Chapter 17 #2
“Apple pancakes. It’s a Wade tradition.” He flips two fluffy pancakes onto a plate, sprinkles them with powdered sugar, and hands it to me. “Help yourself to coffee. Mugs are on the counter. Butter and syrup are on the table.”
“Your talents in the bedroom and kitchen are scaring me.”
“We burned a lot of calories last night.” He winks.
The reminder makes me want to have my way with him right here, but I look down at my plate and my stomach grumbles. Instead, I take a seat at the table and soak in his image while sipping my coffee.
“I hate to cook,” I admit.
“I used to suck at it until I had to feed myself. In the beginning, I burned everything, even the easy stuff, but it became this thing I needed to conquer and master.”
“I kind of went the other way. When I found out I couldn’t cook, I stopped eating.” I stuff a forkful of pancake in my mouth. The food melts on my tongue. “This is amazing.”
“Thanks.” He joins me at the table with his own plate and sits across from me.
“So, how do you explain your sexing skills?” I wave my fork in the air.
Evan almost spews coffee from his nose. “My what?” He laughs.
“Did you used to suck at that too until you mastered it?”
He takes another sip, maybe stalling to decide how to answer, and his Adam’s apple bobs. He places his mug on the table. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”
“Why?”
“Because I have only ever been with one person.”
My fork falls to my plate with a clank. “Meaning, I’m one of two?”
He shrugs, which I take as confirmation, and continues eating like this is no big deal.
Evan’s slightly older than me and has only been with two women? This goes against every opinion I’ve formulated about him.
I fold my hands and contemplate the proper response. “How is that possible? You’ve acted like—like—”
“Like what?” he snaps. “Like I said, you don’t know me.”
“But—”
He reaches across the table and settles a hand over mine. His tone softens. “And the reason is something I don’t wish to discuss. I meant what I said. No matter what happened last night, how amazing, after you leave, we’ll go back to being friends.”
I slump in my seat, defeated but also intrigued by the mystery of the only other girl Evan has ever touched. The only other woman he’s made love to, if it was love. It had to have been. Why else would he wait so long to be with someone new?
I purse my lips, remembering the photo hanging on his wall—him and the blonde. Maybe she’s the one. What I can’t explain is the parade of women I’ve seen him with since we met. Though I never recall seeing more than a hug, a kiss on the cheek, or a wave.
Maybe I’ve been misreading him all along? Maybe he isn’t the player I imagined. Maybe he only talks a good game while acting full of himself.
“So, how about that shower?” He pushes his empty plate away, but it signals more than that. It means this conversation is over.
My smile is forced while I’m deep in thought.
The whispers are right on the edge of my mind, ready to worm their way back in.
I remind myself his past and present don’t matter.
Evan and I are nothing and never will be.
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger.
If anything, I want to be present in our final moments.
“You did promise I’d sparkle,” I joke.
Under the deluge of the hot water, Evan makes good on his offer, lathering me with a loofah. We don’t speak. Instead, I use the time to memorize him.
My soapy hands slide over his strong shoulders, along his spine and the angle of his hips before descending to the curve of his perfect ass.
The most mesmerizing part of his body sits right below his etched abs.
Defined hip flexors point south to his growing cock.
It slips over my slick thigh. My perky nipples skim his chest, and my skin pricks in every place we touch.
We kiss, soft and deep, wrapped within the steam.
When I turn away, he soaps my aroused breasts, while his tip brushes the crease of my ass, but he never presses for more.
We’re coming back from that place where we gave all of ourselves, both physically and emotionally. Even here, we’re several steps back on our way to never touching each other again, and I’m already mourning the separation.
Stepping out of the shower and into the humid room, Evan wraps a fluffy towel around my back and pats my skin dry.
I hold the towel closed at my chest and glance up at him.
He brushes wet hair from my eyes, tucks a strand behind my ear, and caresses my cheek.
I press into his touch, and my eyes flicker closed.
“This is nicer than my granny towels,” I admit.
“Only because you’re in it,” he says softly.
He leans close, and we kiss. It’s our last. I’m sure of it.
The sensation swirls in me and radiates from him.
I live in our connection for as long as he allows.
Our lips stick for a moment, and then he drifts away.
His palm glides down my arms until my hands are grasped within his.
He lifts my hands and kisses my knuckles before releasing me.
We’re at the part of the song where we fade out to silence.
When he draws away, there are miles between us. Inside, I’m reaching for him, shouting for him to return and give me a chance, another night to prove we can be more, but he won’t respond to my silent protest.
A storm brews behind his eyes, and he sets his jaw.
Regret flickers in his gaze. He slips past and moves into the bedroom, like he doesn’t want me to notice.
I shadow him but don’t touch. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tug the towel tighter around myself, searching for comfort. I need to fill Evan’s void somehow.
He dresses, hiding his body by layering a navy sweater over a T-shirt and jeans. He steps to a mirror and rakes his fingers through his damp hair. With a few swipes, the thick waves fall in a refined mess.
His attention drifts to me. It’s a signal. I need to get ready too, or I’ll be late for work. I relent to the inevitable. When I dress, I sense he’s trying not to watch, but his gaze seems tethered to my body. I take my time. Maybe he’s memorizing me too.
Now finished, he follows me to the front door. As his hand clenches the brass knob, I squeeze the strap of my bag on my shoulder. The door squeaks when he opens it. I step forward but he blocks me, forming a wall. My heart lurches with hope, and I find his eyes.
He’s buying time. I’d empty my savings for more. Not wanting to leave, I shift my stance.
There’s so much I want to say. Kiss me. Ask me to stay. Ask me to come back. Ask me anything that causes a repeat of last night.
I will all those words, or any combination of them, to pour from his perfect lips. But before they move, I know what he’s about to say by the dark resolve settling into his tawny eyes.