Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RILEY
As I creep past the inn’s lobby, trying to make it to the kitchen without being spotted, I feel a bit ridiculous. But is this more or less ridiculous than the way I’ve been sitting on the inn’s front porch all evening because I wasn’t sure exactly what time Addison would be finished working today?
At least while I was waiting for her, I worked out a few new melodies on my guitar.
I don’t have any lyrics for them yet, which is the opposite of the way I normally write songs.
But lately, I’ve been hearing music in my head that won’t leave me alone, humming melodies as I go about my days.
And getting the chords down on guitar helped scratch the itch in my brain.
I’ve found myself wanting to sing about sunflower fields and eating juicy strawberries on warm summer days. I want to sing about exploration, about soft skin and curves, and brown eyes that always seem to understand you.
But I don’t think I can. Not if I’m trying to write songs for my next album and keep my record label happy.
Don’t I deserve to be happy too, though?
I tell myself I do. And then I ignore the voice in my head that sounds like my manager warning me I’m making a huge mistake here as I carefully push open the swinging kitchen doors. The dinner service is long over, but as far as I know, Addison still hasn’t left the kitchen. She must be exhausted.
She’s been working really long hours the last few days, and I know it’s because her and the rest of the cooks are trying to get everything ready for the summer festival, which starts tomorrow.
So I shouldn’t be upset that I haven’t seen her much—I’m like ninety percent sure she isn’t avoiding me—but I can’t help but feel disappointed by it.
She said I could kiss her whenever I wanted, and boy, have I been wanting to.
I’ve thought about it constantly since the night in my guest room and then that teenage makeout session in her car.
Whatever this thing is between us, it’s new and exciting, but I don’t think that’s what is drawing me toward her.
It’s not the novelty of being with a woman for the first time that has me feeling desperate to see her and touch her. It’s her.
It’s an attraction that’s too powerful to deny it. And it’s how she makes me feel alive in a way that has made me realize I’ve spent maybe the last couple years simply going through the motions.
It’s how she encourages me, and feeds me, and looks at me like I’m worth more than the number of Grammys on my mantle back home.
I don’t want to walk into the kitchen uninvited. Technically, I shouldn’t even be sticking my head in like I am, but oh well. I’m desperate to see her.
“Hi,” I call out cautiously.
Addison’s the only one in here, standing at a prep table in front of a large silver mixing bowl. She looks up mid-whisk, and when she sees me, her smile is so big that it erases that ten percent of doubts I had about whether or not she was avoiding me. “Hey! You can come in.”
“You’re here so late,” I say, going over to stand beside her. I peek into the bowl and find a white, fluffy cream inside. “Is this homemade whipped cream?”
“I’m pretty much done,” she tells me. “And yeah, I needed to get it ready for the booth tomorrow to go on top of the strawberry shortcakes and the apricot honey crepes.”
My mouth waters at the thought of apricot honey crepes. That sounds delicious. “You ever heard of whipped cream in a can?” I tease.
She scoffs. “As if.”
“What about an electric whisk, at least? Your hand must get tired.”
“Yeah, this is a pain in the ass, but whipped cream is delicate. It comes out better if you do it by hand.” With a wicked grin, she adds, “And I don’t mind my hand getting a workout.”
I blush but ignore that innuendo, leaning over to peer into the bowl again. “It definitely looks good.”
With her free hand, she pinches the waist of my dress and drags me a step closer to her. Her eyes glint with something that makes my body tingle. “Maybe we need a taste test.”
She raises the whisk out of the bowl, white dollops of cream clinging to it as she holds it over a dishrag on the counter.
Keeping her eyes on me, she swipes her finger over one of the loops, catching some on it.
Then she brings the finger to my lips, and before I can open for her, she wipes the cream across them.
As I dart out my tongue to taste it, she moves in to kiss me, sharing in the sweetness.
Her voice is a bit raspy when she pulls away. “What do you think?”
“Delicious,” I say breathlessly.
“Hmm. I think you might need some more to be sure.”
This time when she gathers the cream on her finger and brings it up to my mouth, she holds it there, waiting for me to part my lips for her. Which I do, eagerly. She slides her finger into my mouth, and I suck the cream off it, licking until she’s clean.
