Sweet Cheeks(55)

And now I’m screwed. Because all I want is more.

I scrub my free hand over my face to try and figure out how that’s possible, and I’m greeted with the scent of her * on my fingers. I’m hard instantly. I want to take her like this with flour smeared on her cheek and some still peppered in her hair. With a pan of cupcake batter on the counter still not baked. A mess all over the floor. And the bastard she was supposed to be marrying having his rehearsal dinner somewhere nearby.

I need to mark her in some way. Own her the same damn way she’s owned me in one way or another since that first day I knocked on her screen door, told her I was the new kid on the street, and asked if her brother could come out and play.

She was all sweet and soft, and straight lines and innocent in every way imaginable. That’s how I remembered her. And since I walked in the cupcake shop I’ve found out she’s still sweet but also a helluva lot of feisty. Her innocence is matched with unwavering confidence and those straight lines of hers have turned into gorgeous curves.

Curves currently warm against my body and calling me to run my hands over them. I fight the urge. Need to wrap my head around the words she said during sex—I’ve always wanted you—and how they made me feel. Still make me feel. Possessive. Alive. Scared. Relieved. Protective.

You’re never supposed to believe the words someone says during sex. You know they’re jaded by the act. And yet, deep in my gut, I know she meant them.

She moves in her sleep. Brings her knee up to rest against my dick and fists her hand over my heart.

There’s an ache in my chest. A feeling I choose to ignore. The longer I stare at her, watching her chest rise and fall, I realize the ache is more of a twinge and the twinge is jealousy. Of Mitch. Because he’s had a million moments like this that I never did. He wasted them. Took them for granted.

And anger. Because he didn’t think enough of her to fight for her. She’s worth the goddamn fight. Especially when her temper’s raging, and her stubbornness reigns.

And relief. That she knew better and walked away from him. That Ryder called me to cash in the IOU and that when I walked in the villa tonight she looked at me with those wild eyes of hers that told me so much more than her lips ever would.

The irony’s not lost on me. How can I be pissed at Mitch when I should direct it all at myself since I’m the * who walked away from her and left the door wide open?

But it’s easier to blame him. To despise him. Because if I do then I don’t have to look too closely at myself and wonder what this all means. How this will play out. How the weekend’s going to end when we return to our respective worlds.

Then what?

Walk back into the lives we lead knowing this is still here between us? Resolved and unresolved?

Shut the f*ck up. Live in the moment. Enjoy the killer sex and having her around. Sex doesn’t mean commitment. Doesn’t mean love.

Love?

Where the f*ck did that thought come from?

She murmurs something I can’t make out. Pulls my attention when it’s never left her. Then moves again. I can’t help but smile when she brings her hand up to her earlobe and rubs it between her thumb and forefinger.

And f*ck if a feeling doesn’t surge through me—warms me when it shouldn’t—at seeing her do that. At knowing she still does it. That ache is back in my chest but this time it’s not from jealousy.

Not hardly.

She murmurs again. Snuggles closer against me.

Haven’t I always loved her in some way, shape, or form?

It’s just the shared history. The reconnection with someone who has known me since way back when. A person who can still finish my sentences even after all this time.

Keep telling yourself that, dude. Maybe you’ll believe it hasn’t always been her.

She mumbles something. A soft laugh follows. And that f*cking tinge is back with a vengeance when she mumbles again, but this time, the word is clear as day. Mitch.





I wake slowly. I’m nestled in the satisfaction of sex and the unmistakable warmth of Hayes’s strong body against mine. Groggy but content, my eyes flutter open to find him staring intently at me. His bicep flexes beneath my neck.

The lazy smile on my lips is as automatic as the post-sex stiffness I feel in my muscles when I stretch my legs out. “You’re not plotting a way to put mustard on my cheek and tickle me to smear it, are you?”

The solemn lines of his face transform instantly with the laugh that falls from his lips. His eyes warm, and his hand moves to the side of my face where he rubs his thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. The action makes every single part of me sag in contentment.

“You wouldn’t have a spare feather lying around, would you?” His voice is raspy, sleep drugged, and so damn sexy.

I laugh and snuggle closer to him. And I’m not sure that’s even possible, considering I’m already halfway on top of him on the chaise longue we made our way to in that awkward-post-sex moment we should have had, but didn’t.

And why was that? Why are we so comfortable with each other, when in reality we don’t really know each other anymore? We’ve had different life experiences. Reached different milestones. He lives in glamour and glitz, and I live in cupcakes and frosting.

Because it’s only ever been him.

I shove the thought away. Clear my head of the crap I was overthinking before he walked in here and sexed me up so good I sat down on the chaise with him and fell asleep like a guy would. Because how wrong were my thoughts? How off-base was I?