Chapter 32 #2
“Chocolate mousse takes literally five minutes,” he informs me, although he looks pleased at my reaction. “Three ingredients. The recipe is online. It’s not rocket science.”
But he went to the trouble of gathering the ingredients and learning how to make it. This man is so startlingly competent that I fear two hours on his (handmade) back deck will forever change how I judge other men.
Three ingredients or forty, the mousse is a lovely treat, and the serving size isn’t enough to weigh me down, which I appreciate.
For a long moment, we sip our wine, and I tip my head back to look at the clear indigo sky fringed with shifting gold-tinged leaves.
The stars are so close I want to reach out and boop one with a finger.
I realize that perhaps the wine has gone to my head.
Not that I mind. I’m nervous and excited and desperately worried I’ll make a fool out of myself.
Hunter stands. “Can I take your plate?”
I stand, too; I don’t know what to do with myself, so I grab my plate and say, “Let me help with the dishes.”
The candlelight flickers in his eyes; he’s amused, but he looks so earnest. “I didn’t invite you over to stand at the sink.”
“Well, I wasn’t raised to watch other folks do all the work.”
He steps in and takes the dish from my hand, putting it right back on the table. We’re close now, and there’s a light chill in the air, and goose bumps rise along my upper arms.
“Have you ever considered laying down that burden and letting someone take care of you for once? What if I want to do all the work?” His big, warm hands rub my arms, and I shiver. He pulls me close, wraps his arms around me.
“Is that what you want?” My voice is quiet, husky, as if the valley below can hear every word.
He pushes my hair back, and his lips brush my ear. “Let’s just see if you like my performance.”
Bongo stands and trots inside, and I lift my face up and see stars in Hunter Blakely’s eyes.
His lips land on mine, and there’s this slow, building sensuality about it.
He’s kissed me as an exploration, he’s kissed me with sweetness, and now he’s kissing me like a good prologue, teasing what’s to come.
His tongue slides between my lips, and I breathlessly open to him, up on my toes with need.
He tastes of wine and wildness, exploring my mouth with leisurely demand.
The way he laps at me, explores every corner of my mouth—it makes me melt.
His fingers stroke my cheek, my jaw, the line of my neck, and his lips follow, leaving a trail of fire down my throat and along the tender hollow of my clavicles, kissing both sides like a benediction.
I wore a button-down shirt for this very reason.
There is nothing more erotic than the purposeful flick of a button, of sensitive flesh newly exposed against a backdrop of late summer stars.
The first button goes, and he places hot kisses down the line he’s forging.
I’m glad I wore a cute, lacy bra—and that we already established my willingness to accept whatever comes next.
“I like this,” he says, tracing the underwire.
“I wore it for you.”
He bends his head, reverently kissing just above the lace. “I’m glad.”
When he straightens, I can tell he’s thinking. His lips curve into a wicked smile, one that I haven’t seen before but that nearly brings me to my knees. He draws his index finger from my chin to my navel, making me shiver, and tucks it into my jeans, just behind the button.
“I’d like to get you somewhere more comfortable,” he says.
Out in the forest, an owl calls. The leaves rustle all around us as the soft breeze ruffles my hair.
“Just tell me where.”
He walks backward, tugging me across the deck by my jeans, toward a rope hammock strung between two solid posts.
I noticed it on my way in, mainly because it looks like an absolutely perfect spot to curl up with a book.
I honestly thought we were going to his bedroom, or at least the couch, but I’m curious what he has in mind.
I’m pretty shy about this sort of thing and I’m not into PDA, but…
well, it’s just us and the owls, out here.
The nearest house is at least half a mile off, and if Bigfoot is around, he’s being quiet.
At the hammock, Hunter stops and turns on a heater, the kind you see at outdoor restaurants sometimes. A cozy warmth radiates from it, and my shoulders relax. Hunter turns me around so that my back is to the hammock.
“Sit,” he commands me.
And—oh, I like that.
I sit in the hammock, my feet on the ground.
“Lean back.”
In general, I do not like being told what to do, but this is very, very different.
I lean back, and the curve of the rope supports my back and head comfortably.
I slide off my flats and feel the cold boards under my bare feet.
My shirt is half open, my head muddled and spinning sweetly as Hunter kneels before me.
The hammock is slung low, and Hunter leans forward to wrap his arms around my waist, pulling me up off the hammock to kiss me again before hungrily nibbling and licking all the way down to my jeans, unbuttoning my shirt the rest of the way as he goes.
Never have I wanted one single button to disappear quite so badly.
I want this man in a way I have never wanted anything, want to see what he will do next, knowing full well that I’m going to love it, but that he’s definitely going to take his time and tease me until I’m begging him with my body to continue.
He undoes the button on my jeans with his teeth, and I let my head fall back, and the stars overhead become fireworks.