Chapter 27 Cumin, Coriander
Cumin, Coriander
Poppy
He stops short immediately. “What is it?”
“No more kissing.” I might be too attracted to him to say no to a little quid pro quo, but there’s a foolproof way to make
sure this doesn’t accidentally turn romantic. His kisses are intoxicating. Dangerous. I’ve never had a man kiss me with such
desperate, possessive intent. Without this boundary, I’ll lose my sanity. “We can do whatever, but you can’t kiss me.”
“On the lips?” His voice has dropped an octave. “Or anywhere?”
“On the lips. You’re not my boyfriend.”
“I’m well aware, Princess.”
I’ve never liked the sound of that nickname more. “But you can kiss me other places.”
“Good enough for me.” His gaze drops shamelessly, roaming over my body. The T-shirt has ridden up, and the skirt is showing
an indecent amount of thigh. “As long as I can taste you.”
“Jack—”
“Not now.” He runs his hand down my side, then tugs the shirt over my head, revealing a raspberry-colored bralette.
His gaze, so dark and green-gold, traverses over me, as if he can undress me the rest of the way with his eyes alone.
My back arches without permission. I swallow hard enough my throat bobs, and he snags on that, a hungry noise leaving his lips.
Desperate for something to ground myself with, I stroke up and down his tattooed arms. “Trust me,” he continues. “You’ll want me to savor it.”
He makes to sit up. I quickly hook my foot around his hip, digging my heel into his lower back. “Don’t you dare leave. You
started this mess.”
“It’s flattering that you think I have so much self-restraint.” His laughter, low and amused, warms my belly. He tugs off
his T-shirt, ink rippling from his shoulders down to the tantalizing place above the waistband of his jeans. “But Poppy, a
hurricane couldn’t tear me away.”
“Oh.” I shiver as he inches down one bra strap, kissing my shoulder, then does the same for the other. I reach around awkwardly;
he helps me get rid of the bralette, flinging it somewhere in the cabin. My nipples are taut, aching for his calloused fingers.
The scratch of his beard. I squeeze my legs together, whimpering as my core throbs.
“God.” He swallows, gaze on my breasts. “I’ve been dreaming about these.”
I stiffen, waiting for a comment about how they’re not what he imagined. Too big, or too small, too something. I’ve heard it all before, online and in real life.
He rubs his thumb across one flushed nipple. “So fucking pretty.”
“Are you sure? Because”—I whine at his ministrations—“I don’t know, it never seems like guys—”
“Am I sure?” He cups them, squeezing roughly. “Fuck, baby, they’re perfect.”
I barely have time to steel myself before his mouth is on my tit. He sucks on one of my hardened nipples, letting his beard
drag against my sensitive skin, as he kneads the other in his hand. Electricity bolts through me. I swallow a needy moan as
my hips lift off the bed.
Before I can get used to that sensation, his hand is running over my bare thigh.
He doesn’t bother removing the skirt; he just shoves it up a few more inches, then hooks my soaked panties to the side.
He cups my pussy, thumb dipping into my entrance.
I feel the reverberation of his deep groan in my bones.
His rock-hard length presses against my thigh.
A firestorm swirls in my belly, getting me even slicker.
He makes another noise, closer to a growl than a groan. I let out a helpless giggle as it sinks in that Jack Hartman, of all
people, is rubbing up against me. The intensity he shows in the kitchen fits him just as well in bed. That’s easy to believe.
Harder to believe is that I’m the one causing this reaction. I bite my lip, remembering his kiss from earlier and wanting that friction again. Future me
will be glad that I put my foot down, but right now, I just want more contact. I want his tongue in my mouth, still bitter
with hints of vinegar.
He pushes a thick finger into me, thoroughly derailing my train of thought, then gives me another. I clench around them both,
ripping another low noise from his throat. When his thumb finds my swollen clit, I cry out, wordlessly begging for more contact.
Each thrust of his fingers accompanies a stroke against my clit, all while he continues to lavish attention on my breasts.
I turn my head to the side, breathing hard against the pillow. It should be impossible for him to know my body so well already,
and yet I’m on the verge of shaking apart. Clearly, cooking isn’t the only hands-on activity he excels at.
He drags his mouth up to my neck, sucking at the delicate skin. “I expected you to be louder. Figured I’d have to cover your
mouth to keep you quiet, sweetheart.”
I freeze. “You thought about this?”
“Thought?” He bites my chin, coming close enough to a kiss I bat him away. “Try fantasized. Repeatedly.”
He doesn’t sound disappointed. Just . . . curious. I drag my nails down his chest, cataloguing tattoos I haven’t noticed yet.
Orange blossoms along his ribs. The outline of a bird with a fish in its mouth. “I had a sex dream about you.” I bring my
hands up, tugging his hair. “Here. In this bed.”
His moan sends a sharp pang through my core. His hips jerk slightly, betraying his own need. I clench around his fingers,
pleased when he grinds against me. I’m so close, it’s getting hard to concentrate on anything but the relentless desire pulsing
through me. I wiggle free of his grip, hips rising to seek that perfect angle.
