Chapter 13 Hayes
Hayes
I tuck Benny in, tell her a dragon story—one chapter and a half like always—and stand for a second in the doorway, watching her breathing settle. She smells like toothpaste and pool. “Night, Benny Boo.”
A small thumbs-up floats out of the blankets as I click off her light. “Love you.”
Everything’s set out when I wander back to the kitchen—tins lined with big shiny wrappers. Cans of pumpkin, bowls, and spoons. I sidle up beside Layla, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Low-key give her a sniff.
She may be in a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, but she’s sexier to me now than when she was bobbing in my pool in that barely there bikini. Because now I know what she tastes like. How she fits when I pull her into my body . . .
My mouth remembers; my hands absolutely fucking do.
That’s in my bones now and not going anywhere.
“Ready?” she asks, not looking up, like we do this every night.
“Yeah.” I reach for the masher. Our fingers land on it at the same time and linger there. Neither of us moves.
She smiles first. “Pumpkin is yours.”
I open the cans and dish the puree into a bowl. She mashes—slow, deliberate presses that send up warm sugar. I measure flour and sugar; she levels the cups with a neat swipe of her finger.
“Cinnamon?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Does Benny like cinnamon?”
She does, so I sprinkle it into the bowl. Butter melted. Eggs cracked clean. We pass bowls back and forth, shoulders bumping. I turn to grab the whisk and catch the bowl with my elbow. A soft splat. Batter streaks my forearm, and a dot lands high on my jaw.
“Hold still,” she says, laughing under her breath. “You’re making a mess.”
Layla steps in and takes my wrist, turning it so she can see the smear. Her thumb skims over it once, slow, gathering pumpkin from the ridge of tendon. She doesn’t use a towel to clean it off.
She looks at it, then at me—heat in her eyes.
I lift her arm instead.
“I’ll clean it up,” I murmur, then bring her hand to my mouth. Lick her thumb clean, then the spot below where I know her pulse is thumping. I see her breath hitch in her chest when I kiss along the thin skin there—one, two—before I release my grip on her hand.
Mmm . . .
We try to return to the bowls like civilized people. It lasts all of nine seconds.
My finger dips into the batter bowl for a dollop of sugar clinging to the metal side, and I dab it on the corner of her mouth at the same time she’s asking, “What should we do tomorrow while Benny is at school?”
I can think of dozens of things to do . . .
Most of them involving nudity.
“After I’m done with practice, we can hit the grocery store. Or have late lunch in Old Town Scottsdale, which is always fun. Swim. Glow-in-the-dark mini golf once the sun sets. Totally up to you.”
“So many options.” She stares at me, wide eyed and excited. “Hiking in a canyon sounds amazing. That’s something I’d love to do.”
I rack my brain, going over my schedule.
“We’d have to do that early early, though—I can have the sitter drop Benny off at school so we can leave before the sun rises.” I nod. “Beat the heat. I’ll pack water and hydration packs, you bring . . . I don’t know. Sunscreen?”
“Why are you saying it like that, you weirdo.”
’Cause I get to rub it on you if you’ll let me.
“I’m just being responsible,” I deadpan. “Host with the most.”
“In that case, I’ll put you on bottle duty,” she says, steady, cheeks flushed. “You can do my front and back.”
I’m useless. I stare, mixing spoon suspended above the bowl as I gawk at her. This is officially the first time she’s flat-out flirted with me.
Her eyes flick to the spoon, then up to me. “You okay there, Host with the Most?”
“Define ‘okay.’” I set the spoon down before I drop it. “You can’t just hand out assignments like that and expect motor skills to continue.”
“All I did was mention rubbing on sunscreen.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll be fully clothed.”
Will we?
Will We?
She bumps my hip, laughing under her breath. The last cup domes up neat. She sets the scoop down, wipes her fingers on a towel, then turns and leans her lower back against the counter—open invitation or my wishful thinking.
Either way, I step in.
Kiss her.
She rises onto her toes and meets me, lips as soft as I remember—but warmer—a sexy little sound catching in her throat.
When I angle, she answers, fingers curling in the fabric at my sides.
The kiss is slow and deep and impossible to walk away from, especially with her gentle fingers slipping under my T-shirt, palms warm on my back.
Every sane idea I had leaves my brain and goes straight to my twitching cock.
I haven’t fucked in ages, and suddenly, my dick has a problem with it.
A big one.
My palm finds the warm notch of her waist beneath the hoodie, thumb tracing lazy circles I can feel in my teeth. She hooks a finger in the collar of my T-shirt and breathes me in like it’s oxygen.
A laugh bubbles out of her when I trail to her jaw. “You always like this?”
No. “I’m never like this.”
I cook but barely bake. When I agreed to muffins, I pictured a box mix—definitely not this from-scratch stuff Layla has magically produced.
My fingers grip her ass, her back against the counter. Kneading her cheeks, wanting to lift her so I can look her in the eye. “Come here.”
I grip her hips and lift.
She’s light in my hands; goes willingly, landing on the counter with a soft gasp, knees automatically parting so I can step in close, like I’d done in the pool. My palms slide to the tops of her thighs, thumbs drawing idle paths that make her shiver.
