all he says, then he grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of my chair.
My eyes threaten to bulge out of my head. Keep eating the…?
His mouth ghosts across my skin as he pushes my dress aside and works his way up my legs. His breath washes over me, but his lips barely make contact.
That is, until he takes the top of one of my stockings between his teeth and starts pulling it down.
I gasp, and he runs his hands up and down my legs, raising goosebumps in his wake.
“Big fan of these, by the way,” he murmurs as he releases the stocking.
“I thought you might be.” I laugh breathlessly as he presses his lips to the skin of my inner thigh that he just exposed. Agonizingly slowly, he works his way higher, higher, until I’m squirming in my chair. But once he’s close enough that I can feel his hot breath against the place I want him most, he stops.
“Put the cake in your mouth,” he says in a low voice.
I laugh again. “You’re really going to make me?—?”
“Yes. Do it now.”
For some reason, I listen. And even though he can’t see me from beneath the tablecloth, the moment that cake hits my tongue, he drags my underwear to the side and leans in to taste me.
I moan, the chocolate flooding my taste buds at the same time warmth shoots through my veins from the sensations of his tongue. God, that’s…new.
I take another bite, and his hands tighten around my hips as his tongue works me faster. Fuck, I almost forgot how good he is at this. My head falls back with a shameless moan, and I comb my fingers through his hair, holding him to me.
But after a few moments—minutes?—he pushes my chair back, climbs out after me, and rises to his feet. I barely have a chance to catch my breath before he braces his hands on the chair arms, caging me in, and leans down until we share the same breath.
“Is it good?” I blink stupidly, and his lips twist into a grin. “The cake. Is it good?”
I bite my lip to hold back the girlish giggle threatening to break out and nod.
He brushes his nose against mine. “Do you want me here, or we can take this upstairs?”
“Why, are there rose petals upstairs?”
He narrows his eyes. “You making fun of my setup?”
I laugh, take his face between my hands, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Not at all. I love it.” I cock my head to the side. “But you’re saying the kitchen counter is out of the question?”
He gives me that crooked grin again. “Oh, be careful what you ask for. I will give you the kitchen counter.”
His mouth lands on mine before I can respond. All the kisses leading up to this these past few weeks, I’d known he was holding himself back, but fuck. Now, he kisses me with abandon, and I’m dizzy with it, drunk on it—his teeth, his tongue, his lips, his breath.
“Take me upstairs,” I breathe against his mouth, my fingers already desperately working at the buttons on his shirt.
The entire house starts to vibrate.
My eyes snap open at the same time his do.
“Is that—?” I start.
His eyes fall shut. “The garage.”
“I thought she?—”
He lets his forehead fall against my shoulder with a defeated exhale. “She’s home early.”
We stay like that for a beat before breaking apart and adjusting our clothes.
His expression turns stricken. “I’m so?—”
“I know,” I sigh.
Jacks steps through the door a moment later, bringing the smell of movie theater popcorn with her. “Oh, hey,” she says as her eyes land on me, then widen as she takes in the leftover cake on the counter. “Ooo.”
“Help yourself,” says Fletcher.
Jacks practically skips to the kitchen for a plate. Her eyes flick between us, then to the candles on the table, as she cuts herself a piece. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No. We were…” Fletcher clears his throat. “Just getting into dessert. How was your first day at work?”
Jacks shrugs as she chews. “Could be worse. Apparently I get to see movies for free.”
“You’ll have to give us a heads-up on the good ones that are showing,” I offer.
“Anyway.” Jacks scoops up her plate and heads for the stairs. “I’ll let you guys finish your…dessert.”
Fletcher grimaces, and my face burns as I double-check nothing is out of place with my clothes. I discreetly tug one of my stockings up. Once Jacks has disappeared upstairs, Fletcher meets my eyes.
I shake my head. “I can’t?—”
“I know.” He offers his hand palm up and nods toward the couch. “How about a movie?”