He pins me against the bed, halting my crude motions, and treats me to a third finger. It grazes the spot inside me that makes me see stars, and when he realizes that, he teases it mercilessly.
“So goddamn pretty when you’re on the edge.” He pinches my clit, eliciting a helpless gasp. “What were we doing in your dream,
Poppy? Was it this?”
I nod shakily. “Tell me yours.”
His lips graze my ear. “I thought about bending you over the counter. Pounding into you like an animal. See if I could get
you dripping down your legs.”
“Jack,” I say breathlessly, jerking his hair hard enough to make him hiss. “I’m almost there, I just need—”
“And when you did,” he continues, voice full of wicked promise, “I got on my knees and licked up every drop. I made you come
again and again until I was hard and ready to get back inside your tight little—”
My orgasm rips through me, delivering a tidal wave of sensation that leaves me gasping for air. I shove my hand in my mouth
out of habit, trying to quiet the embarrassingly loud noises I’m making. I haven’t come this hard . . . ever. Knocked right
out of the thoughts colliding in my mind.
“Hey, none of that,” he murmurs, voice suspiciously tender as he pulls my hand away from my mouth. “We’re alone. On a boat.”
“I don’t want to traumatize Gator.”
His eyes narrow, as if he doesn’t quite buy my lie, but he pulls his fingers out of me. I toss my hair over my shoulder, hoping
my flush isn’t that visible, as I reach for his jeans. Quid pro quo, yes, but really, I just want to see his cock. He’s too
tall and broad for it not to be spectacular.
“Your turn.”
Now he reddens, coughing slightly. “No need.”
“Oh,” I say, eyes widening when I realize what he means. I fiddle with the zipper on his jeans. He hisses, hips jerking. “Wait,
really?”
“Winfield.”
“No last names in bed.” I flap my hands in bewilderment. “I’ve never had a guy come in his pants just from touching me.”
He looks at the ceiling, as if begging some heavenly deity for patience. “Don’t.”
“Frankly, I’m shocked. You didn’t even lick me.” His pained groan makes me giggle. “Poor guy. Is there anything I can do to
make it better?”
Before I can suggest licking him clean, or any of the other filthy thoughts running around my brain, he sticks his slick-covered
fingers into his mouth. I stare, dumbfounded by the weirdly erotic, focused way he’s lapping up my essence. He pulls me closer
by the ankle, and before I can escape, he drags the fingers down my cheek, marking me with his spit. For reasons I don’t want
to look into that closely, my heart starts to race.
His smirk is lazy, self-assured. “Be flattered I’m that hard up for you.” He slides off the bed, grabbing a fresh set of clothes
from the tiny corner wardrobe. “Although next time, I might not hold back.”
With that, he disappears into the bathroom. I stare at the shut door for a minute, skin prickling at his parting words. Next
time. I like the sound of that, however complicated it might make things in the end. I squeeze my legs together. If that was
him holding back, what’s it like when he does give in?
By the time he emerges, I’m in pajamas. His hair, so messy from my fingers, looks relatively neat. I squeeze past him so I
can pee and brush my teeth.
When I return, he’s sitting on the bed, petting Gator’s fluffy belly. His sharp gaze lingers on me.
I wipe my mouth in case I left toothpaste on it. “What?”
He slides off the bed. “Let me grab a pillow and I’ll head up to the deck.”
I guess he doesn’t do post-coital cuddles. It’s for the best—I can only imagine what my imagination will conjure up with him in the bed—and yet the thought of him alone on the deck while I’m cozy in the cabin sends a twinge through me. This hasn’t
felt awkward so far, probably given the fact we’ve been spending so much time together anyway. But something tells me if he
leaves, the distance will feel greater tomorrow.
“You should stay.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not? Friends can platonically share a bed.”
“Is that what we are now?”
“Your fingers were just inside me,” I remind him. I plop on the bed, adjusting my nightgown. His eyes follow my motions. The
back of my neck prickles, and I bite back a smile. “I’d say we’re friends.”
He doesn’t have the decency to look even a tiny bit embarrassed. “I can sleep on the floor.”
“Just so I can scream when I wake up in the middle of the night and trip over you?”
He gives Gator a look, as if he’s expecting my precious toe bean baby to sympathize with him instead of me, his mother, the
one who saved him from a terrifying life on the streets. Gator just meows.
“I mean, I guess—”
Thunder booms above us. I raise my eyebrows.
He scowls. “The storm could be miles away.”
As if offended by his words, rain starts pelting the boat. One minute, nothing, and then it’s coming down so thick and fast,
it sounds like coins falling out of a slot machine. The rain here isn’t at all like the rain in the Northeast. This is tropical
rain, which apparently likes to roll in with a vengeance. Even if it stops in five minutes, there’s no way Jack can sleep
on the deck tonight.
I smirk at him. “The universe has spoken.”
He slides in beside me. “Don’t hog the blankets.”