6. Cal
Chapter six
Cal
The bonfire roars high in the middle of Pine Hollow’s field, sparks flying into the night. Music drifts from the bandstand, cider cups clink, and the whole town looks like a postcard.
I don’t belong here, but Annie does. She’s easy in the crowd—hugging neighbors, teasing kids, passing out donut holes she “just happened” to bring in a basket. Everyone gravitates toward her. She shines.
Every man here notices. One steps up, not to flirt this time, but to ask if she’d judge the pie contest. “You’re the expert,” he says, grinning widely. “No one bakes better than Annie Monroe.”
She laughs, cheeks pink, modest as always. But when she says yes, he claps her on the shoulder like they’ve got some inside joke.
That’s all it takes.
I’m behind her in a second, not touching, but close enough she can feel the heat off me. I bend, lips at her ear. “You’re too nice.”
She startles. “What?”
“You let every man in this town think they’ve got a chance.”
She turns, eyes sharp, mouth twitching like she’s holding back a smile. “You think I’m encouraging this? The only man I’ve ever encouraged is you. Are you looking for a reason to run from me?”
I growl low in my chest, knowing that she’s partially correct. I won’t be admitting that to her though. “Keep smiling at them like that, and I’ll drag you off before the first pie even hits the table.”
Her breath catches. She sways closer. “You wouldn’t.”
I let her see it in my face, the truth that I absolutely would. “Try me.”
Her pupils go wide, lips parting. She covers it with a laugh for the benefit of the crowd, then grabs my hand. “We’re leaving.”
The bakery is empty when we slip inside, with only the glow of the streetlamp spilling across the counters. The scent of cinnamon and sugar clings to the air. It’s her place. Her world.
She leans against the prep table, arms crossed, chin high, daring me. “You glared at half the festival.”
“They were staring at you.”
“They were talking to me.”
“They were staring,” I growl, stepping closer.
Her mouth twitches. “And what are you going to do about it?”
I crowd between her thighs, lift her onto the counter. “This.”
I strip her slowly, tugging at her boots, dragging her jeans down her legs. She squirms, impatient, trying to work my belt open while I’m still undressing her.
“Not yet.” I pin her wrists to the counter.
“Cal—”
“Patience.” My voice is gravelly.
Her panties are damp, lace clinging to her skin. I hook them aside and slide a finger over her, slick and hot. She gasps, hips jerking.
“Already soaked. You want this.”
“Yes.”
I spread her wide and drop to my knees. Her fingers clutch the counter when I bury my mouth in her. One slow lick, then another, until she’s shaking, moaning my name. I suck her clit hard, push two fingers deep, curling them until her breath breaks.
“Look at me,” I rasp.
She drags her head down, eyes locking on mine. The sight of her falling apart on my tongue while she holds my gaze nearly undoes me.
“Cal—I—” Her body tightens.
“Give it to me.”
She comes hard, thighs trembling around my head, voice cracking into a cry. I don’t stop, dragging her through it, then building her again. By the second orgasm, she’s begging, shoving at my head.
I stand, and let her taste herself. She moans into my mouth, tugging at my jeans.
“On your knees,” I order.
She slides down fast, eyes dark, hair messy. She frees me, wraps her lips around me, and I nearly lose it right there. Heat, suction, spit—she takes me deep, gagging, moaning around me like she loves it.
“Eyes.” My fist knots in her hair. She looks up, cheeks hollow, drool on her chin. The sight is lethal.
I fuck her mouth slowly, then harder, hips jerking. She takes it, messy and eager, stroking me at the base while she works her tongue. My groans echo off the tile.
“Enough,” I rasp, pulling her up before I explode. I spin her, bend her over the counter, and yank her panties down.
Her ass is bare, glistening. I smack it once, watch her flinch and moan. “You like that?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I like it. I want it.”
I shove in deep in one stroke. She screams, clutching the steel edge.
“Mine,” I growl, hair fisted in my hand, hips slamming into hers. “Say it.”
“Yours. I’m yours.”
I pound into her, relentless, circling her clit with my fingers. She comes again, shaking, soaking me, but I don’t let up. I spank her again, harder, and she sobs out my name, pushing back against every thrust.
I flip her, haul her onto the counter, spread her wide. Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.
“Open for me.”
She does, shameless, legs falling wide. I thrust into her again, kiss her deep, filthy, wet, while my hand clamps on her throat just enough to make her moan.
“Beg.”
“Don’t stop. Please, Cal. I need it.”
That’s the end of me. I fuck her through it, rough and raw, until I’m groaning her name, spilling into her, holding her hips tight enough to bruise.
We collapse together, breath ragged. I clean her gently with a towel, kiss her temple. She laughs, wrecked and glowing.
“Kitchen sex,” she whispers, “might be my new religion.”
I pull her against me, hand heavy on her hip. “You’re mine.”
Her eyes glitter. “Yours. Always.”
And I know she means it.