Randall
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter.
The second her mouth opens under mine every coherent thought leaves my head.
She is soft everywhere I am hard, small enough that I can span her waist with one hand and warm enough that I want to bury myself in her and never come back up.
My cock is already thickening against the front of my jeans, heavy and insistent, and the little sound she makes in the back of her throat nearly snaps the last of my control.
I know it's going to be a problem the second I pull back from her mouth. The second I catch that dazed, pleased look on her face like she just won a prize instead of getting herself thoroughly kissed by a man with nothing to offer her. I’ve got bad knees, a missing foot, and a personality most people compare unfavorably to a wet cat.
I should apologize. I should put actual distance between us, go split more wood I don't need, remind myself in detail exactly why letting anyone this close is a mistake.
Instead, I go make dinner like a normal person, because apparently my brain's decided kissing her once means we're just doing domestic bliss now, no further discussion required.
"You're very quiet," she says, hopping up onto my counter like she owns the place. I’d rather die than admit to the pleased rumble that echoes through my chest. "For a man who just aggressively made out with his trespasser."
"I wasn’t that aggressive."
"But you definitely kissed me."
"There was a lapse in judgment."
"How romantic," she drawls.
"I wasn't trying to be romantic." I keep my back to her, chopping onions with unsteady hands, because looking at her right now feels like a bad idea. "I’m just trying to be honest."
"Honesty's very sexy, Randall. Truly. Nothing gets a woman going like being called a lapse in judgment."
"You want me to lie to you instead?"
"I want you to admit you liked it."
I set the knife down harder than I mean to, but she doesn’t flinch at my surly demeanor. She just sits there on my counter with her legs swinging like she's got all the patience in the world to wait me out.
That's the problem with her. Most people back off when I go quiet like this. She just leans in closer, like my silence is a puzzle she's decided to solve out of pure stubbornness.
"I liked it," I say finally. "That's the problem."
"How is that a problem?"
"Because you're leaving the second the roads clear, and I'm not the kind of man who does anything halfway, and I've got no interest in getting attached to someone with a return flight already booked."
That shuts her up for exactly four seconds, which is a personal record.
"That's assuming I want to leave," she says, quieter now.
"You've got a life in LA. This isn't your life, Kori. It's a very inconvenient pit stop."
"Wow. Okay. Tell me how you really feel."
"I just did."
"You're an incredibly frustrating man, you know that?"
"So I’ve been told."
That gets a small, reluctant laugh out of her, and I hate how good it feels to be the reason for it.
We eat dinner mostly in silence, which suits me fine, except every time I glance up, she's watching me with that same curious look.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, halfway through her food.
"You're going to whether I say yes or not."
"Fair." She sets her fork down. "Why here? Crescent Ridge, I mean."
I should deflect. I've got about a dozen ways to shut this exact question down, most of them one word long. Instead, something about the quiet cabin, the storm outside, the fact that she's not going anywhere for at least a few days, makes me more chatty than normal.
"My father wanted me to be a doctor," I say. "He wanted me to go to a prestigious med school, residency at a world-renowned hospital, the whole track. I joined the Army to serve as a field medic. Figured I was still doing something that mattered, just doing it my own way."
"It matters."
"Not to him. Man's spent ten years telling anyone who'll listen that his son threw away a real future to play soldier.
" I push a piece of chicken around my plate I've got no interest in eating anymore.
"I came out here after I got discharged.
Betty and Barb never once made me feel like less than I was.
Figured that was worth more than trying to earn praise from a man who was never gonna give it. "
"You didn’t throw anything away." Her voice has gone soft. "You just refused to live your life his way."
"That's a nice way of putting it."
"Writer,” she replies with a grin.
I look at her then, really look, and something about the way she's looking back at me without pity, just plain honest interest, makes the walls I've spent two years maintaining feel a lot less sturdy than they did this morning.
"You're gonna be a problem," I tell her.
"Already established that. Weren't you paying attention during the kissing?"
"I was paying attention."
"Good." She stands, clearing her plate, brushing close enough that I catch the smell of her shampoo. "Because I don't plan on making this easy for you, Randall."
"Didn't figure you would."
"You’re the grumpiest man I've ever met."
"Damn right."
She smiles at that, like grumpy is a compliment instead of the insult everyone else in my life treats it as, and I watch her walk off toward the guest room.