“Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air”
― Robert Frost
~Cletus~
Her lips were soft and delicious. So fucking delicious.
If I’d been in a thinking state of mind, I would’ve been surprised by her responsiveness, how she wrapped her arms around my neck, stepped fully into my space, and pressed both her mouth and body flush against mine. How she wanted to be as close as possible even though I was cold and dirty and she was warm and clean.
But I was not in a thinking state of mind. I was in a covetous state of mind. And a wish fulfillment state of mind.
I lifted my head to nip lightly at her bottom lip, sweeping my tongue across it. I wanted to taste more of her, every part of me demanded it. She moaned, tilting her chin, parting her mouth and shifting restlessly. I licked between her lips and her sweet tongue darted out, touching mine.
And that was basically it. That’s all it took for me to lose my mind.
Recapturing her mouth, heedless to her lack of experience, I devoured her like I’d wanted to do for weeks. I tasted her from every angle. I slid my hands down her body, taking pleasure in the feel of her curves and yielding suppleness.
I backed her into the kitchen, halting when her legs connected with the counter. Grabbing her backside, I lifted her to the tabletop and stepped between her open knees. She was gasping, breathing heavily, and digging her nails into the back of my head and shoulder. She was excited, and her excitement fueled my madness.
In my imaginings, the next step would be slipping my hands under her skirt, lifting it by trailing my fingertips up her thighs while she unbuttoned the front of her dress. Then I’d bend forward and . . .
Well.
Then things would progress.
Sinful flashes of fantasy were an excellent reminder of the old adage too much, too soon. Maybe she’d let me touch her. If she did, then she would come, legs spread, dress open. She’d pulse around my fingers on the kitchen counter where she baked her cakes.
And afterward, would she regret it?
Probably.
I would regret it . . . mostly.
But part of me wouldn’t. Part of me would treasure the memory. Part of me would push for more, laying her back while she was still confused and overwhelmed. Lifting her legs up and over my shoulders, skimming my fingers down the backs of her thighs and making her shiver, tasting her arousal on my tongue, her pulse against my lips, and bringing her to climax again. I would treasure that, too.
And perhaps I’d want even more.
Perhaps I’d push down my pants and fill her, take her, claim her.
Because she trusts me, and she’d let me, and she would feel so very good, and hot, and wet, and mine . . .
“Fuck.”
I turned from her, wrenching my mouth from hers, and barely escaping the momentum of my bad intentions. I was shaking, scorching hot, and so very hard. The kitchen was too close, the space suffocating; her breathing filled my ears, a gentle and alluring beacon.
I didn’t quite have control of myself, not yet, and I hated not having control.
I stalked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The frigid gust of late-autumn wind a welcome and sobering diversion. Ironically, the very fixation that brought me to this moment had been responsible for my eventual sobriety.
It was time for a stern talking-to. Clearly I required a harsh lecture and firm reminder as to what in the hell I was doing.
The entire point of me being here, of these lessons, was to help this woman learn how to stand on her own, make her own choices, not make them for her. I wasn’t going to be another person she trusted who took without asking, who made her decisions and perpetuated the vacuum of ignorance.
You will not be an asshole, Cletus Byron Winston. You will not take advantage. You will not.
“Why’d you stop?”
A short burst of laughter escaped my lungs. She was right behind me. I hadn’t heard her approach. My guard was down, so I answered without artifice.
“Believe me, if you were any other woman, I wouldn’t have.” Once the words were out a dull ache radiated outward from my chest. I had an odd, fleeting notion that my heart was hurling itself against my ribs, seeking hers.
“Practice . . . right.” Jennifer sounded like she was speaking to herself and I heard her take a shuffling step backward.
I shook my head, but didn’t correct her. A tense moment followed, during which I pulled my bottom lip through my teeth, tasting her there. I briefly considered telling her a falsehood—specifically, that she still required more kissing practice.
She broke the silence by clearing her throat. “Come back inside. I, uh, have something to give you. Do you want coffee or tea?”
My stomach soured at the sound of her forced cheerfulness. When I was certain I wasn’t in danger of mauling her again, as long as I keep my distance, I turned and followed her into the kitchen, closing and locking the door behind me.
Jenn pushed a cat-shaped cookie jar toward me, then turned and set a kettle to boil on the stove. “I need you to eat these cookies.”
I eyeballed the cookie jar. “This looks like one of those Japanese good luck cats.”
“A maneki neko. Yes. The paw moves—see?” Jennifer touched the paw lightly and sure enough the cat cookie jar waved.
“Where’d you get it?” I asked, surprising myself because I actually wanted to know.
“Eat the cookies. I received it from one of my pen pals.” She hadn’t yet made eye contact with me, instead busying herself with random tasks, like wiping down the counter or ordering me to eat cookies. I didn’t like the ashen cast to her skin or the stiff line of her mouth.
“Did she visit? Japan?” I selected a cookie from the top of the jar and took a bite, but stopped myself before I moaned. The cookie tasted just like Jennifer. It tasted like vanilla and nutmeg and awesome.
“No. She’s from Japan. She lives there. You’re going to have to eat all the cookies.” Jenn’s tone was uncharacteristically flat, and her eyes were on the teapot in front of her.