Want and need course through my veins.
Want and need I haven’t let myself feel in years because lust like this clouds judgment and I cannot afford to be distracted . . .
Literal years.
“Hayes,” she gasps again. “We’re in the kitchen.”
The shock in her voice has me grinning.
“I noticed,” I say, smiling even as I chase another kiss. Desperate for more.
“We’ll never get those muffins baked if—”
My head shakes in amusement. Who cares about the goddamn muffins at a time like this? “Don’t give a shit.”
Fuck the muffins.
She tastes like sugar and cinnamon and the faintest trace of vanilla, my eyes almost rolling back when my dick nestles against her pussy through the fabric of our bottoms.
I imagine that it tastes as sweet as her lips.
I imagine burying myself inside her.
I imagine—
My hands bracket her hips, and I drag her to the edge of the counter, swallowing the sound she makes when I grind against her, slow and deliberate. Behind us the bowl scrapes against the tile backsplash, and I blindly reach to push it farther away because the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.
Layla laughs into my mouth.
“I’m taste testing.” I trail kisses down her throat and lower, nosing the loosened neckline of her sweatshirt aside. “You’re delicious.”
What I wouldn’t give to see her naked . . .
Then my palms slide underneath the thick material, greedier by the second, mesmerized by the satin of her skin. My head spins. Years of saying no to relationships and casual fucking, and now I want to drown myself in it.
“I’m so fucking hard.” I roll my hips to show her, stiff cock seeking the heat between her legs. “Perfect height.”
“God, you feel—” She stops talking. Scowls at me. “Why are you still wearing a shirt?”
“Why do I bother wearing one around you? You’re always telling me to take it off.”
Not that I’m complaining. I strip it off one-handed; it hits the floor with the softest whoosh. Her eyes track down my chest like she’s making a grocery list.
“Abs,” she purrs, dragging one wicked finger down the middle of my chest, down to my stomach. “Six-pack. Very on brand for a man who’s big and bad and mean.”
“Big and bad and mean,” I echo, grazing the corner of her mouth with my tongue, wanting to devour her whole. “But only to everyone who isn’t you.”
She feigns innocence. “Are you telling me I’m the only one who gets the sweet version?”
Yes. Apparently.
I drag my thumbs higher under her sweatshirt, finger the fabric of her bra. Thumb brushing her nipple; she arches into my hands like she’s been waiting for this all damn day.
“Sweet,” I repeat. Like dessert.
Her smile goes wicked. “You want seconds?”
“I want firsts. And thirds.” I roll my hips again, and her breath hitches. Mine does too . . .
I angle my hips and drive against Layla as if I were burying myself inside her, deeper, the seam of her leggings catching the tip of my dick exactly where she needs it. Her head tips back, and I kiss her throat again as my hands hold her steady, gripping her waist.
The countertop bites my thighs; I don’t care.
It’s obscene how fucking fantastic this feels without an inch of penetration or bare skin where we want it most.
I brace a forearm beside her and use the other hand to lock us in place and dry fuck harder, and Layla clutches at my shoulders.
I feel my body getting hot all over.
Face getting warm.
Sweat beads at my temples as I fight for control.
I do not want to come in my goddamn pajama bottoms . . . but I’m right there—too close—every nerve lit, breath ragged and ugly in my throat.
This isn’t me. I don’t do needy. I don’t do desperate.
I am Hayes fucking Fielder, for God’s sake.
But she’s everywhere: sugar on her skin, vanilla on her lips, something feral in the way she rubs against me, chasing her own release with a choked whimper that nearly undoes me.
“Oh shit . . .”
Another drag, another grind—filthy—and stars spray across the edges of my sight.
Heat coils tight, mean and certain. I know what that tingling in my sac means, so I bite down on a curse and hunt for oxygen that won’t come as Layla tugs me closer still, fingers digging into my lower back like she wants to fuse us together.
My knee hits the cupboard. I don’t care.
I’m gone.
I’m going.
Panic flares, colliding with a savage, helpless pleasure that makes my knees threaten to drop out from under me. Our mouths are locked together, her tongue down my throat, muffling the sound tearing up my chest, as I press into that perfect angle with three hard rolls of my hips—
“Oh shit . . .” I gasp, filling my lungs with air. My thighs are trembling.
My pajama bottoms are now a sticky crime scene.
I pull back an inch, dazed, trying to school my face and failing, because she’s flushed and gorgeous and wrecked in the best way, sweater rucked high, lips kiss bruised, looking at me in the most satisfied way.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper.
“Extra credit?” she breathes, looking none too pleased.
I huff a laugh that makes me sound like I just hit puberty. “I—Jesus, Layla. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey.” Her palm slides to my neck. “That was very, very okay.”
“Okay?” I glance down at the ruin of my dignity, my dick deflating at a rapid pace, come dripping down the inside of my leg. “I just jizzed in my fucking pants.”
She laughs.
I groan, forehead dropping to her shoulder as I try to catch my breath. The aftershocks keep nipping at me; I’m useless. “I need five minutes. New legs.”
“Go, Fielder,” she says, dimples out. “I’ll get the muffins in the oven.”