Chapter 15
EVAN
It’s not like I invited Amy to stay at my cabin with any certain intentions in mind. It’s not like I planned anything, like I was rooting for the lodge to be overbooked, or for her to agree to stay in town rather than making the drive back to the city.
I expect nothing from her.
But when we walk through the threshold, something changes.
The moment the door shuts behind us, Amy steps into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she’s been trying to keep herself from doing it all day. And I won’t lie—it’s been a bitch to keep my hands off of her. To keep from touching her, letting my hand rest on her back.
For some reason, when we’re in town, I want people to think we’re together. I don’t want any of the assholes around here getting ideas about her.
Even though we’re not together, and I don’t have any right to try to lay a claim. And she made it pretty clear with the way she snuck out of here last time that she’s not looking for something serious.
And yet.
I kiss her like a dying man looking for breath, hauling her body up against mine, walking her backward down the hall and toward my room. Part of me wants to pull away from her, talk about this, make sure we both have the same expectations for what’s happening here.
But another part of me, the part that’s clearly in control here, isn’t about to waste a single second I can have my hands on her.
Last time wasn’t nearly enough. There were a million places on her that I wanted to touch, and now I’m going to finally get the chance to touch them.
Fingers working on their own, I peel off her clothes, revealing swaths of her smooth skin.
I kiss the top of her shoulder, then unclasp her bra, trying to keep from gritting my teeth at the sight of her perfect breasts.
There’s something about Amy that makes me want to unravel her. To take all that taut worry and unspool it, one thread at a time.
And I fully plan to.
When I get her on the edge of the bed, tugging down her panties and bottoms, tossing them to the other side of the room, and falling to my knees between her legs, she lets out a low gasp, partially sitting up, trying to close her legs.
“Oh, Evan,” she says, and the sound of my name on her lips only makes me harder, my cock straining painfully against the inside of my pants. “You don’t have to…”
“You’re so fucking pretty,” I say, keeping myself from telling her to shut up—that of course I want to taste her. That’s not what Amy likes to hear. I’m a quick study, and I’ve watched her skin flush at the compliments.
Now, sure enough, her pink lips part at the words, and she lets out a quick breath, her legs relaxing enough for me to push them apart.
“If you don’t want me to,” I say, between kisses delivered to the insides of her thighs. “I won’t. But you should know that I’ve thought about nothing else. Every night I dream about getting to taste you, Amy.”
“She hisses between her clenched teeth when I run my nose gently along her. “I—I haven’t shaved.”
She’s bare but for some stubble. Maybe she waxes or shaves. Either way, it doesn’t matter. “Amy,” I say, suppressing a growl, “do I seem like the kind of guy to be bothered by that? I’m begging you, baby. Please, let me taste you.”
That does it, and her legs fall open for me. I grab her hips and pull her toward me, loving that I had to work for this. Loving watching her relax for me.
I take my time in teasing her, kissing her thighs, running my fingers along the sensitive parts of her down here, but never applying any real pressure, so her hands clutch my shirt at the shoulders, every movement of her body a silent, insistent pleading.
Right now, I have no idea what she wants from this. Or if this is the last time I’ll get to touch her.
But I can’t let myself think about it now, so I dip my head and slide my tongue along her, savoring her gasps, the way her hand grips the sheet to my left. Like everything else in my life, I work at her doggedly, plowing ahead when her fingers tangle in my hair, when her body starts to shake.
And when she seems impossibly close, but just not quite able to go over the edge, I slide a finger inside her, cursing against her at the feeling of her tight around me.
That does it, and Amy comes against me, holding on to me like she might fly away otherwise. Causing her pleasure, finding it and delivering it to her, makes me feel endlessly pleased.
So much so that when I return from brushing my teeth, I climb into bed next to her, pulling her body to mine. She’s half asleep, but mumbles, “What should we do?”
I’ve never been into the idea of equal reciprocation. As though getting to bury my face between her legs isn’t a treat in and of itself.
“Go to sleep,” I reply, brushing an errant lock of hair away from her face. She opens her mouth, ready to protest, but I kiss her softly, and she drifts away in my arms.
“Why are we at the bakery?” I ask warily, eyeing Amy, who stands at full attention, waiting for someone to come and answer the door. I’m an early riser, but this is too much for me, being here in town as the sun comes up.