A spike of something odd, like longing but also heavy with frustration, had me debating my next words. I wanted to see her eyes but she wasn’t giving them to me.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
I grabbed two more. “Why do I have to eat all the cookies?”
“Because.”
Because.
She offered no other explanation. And now she was frowning at the teapot. Her chin wobbled and the sight had my heart hurling itself against my ribs again. I gritted my teeth and she pressed her lips together in a stubborn line.
She was unhappy. I’d made her unhappy. Making Jennifer unhappy was officially the worst feeling in the world, right up there with disappointing my brother Billy and seeing my sister cry.
So I blurted, “Have you ever done a cookie stand?”
She shook her head, sniffing, turning away from me to grab two cups.
“What’s that?” Her voice was rough.
“It’s like a keg stand, but with cookies.”
Jenn’s movements stilled. She blinked. A new frown formed, but this one was thoughtful, not miserable.
“You mean where those people do a handstand and drink beer?”
“That’s right. But with cookies.”
“That sounds awful.”
“At least you don’t get crumbs on your shirt.” I bit into the third cookie.
“Yes, but,” Jenn shook her head, a hesitant smile claiming her luscious lips, “then they’d go up your nose.”
“That’s the best part. You can save them for later.”
She made an amused face of disgust and shook her head. Her eyes flickered to mine for a split second then away, turning to the stove to retrieve the water.
Another minute passed before she said, “If you want to do a cookie stand, I’ll hold your legs. Because you have a lot of cookies left.”
I lifted an eyebrow at the jar. She was right. According to her mandate, I had about a dozen cookies to consume. It wasn’t a metric ton, but it was more than plenty.
“Explain to me again why I have to eat all these cookies.”
“There’s something at the bottom I want to give to you.”
“Why don’t you just dump them out?”
Jenn twisted her lips to the side, her downcast eyes flaring with some emotion, and then she huffed. “Fine. If you don’t want my cookies, I’ll just dump them.”
I got the sense she was referring to something more than her cookies. But before I could question her, she picked up the jar. Her movements were jerky and agitated as she dumped the delicious vanilla cookies on the counter, picked through them to retrieve four gray inch-long thumb drives, and then swiped the cookies with her arm into a waiting trash bin.
I gasped.
“Good God, woman. Did you just throw those delectable cookies away?”
She ignored the question, gritting her teeth and shoving the thumb drives toward me. “These are yours.”
“What are you talking about?” My mind was still on the loss of those exceptional cookies. I might never recover.
Finally, finally, she lifted her eyes to mine, and what I saw felt like a punch in the stomach. They were both fire and ice, red and blue, livid and sorrowful.
“The video of you taking the evidence is on these thumb drives. I hid them here, in this kitchen. They’re yours now. I don’t want them.”
My mouth parted and I felt my eyes go wide. I gaped—which was not a common expression for me—glancing between her and the inch-long pieces of technology that could have spelled my doom.
“You kept them on thumb drives.” It wasn’t a question; it was a revelation of how utterly wrong I’d been.
I thought my friend in Chicago had erased the evidence from all sources. That was not the case. She’d been in control the whole time. And she was in control now. She was deciding when our deal was over. Not me.
Not me.
My heart thundered between my ears, fueled by panic. The sensation was similar to the seconds before a head-on collision, when you can see the other car coming, but you can’t do anything to stop what happens next.
Jenn angled her chin defiantly, placing her hands on her hips. “I don’t want your help anymore.”
I winced, unable to catch the reaction in time because my heart was hurling itself against my ribcage again. But I did manage to imbue my tone with gentle calm when I asked, “What if I want to help?”
“No, thank you,” she said firmly, shaking her head and lowering her eyes to the teacups. “I appreciate you giving me a good start, and taking the time out of your busy life to . . . to . . . to show me that what I want matters. I know I have a ways to go. As Claire put it, I’d like to try flying on my own before I look for a new cage.”
I stared at her, unable to move, dually proud and dejected.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready to let her go.
“Since the cookies are gone, there’s no call for the tea.” She sounded distracted and was frowning again. Abruptly, she turned and placed the teacups back on the shelf, wiping her hands on her apron unnecessarily. “I have a few things to finish up front, so I’ll let you see yourself out.”
Jenn gave me a polite smile, but didn’t lift her eyes higher than my neck. With light steps, she left the kitchen for the main bakery.
I stood very still, staring at the spot where she’d disappeared, listening. Unlike the last time she’d unceremoniously abandoned me to see myself out, I heard chairs scrape against the floor, keys jingle, and the telltale sounds of glass cases sliding open, then shut.
I searched for words, but couldn’t find them. So I left, dazed, and confused as to why I was heartsick. But not really confused. Rather, I was heartsick and too stubborn to admit the reason.
On the drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought about her smile when I’d arrived and her frown when I’d left. I thought about the dress she was wearing. It wasn’t yellow. I thought about our kiss and why I’d stopped. For the first time in a long time, I second-guessed myself.
But mostly I couldn’t shake the notion that Jennifer had discarded something vitally important to me when she’d thrown away those vanilla cookies.
And even though I wasn’t completely sure what that thing was, I might never recover.