23. Kendall #2
“Calling a priest is the furthest thing from my mind.” It’s easy to follow his lead when he’s so smooth.
The tether between his brain and his hands is always in sync—never a disconnect—and he always touches me in one fluid motion.
His fingers over my thighs. His hips nudging mine.
His strong thigh bracing me against the edge of the table.
“You know, we have people coming over in a few hours,” I remind him.
A small housewarming in our small one-bedroom.
“We should probably start dinner.” His lips travel down my neck at the same time his palm slides the skirt of my dress up higher.
Until I’m all panting breaths and hot skin, and my protest dies on my tongue.
But he reassures me, nonetheless. “We’ll make it quick,” he promises through a raspy whisper.
I think I nod, or something in the affirming category, and I get a blurry glimpse of him falling to his knees as my eyes grow hooded.
My head tips back, his wandering fingers trailing up my stomach and under my bra, all while his mouth finds my trembling inner thigh.
A small tug, and my butt lifts from the cool wood, my underwear gliding past my hips.
It’s hard to focus on anything because my senses feel like they’re all swirling in a tornado.
How his tongue plays with my clit, sending a thrill from my stomach up to my throat.
How his fingers dip inside me, like he’s searching blindly but still somehow able to figure out all the right buttons to press.
How his arms manage to keep my knees parted, giving him prime access.
“James,” I gasp, gripping his hair just to have something to hold on to.
Hard wood bites into my shoulder blades, but the pain is so deep in the recesses of my mind.
What’s a little discomfort when James is playing me like a fiddle?
He does this tease, tugging me back and forth to the edge of sanity. Until I’m tipped completely over.
I’m a heaving, pliant mess by the time he crawls over me. His palms braced at my side with a smug smirk on his lips. “Hi.”
I laugh. “Hi.”
He kisses me, and I taste myself on his tongue. “Hi,” he says again.
“Baptized enough?”
“Not even close,” he answers with a determined shake of his head. “But we—”
“Have dinner?”
“Exactly.”
“How have you been dealing with James’s kombucha obsession?”
James takes his plate after I’ve loaded his portion of chicken piccata, placing a perfectly sliced lemon sliver alongside his chicken breast. I cackle in response to Sylvia’s question, and James frowns at me.
“Excuse me,” James argues, turning his scowl in Sylvia’s direction, to which she laughs with a playful taunt. “I now purchase them wholesale from a local organic store. You know that. I was buying them when I was living with Tommy.”
“I know,” she confesses, poking her sauce-riddled fork in his direction. “I just wanted to make you feel uncomfortable.”
James rolls his eyes as he twirls his fork over his plate.
“You know, the taste isn’t too bad,” Kyle chimes in. “Once you get past the vinegar scent, it kind of grows on you.”
“And it’s healthy,” I add. I feel James’s hand land on my thigh, giving me a soft squeeze.
Though our dinner prep commenced without any more interruptions—like an impromptu christening—we managed to fill our time with plenty of distractions.
Spending an hour in a small kitchen will do that to a horny couple who just moved onto the cohabitation stage of their relationship.
By the time seven o’clock rolled around, I was barely able to get away long enough to change into an outfit that wasn’t stained with lemon butter sauce.
And now, with James’s seat pulled as close as possible to mine, he can’t seem to stop touching me.
“Did you want another drink?” James asks, nodding at my empty glass.
“Sure.” James stands from his seat when I stop him. “Actually, can you get the wine please?”
“Of course,” he whispers gently.
“My mom enrolled me in a wine of month club,” I explain to the table, “and we usually give our wine to James’s parents—”
“Or me,” Kyle interjects.
“Or Kyle,” I confirm. “But I kept this one for tonight.”
I watch Tommy and Sylvia share a look instead of greeting our beverage of choice with excitement, but I don’t get a chance to question it.
James returns, corkscrew in one hand and a Riesling in the other, and he gets to work.
By the time James has the cork popped, Kyle and I are already ready with waiting wine glasses.
“You guys want to try some?” I ask Sylvia and Tommy.
“Um, I—I can’t,” Sylvia answers.
I scoff and take a healthy gulp. “Right. Me too.”
“No, really,” she protests. “I can’t drink.”
“What? Why?”
She and Tommy share a look again, and I realize how many underlying words hide just under their glances.
“Are you pregnant?” Kyle blurts out.
I’d laugh if he asked the question about ten seconds ago, but with the possibility of it hanging over our dinner and freshly poured wine, I realize the answer could very likely be yes.