When I complained about coffee, Amy stopped us at the gas station, and I clutch my cup in my right hand, taking sips of the burned, plain black brew intermittently.
“You’ll see,” she says cheekily. “You’ll have to trust me, huh?”
I can’t look at her without thinking about the taste of her. All I want to do is scoop her up into my arms, carry her—
Then the door swings open, and it’s Brendon Wickes standing there, his eyes darting back and forth between us.
The kid—though I guess he’s not a kid anymore—was a few years behind me in school, and I remember him as being energetic, bouncy, always up to something.
Skateboarding to school in the morning and trying to start a new club in the evenings.
It hits me that Old Wickes, the baker who retired a few years ago, must be related to Brendon in some way.
Now, Brenden looks harried, a cinnamon roll half stuffed into his mouth, a flour-covered towel over his shoulder, a bottle of milk in one hand and a baking sheet tucked under the opposite arm.
“You’re kidding,” he says through the cinnamon roll, before reaching up and taking it out of his mouth. “I thought you didn’t like us anymore.”
“What?” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and he laughs, shaking his head and gesturing for us to follow him inside.
I try to look at Amy, but the hall he leads us through is too dark for me to see anything.
“So, I’m hoping to have it right here,” Brendon says, cinnamon roll finished by the time we come around the corner, and I realize what I’m doing here.
“Really?” I ask, turning to Amy, who smiles serenely up at me.
“He put out an ad online, looking for someone,” she says, punching me lightly in the shoulder. “And what are the odds I happen to know someone with this specific set of skills?”
There’s a wide space between two ovens, and a tall stack of stones next to that, the other tools scattered somewhat erratically. It makes my hands itch to tidy them up and get the space ready for the project.
“Great,” I say, and when I catch Brendon looking at me, I try to clean up the scowl on my face. The entire point of this is to get the guy on my side.
“Have fun,” Amy says, heading toward one of the tables, and I realize she’s planning to pull out her laptop and sit at one of the booths along the wall while I work on the oven. Brendon must have shut it down during the oven-building process.
“Oh, no,” I say, taking one of her shoulders in mine and steering her back toward the project. “You’re helping.”
“What? No, I’m not. I have no idea how to do this stuff!”
“How do you think I learned?” I ask, reaching down and handing her a pair of gloves. She stares obstinately at me, then glances back at her bag on the table as though it’s a long-lost lover she might never see again.
“Fine,” she grounds out, and for the next four hours, we work together quietly, laying stone and cement. Brendon stands on the other side of the counter, doing his own work and humming under his breath, prepping loaves of bread and several pans of cinnamon rolls.
Halfway through the project, I blink and look up when something is thrust in front of my face. Some sort of croissant, nearly sliding right off the plate. I yank off a glove and reach up, just to keep the pastry from falling on the floor.
Brendon hands one to Amy, too, and she blows on it carefully before taking a bite.
“Pizza croissant,” Brendon says, seeing my confused expression. Some of the trepidation from earlier has slipped off his face. “Figured, you’re doing this for me, might as well feed you.”
I take a bite, not expecting the burst of flavor that follows—pizza, mozzarella, oregano, garlic.
“Holy shit,” Amy says through her bite, in a move that’s uncharacteristic for her. “That is good.”
“Thanks,” Brendon says, the corner of his mouth ticking up, his gaze swinging over to me. “Actually, your granddad came up with the idea.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, taking another bite from the croissant.
“Yeah,” Brendon says, relaxing back against the counter and watching us as we eat. “I’ve wanted a pizza oven forever, but a few months ago, he said, ‘Why not make pizza a different way in the meantime?’ That stuck with me.”
“Huh,” I say, nodding and finishing the last bite. “Well, it’s good. Pizzas out of this new oven should be, too.”
Brendon collects our plates and disappears, and Amy gives me a look before we go back to work. Another four hours pass, and when we’re done, we stand and stretch, Amy admiring our work.
“It’s wild to think back to this morning,” she says, moving around to admire the oven from different angles. “And we just—made it.”
“Right.” I laugh, shaking my head at her. “Real confusing notion.”
She punches at my arm lightly, and Brendon arrives with a box. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “More pizza stuff.” He turns, grabs another box, and stacks it atop the next. “And dessert. Take some to your granddad for me.”
Amy glances at me, interest piqued.
“All right.” I sigh, and I can see the victory clear on her face as we gather our things and leave. “This should be interesting.”