Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
JULIETTE
There’s something unfair about a man who moves around his kitchen and knows exactly what he’s doing.
In fact, I get the sense that this is how it is with him in all ways. Everything feels intentional: from the seat I’m perched on, to the glasses he’s chosen, to the lighting.
He hasn’t touched me in thirty seconds and somehow that feels intentional too.
Every glance feels measured.
Every pause loaded.
Every inch of space between us chosen.
I watch him move, plating dinner, and all I can think about is his mouth on my neck. My eyes can’t help but slide down his back… admire his wide shoulders, the narrow waist, the hips.
He glances over his shoulder at me then, quirking one brow, sleeves shoved up his forearms. He looks criminally competent. Dangerous in the most domestic way possible.
“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” he says.
It’s not “all of a sudden.”
I’m quiet, in general, and he knows that.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
I take a sip of wine to buy time. It doesn’t help.
“You,” I admit reluctantly.
His mouth tilts at the corner and his dimple appears.
Crap.
“Good,” he says. “I was hoping that was the case.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I can’t help it. I worked hard for this.”
“For what?” I gesture vaguely at his entire person. “The forearms? The sauce? Your smolder?”
He turns fully toward me now, leaning back against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest. It should be illegal for a man to look that composed while holding a wooden spoon.
“I have a smolder?”
He does.
He shifts the wooden spoon to his other hand like we’re conducting a serious discussion. “Define smolder.”
“You know exactly what I mean by smolder.”
“Do I? I’d still like to hear it.”
“Not until you’ve fed me.” I smile, pleased with myself for the pivot. No way am I admitting out loud that the crease between his brows and that constant broody stare get me wet.
I squirm in the chair, forcing my attention elsewhere. The kitchen is spotless. Of course it is. Everything has a place. Stainless steel gleaming. Not a single crumb in sight.
“Do you have any pets?” I ask, glancing around for signs of fur or chew toys or literally any other signs of life.
“No.”
Not surprising. Aaron is many things, but warm and fuzzy isn’t the first descriptor that comes to mind.
“I’ve always wanted a cat, though,” he tells me, setting a plate in front of me. “One of those fluffy gray ones that have a perpetual frown. Forever unimpressed.”
“Like you?”
He barely reacts to the barb—sets his own plate down, takes his seat beside me, and slowly turns his head in my direction.
“I don’t perpetually frown.”
“Sure you do,” I say, already twirling pasta onto my fork and letting it cool. “You always have a scowl like you’re disappointed in humanity.”
“That’s because I am.” His chest rumbles. “Everyone disappoints me these days but you. You’re a breath of sunshine and fresh air that I need in my lungs.”
He says it casually. Shoves pasta in his mouth and starts chewing, completely unbothered while I gape at him, as if he didn’t lob the emotional equivalent of a grenade across the counter.
My mouth falls open.
“Y-you cannot say things like that,” I inform him.
He looks up mid-chew and blinks, confused. “Like what?”
“Like I’m a b-breath of sunshine and fresh air you need in your lungs.”
He swallows. Takes a sip of wine to wash it down. “Why not? It’s true.”
My fork hovers uselessly over my plate. “That’s…” I shake my head. Clear my throat. “That’s not a n-normal thing to say between bites of pasta.”
He smirks around his fork. “You’d prefer I build up to it?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically. “A bit of warning would be nice.”
“Ten… nine… eight…” he begins counting dryly to tease me.
“Stop.”
He laughs softly as I stab another piece of pasta to keep my hands busy and grumble, “You can’t be disappointed in humanity and then randomly call me ‘sunshine.’”
Aaron grunts.
I try again. “What made you go home with me that first night? Now that I’m getting to know you, you don’t strike me as the type to have a one-night stand.”
His fork hovers over his plate, pasta hanging on for dear life.
“I’d had a horrible afternoon, a bad breakup, and…” He lets his sentence linger without finishing it.
I set my fork on the edge of my plate and muster up the courage to ask, “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you and your girlfriend break up?”
