Mists of the Serengeti(91)

“Are you burying your face in that book? Rodel.” I tsked. “You never, ever manhandle a book like that. This sexy ass, yes.” I slapped her full, round cheek. “But the book . . .” I grabbed her hair and tugged so she was looking down at the pages before her. “Read it, Rodel. Unless you want me to stop?” I slid another finger inside her and nipped the back of her neck.

Her voice quivered as she started reading the passages aloud. She kept losing track. I kept reminding her. A little yank, a little spank, to keep her head in the game. Her body squirmed against mine, engulfing my senses, engorging my passion, until the air was thick with hot, heated need.

She opened her mouth to say something, but as I thrust into her, the book fell away and the only word that escaped her was: “Unghhh.” It was a throaty, unintelligible whisper that was mind-blowingly hotter than all the erotic words I’d made her read.



SUNDAY BRUNCH WITH Rodel, in her kitchen—one that I’d tried to envision many times over the long, lonely months without her. Her kitchen. Her bathroom. What she came home to. What kind of plates she used. What she saw outside her window. Piece by piece, my mind gathered all the little, missing bits like a scavenger on a treasure hunt.

We sat around the weathered island that doubled as her dining table. The paint had rubbed off around its corners and edges. Like everything else, it looked homey and lived-in. The overhead beams, the angled ceilings, the worn patina of the walls—they all took on a soft, bright hue as sunshine streamed in through the windows.

Rodel poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred two heaping teaspoons of sugar into it. She padded over to the refrigerator, stuck her head inside, and began moving things around.

God, did she have any idea what she looked like, bent over like that?

“No Coca-Cola.” She straightened and turned around. “Orange juice?”

I grinned. A part of me wanted to tell her to keep looking. “Orange juice is fine.” It made me ridiculously happy that she remembered what I liked to drink in the morning.

She took a sip of her coffee and waltzed over to the cabinet to get me a glass. She was pouring the juice when I took the carton from her and set it on the counter. I drew her to me so we were eye to eye, her standing between my legs, as I sat on the stool.

“Good morning, Miss Emerson.” I kissed the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat. I couldn’t get enough of her. I had lived far too many days and nights without the feel of her.

“It’s past noon now.” She laughed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Warden.”

Her warm, soft lips were intoxicating, but when she swirled her tongue inside, exploring the recesses of my mouth, desire stirred between my legs. But only for a moment, because something else hit me. I reared my head back and frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do that again. Kiss me.”

“Yes, sir.” She grinned and reclaimed my lips, her arms looping around my neck as she kissed me, slow and deep.

“That’s weird,” I said. “I’m not gagging.”

“I should hope not.” Her eyebrows arched up. “You’re surprised my kisses aren’t making you gag?”

“No. Not your kisses.” I slid her cup toward her. “The coffee. I can taste it on you.”

A light seemed to go off in her head. She took another sip of her coffee and kissed me. This time the flavor of it was hot and strong in her mouth—sweet as hell because of all the sugar she’d dumped into it, but smooth and full-bodied, with a slightly nutty overtone.

“Kona coffee,” I murmured against her lips. “From Hawaii.”

“Very good.” She stepped back and looked at me. It didn’t matter where the hell it came from. What mattered was that it hadn’t made me sick or nauseated. “Would you like some?” She poured me a cup and watched as I inhaled the aroma of it.

I took a tentative sip and waited for the awful gagging that had plagued me ever since the mall attack.

Nothing.

In fact, my taste buds cried for more.

Coffee. My weakness, my livelihood, my passion. I’d processed close to a year’s worth of harvest without a single cup. Tasting it on Rodel, mingled with her sweet breath, had cured me. Or maybe she’d cured me with that first kiss. Or the time she told me she loved me. I would never know. All I knew was that she filled all the aching, gaping holes in my heart.

“Are you okay?” she asked, as I held my coffee and stared at the way the sun picked up the honeyed flecks in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” I lied. Have you ever sat across from someone, fully clothed, and felt them slowly unbutton your heart? I reached for her hand and squeezed. “I’ve missed you. So much that my heart still hurts.”

“Good.” She stuffed a pastry in her mouth. “ImphgladImphnottheomphnlyone.”

I chuckled and had some more coffee. “What are we doing today?” I knew what I wanted to do. Absolutely nothing. Except, possibly, to get a bigger bed.

She dropped her pastry and went quiet. “How long are you staying, Jack?”

I didn’t know how to say the next part because I knew she’d fight me. “How long would you like me to stay?”

“Ha.” She threw me a small smile and went about clearing the counter.

“Hey.” I hugged her from behind as she put the dishes in the sink. “Tell me. Talk to me.”