Chapter 16
THE MOUTH ON YOU
JESSE
Ultraviolet by Spiritbox
By the time I register the empty space on my lap, she’s already through the studio door, bare feet slapping against the hardwood of the hallway, her laughter ricocheting off the walls like music.
I’m on my feet before I make the conscious decision to move.
She takes the corner into the living room at full tilt, her blonde hair whipping behind her like a banner. A breathless shriek of laughter reaches me as I narrowly catch sight of her disappearing toward the kitchen.
“You’re going to regret that, Joey,” I call after her, my voice echoing through the empty house, rough with amusement.
“Is that a promise?” she says, rounding the island.
I vault over the couch—my mother would kill me—and cut her off on the other side.
She skids to a stop, chest heaving, cheeks flushed pink, eyes wild and daring and lit up with something so unguarded it steals the air from my lungs.
“Nowhere left to run,” I say, advancing slowly.
She retreats one step, then another, her lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes daring me to close the distance.
I do.
I hook my arm around her waist, pulling her against my chest. She twists in my grip, laughing, and I pin her against the counter, one hand braced on the marble, the other tangled in her hair, and kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
“I think you like it when I chase you,” I murmur against the curve of her jaw, dragging my mouth down to the hollow beneath her ear.
“It’s nice to be the one running for a change,” she breathes, tilting her neck to give me better access.
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt and her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders. There’s a smile on her face I don’t recognize, something reckless, something new. I want to memorize it, file it away for the dark days when I need a reason to wake up.
“What?” She tilts her head.
“Nothing. It’s just you’re different tonight.” I run my thumb over her cheek and watch the way her eyelashes flutter.
“Different how?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, searching for the right word. “Like someone turned the volume up on you.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Her grin softens, and her face seems to open up before she drops her gaze to where her fingers are still gripping my shirt.
“It’s how I am when I’m with you,” she says, her eyes finding mine again.
Something shifts behind my ribs. Not a flutter, not a skip—a rearranging. Like every song I’ve ever written was in the wrong key, and her voice corrects it.
“I was promised dinner.” She yanks on my shirt, jostling me out of my thoughts.
“Not in those words exactly.” I scratch the back of my neck.
She twists around and heads toward the refrigerator.
“There’s nothing in here.” She rummages past a bottle of mustard and a jar of olives. “How long has this takeout been in here?” She sniffs it and scrunches her nose. “Ugh, too long.” She drops it in the garbage.
“My mom thinks a smoke alarm is a cooking timer.” I lean against the counter, watching her conduct her inventory with growing amusement. “I survive on delivery and cereal.”
“This is tragic.” She opens another cabinet with a tsk. “You live in a house with a kitchen this gorgeous and nobody uses it?”
“This kitchen has seen some truly spectacular takeout,” I say.
Joey turns and gives me an exasperated look before reaching into the pantry, and then she pauses. She pulls out a box of brownie mix and holds it up like she’s unearthed buried treasure. “Oh, now we’re in business.”
I snatch it from her. “Must have been one of my mom’s guilt-ridden impulse buys from never baking me a birthday cake.” I turn it around once before Joey snatches it back.
“Let’s put it to use.” She flips the box over to scan the instructions and sets the oven to preheat. “You can be my sous chef.”
“I don’t bake, and I’m pretty sure sous chefs don’t either,” I tease, which earns me a scowl.
She’s already connecting her phone to the Bluetooth speaker, scrolling through until a guitar riff fills the kitchen. Classic and loose, the kind of song meant for open windows and bare feet. She cranks the volume higher than necessary, grins at me over her shoulder, and gets to work.
She pulls out bowls and measuring cups, moving between the island and the stove like she’s done it a thousand times, her hips swaying to the rhythm while she measures and stirs.
She mouths the lyrics into a wooden spoon, head tipped sideways, eyes half-closed, completely lost in a private concert for an audience of one.
Then she dips a chocolate-coated finger into her mouth and sways over to the next cabinet without missing a beat.