One second goes by.
Two.
Several more.
“She cheated.”
The words are flat and emotionless and matter-of-fact.
I gasp. Rest my hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry.”
“It happens,” he says quietly.
No, it doesn’t. Not like that. Not with the way his jaw tightens after he says it.
“Still,” I murmur. “That’s awful.”
His eyes stay on the counter for a beat longer before lifting to mine.
“It wasn’t just cheating,” he adds. “It was the entire situation.”
My stomach dips. “Oh.”
“It was with someone I trusted.”
That changes everything. I feel a palpable shift in the room.
“A friend?”
A muscle in his cheek ticks. “Yes.”
I ache for him. “That’s worse.”
“It is.”
“No wonder people disappoint you.” I let out another breath. “Because the ones who you trusted betrayed you.”
He studies me like he didn’t expect me to put that together.
“I’m not broken, if that’s what you’re thinking. And this isn’t a rebound,” he informs me, with dignity.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you were hurt.”
His gaze drops to where my hand rests on him. Then back to my face.
“You’re very quick to take my side,” he says, frowning.
“Should I not?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he lifts his hand and slowly wraps his fingers around mine, where it rests on his arm, and holds it, fingers gently stroking mine.
“You don’t even know the whole story,” he says so calmly I have to lean in closer to hear the words.
“Does it matter?” I whisper.
“It might.”
“Why? Were you cruel?” I press quietly.
“No.”
“Were you careless?”
He shifts in his seat. “No.”
“Then I’m comfortable being on your side because you didn’t deserve the lies.”
His thumb moves slightly against my knuckles.
“Nope,” he agrees. “But we don’t have to keep unpacking my baggage on our date night.”
Date night.
I roll the words around in my head, letting them settle warmly in the pit of my stomach. Shove whatever tiny doubts I had to the back of my mind, intent on comforting him.
And then—
He stands.
No warning. No dramatic pause.
One second, I’m perched on a stool. The next, his hands are on my waist, and I’m airborne.
“Aaron!” I squeak.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me on the counter with a solid thump. Not rough. But not gentle.
Confident—like a caveman.
He nudges my knees apart and steps between my thighs.
“Oh my god.” I breathe. “Was all that necessary?”
“Very.”
His gaze drops to the front of my shirt.
“Did you wear this on purpose?” he asks quietly, nimble fingers sliding the first button open.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t look at my face. Not yet. His eyes stay trained on his hands as they work down the line of my buttons, one, then another.
Then another…
The sound of crisp material is the only noise in his quiet kitchen, cool air brushing my skin as the shirt parts, exposing the lacey bra beneath as his fingers slide open the fabric, skimming the warm line of my waist.
The rough pads of his fingers touch my stomach… trace upward… following the curve of my ribs until they brush the edge of my bra.
Delicate lace meets his hungry gaze.
“Juliette, look at me,” he murmurs.
I do.
I am.
He pushes the shirt off my shoulders slowly so it slides down my arms, pooling at my elbows. I shiver, the air cool against my bare flesh, though my body is warm where Aaron presses between my thighs.
His large palm rises again, cupping the side of my breast through the lace. Thumb dragging lazily across the lace, the whisper of pressure deliberate and unhurried. The thin material offers no protection; it only heightens every sensation.
A slow circle.
A soft glide.
Aaron pinches the tip of it lightly between two fingers, pleasure enough to make my back arch before I can stop myself.
His gaze finds my face, watching my every reaction.
“You like that?” he asks calmly.
“Yes.”
He pulls me in, leans down, and brushes his lips over the curve of my collarbone before trailing lower. His mouth roams, grazing the top swell of my breasts, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over my flesh while his fingers skim lightly under the edge of the bra.
Then, with unhurried precision, he draws the thin straps down over my shoulders, inch by inch, until they fall slack at my sides. The bra loosens, no longer holding its place.