There’s a definite hunger in her eyes now as she pulls her finger from between my lips. And then she says two words that almost undo me.
“Good girl.”
Holy hell, why is that so hot? Any time a man has said that to me, I’ve cringed. But now this woman says it, and I need to grab the edge of the table because my knees are weak.
Smirking like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, she brings two fingers back to the whisk to get even more cream before she sets the utensil down on the rag.
Then she uses her clean hand to gather up all my hair and sweep it over one shoulder, leaving my neck exposed to her.
She wipes her fingers deliberately across my skin, leaning in to taste the cream she left there, licking and sucking until I’m sure it’s gone and now she’s just feasting on my neck.
My grip tightens on the table, and I grab her shoulder with my free hand. I’m not sure if I want to push her away or keep her there.
Keep her there.
Definitely.
Except that weak-kneed thing is becoming more of a problem.
I let out an embarrassing moan and feel her humming an approval against my skin. “Kiss me,” I plead, desperately needing her lips on mine again.
She quickly obliges, moving from my neck and capturing my mouth in a fierce kiss.
She breaks away too soon, but it’s only to slide the bowl of whipped cream farther away from us.
Then she pushes me until my back is against the edge of the metal table and resumes kissing me.
The sweet taste of cream lingers on her tongue as it tangles with mine.
Her hands run up and down my sides, rucking my dress up farther and farther with each pass.
Eventually, her hands slip fully under the hem of it and find their way to the front of my underwear.
She rubs me with expert skill, and I automatically start grinding myself against her hand like I have no control over my body.
She makes me lose control of myself in the best way. In a way I obviously haven’t done enough of in my life.
“That’s it, come on,” she encourages. “Show me how much you want me to touch you.”
I whimper pathetically at that but keep rolling my hips.
The next thing I know, her hand is gone, and I tear my mouth away from hers so I can protest. But she slips two fingers into my mouth and raises her eyebrows expectantly until I close my lips around them and suck.
Then she slowly withdraws them and goes back to kissing me as she brings her hand down and slides those wet fingers into my underwear.
She rubs circles over my clit for a few seconds, before moving her fingers lower and sliding them both inside me.
“Unnngh,” I moan, the noise getting swallowed up by her kiss.
She fingers me like that for a minute, using her thumb to keep a gentle, insistent pressure on my clit. I’m having trouble staying focused on kissing her. I have to clutch at the table behind me with both hands now as my head tips back.
I can’t believe we’re doing this here, in the middle of the inn’s kitchen, where anyone could walk in on us. I should be worried about that, but my brain is having trouble latching onto any solid thoughts except for yes, there, more, and please.
Then Addison suddenly sinks down to her knees on the floor, and I swear my brain whites out completely for a second.
She pushes up my dress and sticks her head under it, letting the material fall back down over her.
She drags my underwear down my legs and helps me lift one foot to step out of it, leaving it hanging off the other ankle.
When she nudges my thighs apart, I widen my stance, and I’m rewarded by hearing her call me a good girl again before she puts her mouth on me.
Her tongue swipes slowly over my pussy the same way it did my neck.
Then she uses her hands to hold me open more for her so she can wriggle her tongue inside me.
“Oh, oh, ohhh,” I cry out.
One of her hands moves up to grip my hip, tugging me forward a tiny bit, then pushing me back.
I realize she’s trying to encourage me to ride her face, so I do.
At first, I feel timid as I start rolling my hips, but soon her mouth and fingers are making me feel so good that I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
I’m lost to the pleasure, barely managing to stay upright as she gives and gives and I take and take.
When she focuses her mouth on my clit, sucking at it softly and then harder, alternating the pressure while her fingers curl inside me, I feel myself racing toward the edge.
The heat inside me builds and builds until it ignites into a raging fire, and I come with panting breaths, spasming around her fingers, my legs trembling and my hands holding on to the edge of the table for dear life.
She gives my clit a couple more soft licks as my body starts to calm down, and when I whine, she pulls back. I glance down, willing my eyes to focus on her as she pops her head out from under my dress and stares up at me. I want to sear this image into my memory.