I lean against the counter and let myself disappear into her rhythm. This is the Joey most people never get to see, unguarded and loose, the girl who carries the weight of the ranch every morning before dawn, singing off-key into a wooden spoon with brownie batter on her chin.
When she stretches for a baking pan on a high shelf, her shirt rides up and exposes a strip of golden skin above her waistband, and I forget how to breathe.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re worth staring at.”
“Flattery won’t get you out of stirring.” She doesn’t turn around, but the smile in her voice is unmistakable.
I close the space between us, pressing my chest against her shoulder blades, and cover her hands on the whisk with mine. “Show me.”
She melts into me, and I press my lips to the curve of her neck. The batter sits forgotten. She turns in my arms, and chocolate smudges the tip of her nose.
I lean down and lick it off. “I never liked brownies, but they taste good on you.”
She pulls her shirt over her head, letting it drop to the floor, then dips her finger into the bowl and draws a slow, deliberate line of chocolate batter down the hollow between her breasts.
“Oops,” she says with a smirk. “Guess I’m messy.”
This fucking girl.
I follow the path she’s traced with my tongue, tasting chocolate and the salt of her skin beneath it. She arches into me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and a moan slips from her throat that rewrites every fantasy I’ve built in the sleepless dark.
She slips through my fingers, and I’m left reaching for the ghost of her while she sways over to the island, moving to the music, chocolate smeared across her collarbone. She scrapes the remaining batter into a pan, slides it into the oven, and sets the timer.
“We have forty-five minutes before I blow your mind with my awesome cooking skills.” She leans against the counter, hip cocked, bra strap falling off one shoulder.
“You’re already blowing my mind, baby.” I start toward her, but the song changes and Joey’s face lights up.
“Oh my god, I love this song.” She closes her eyes and sways, head tipping sideways, one hand trailing along the edge of the island. “Maggie and I used to blast this and dance on the bed until Dad banged on the wall.” She laughs.
The next thing I know, she climbs up on the island and starts dancing barefoot in her bra and shorts like nothing in the world can touch her.
Chocolate still streaks her collarbone and her long hair swings across her shoulders.
Every sense I own locks onto the curve of her waist, the line of her stomach, the way her body moves without a shred of self-consciousness.
I have written hundreds of songs trying to describe something half this devastating and never come close.
She opens her eyes, catches me watching, and grins.
“Get up here with me.”
“I’m not getting on the island.”
“Yes you are.” She extends her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Come on. When’s the last time you danced on a kitchen island?”
“Never, because I’m a functioning adult.”
“Boring.” She leans down and grabs the front of my shirt and tugs. “Get up here or you’re not getting any brownies.”
“I thought I already got my brownie,” I smirk.
“Not even close if you don’t get up here.”
I shake my head, but I’m already reaching for her hand, and the grin splitting her face when I hoist myself onto the marble is worth every guitar I own and a few I don’t.
She wraps her arms around my shoulders and starts bouncing on the balls of her feet, whipping her hair around and shouting the lyrics at the ceiling.
She’s off-key and loud and completely shameless, and I’m laughing so hard my stomach aches.
She spins under my arm like we’re at a middle school dance, nearly loses her balance, and I grab her around the waist to steady her.
I give up pretending I’m above this and match her energy.
We’re two idiots jumping on a kitchen island in bare feet, and if this whole thing collapsed it’d be worth the broken bones, and my mother’s wrath, and every consequence I can think of, because I never want her to stop looking at me the way she’s looking at me right now.
My head’s dizzy but I catch her mid-spin, pull her into me, and kiss her.
She laughs against my mouth for half a second before the laughter dissolves. Her fingers slide from my chest to the nape of my neck. The kiss deepens as the song fades to nothing. The world shrinks to the taste of chocolate on her lips and the press of her body against mine.
I kiss her shoulder and slide the strap of her bra down her arm. Her skin is hot and smooth against the calluses of my thumb. The kitchen island is no place to do all the dirty things going through my mind right now, so I take a step back and jump down.
She pouts as she looks at my hand waiting to help her down, and takes it, but instead of joining me, she sits on the edge and pulls me toward her.