More kisses on my newly bared skin as he pulls back to look at me—like he’s savoring the reveal before taking the final step to remove it completely.
His gaze lingers on my breasts before his hands move again.
One slides around my back, fingers finding the clasp with practiced ease. He doesn’t break eye contact as he works it loose—a quiet snap, and it falls from my body.
He doesn’t rush to touch me.
It’s as if he’s deciding where to put his hands first. The intensity of his dark eyes makes heat crawl up my neck.
It’s torture.
“I haven’t been able to properly look at you before.”
No. He hasn’t.
We’ve been in the dark the two times we’ve been intimate.
“These are beautiful,” he finally says, voice deep and raspy. Rough with arousal. Anticipation coils in my stomach, every nerve waiting for the moment he stops looking and finally starts touching me.
A kiss below my jaw.
Another at the slope where my neck meets my shoulder…
When his mouth moves, it’s down the curve of my neck, across my collarbone, pressing above my breasts without quite touching. I can feel the restraint in him—feel the way he’s choosing not to rush.
The space between contact and expectation stretches unbearably thin.
He lets it be.
He lets me tremble.
He wants me wanting.
And god, do I want him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against my throat, tongue wetting my skin.
“Obviously,” I complain. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
A soft exhale of amusement ghosts over my skin.
His mouth finally lowers.
His lips close around my nipple, warm and firm, and the sound of him sucking is embarrassingly intimate. His tongue moves slowly at first, dragging, testing, before he draws me deeper into his mouth.
Blows on it.
Heat explodes straight down my spine.
My fingers sink into his hair, guiding his head closer, begging for more without saying the words out loud.
I can’t.
I’m too self-conscious. Too shy.
Aaron hums, and the vibration has my back arching again. Has me so close to pleading.
Simpering.
“Oh my god,” I whisper when his palm slides over my breast, thumb circling lazily before giving a squeeze, balancing giving me pleasure with maddening control.
My hands fall from his hair to his chest, palms smoothing over solid muscle, feeling the heat of him through the thin cotton. I need to touch him the way he’s touching me. I need to know if he’s as affected by me as I am by him.
My fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, trace upward over his deliciously warm skin, over the hard lines of his abs.
He inhales sharply.
Groans when I reach for his belt.
“I’m so fucking hard,” he murmurs. “Jesus.”
The confession sends a wave of triumph through me, and I bask in it at the same time I work his buckle, clumsy from lack of experience. He shifts to give me better access, one hand gripping my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
Aaron groans loudly when my hands go to the waistband of his boxers, teasing the skin beneath it, ready to tug his jeans down. Ready to feel the weight of him in my hand.
To stroke him.
My mouth waters for it.
I continue teasing him, hand sliding farther inside his boxers as he drags his mouth upward over my body, tongue dragging over my sternum, over my collarbone, to my throat. Teeth scrape lightly at my pulse point before he sucks there, slow and deliberate.
My head tips back again.
He exhales sharply.
His hands slide down to my waist now, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans.
“Can we please get these off? I want to fuck you so goddamn bad.”
“Yes,” I acquiesce, wanting him inside me so much I taste the desire in my mouth.
His fingers begin working at my buttons—
His phone rings.
He ignores it, pulling down my zipper with a whirr…
The cell continues buzzing and vibrating against the counter behind us, jarring and obnoxious and out of place among our frantic panting and fumbling.
It rings again.
He still doesn’t answer, my pants halfway down my thighs.
The third time, it’s immediate. There is no pause between calls.
His body goes still.
He cranes his body, eyes going to his lit-up screen.
“Shit. That’s my sister,” he mutters. “She wouldn’t call three times unless—”
I get it.
Unless there was an emergency.
The phone begins ringing again.
“Fuck.” Aaron curses and steps away from me, dragging a hand down his face as he grabs it off the counter, index finger stabbing the green dot.
“Hey,” he answers immediately, alert, as if he doesn’t have a raging boner in his pants. “Sutton, what’s wrong? What happened?”