LoveLines (14 page)

Reece smiled a little too big. “Now this I
gotta see.”

I shook my head. “It’s terrible. I’m all splotchy and orange and ridiculous. It’s like she ordered the cheapest tanning solution on the market. Knowing my luck I’ll have some horrendous allergic reaction
later today.”

Reece burst out laughing.

“Oh, glad you find it amusing,” I said.

“
Go change into your PJs. I won’t laugh. I may make a comment or two, but I won’t laugh,” he said. “I can’t be the only one who looks like he just rolled out of bed. And mess up your hair a little, too. No one’s hair looks that perfect right when they wake up.”

“Fine. I’ll change. But if you have something more devious planned—”

He threw up his hands. “I swear I don’t.”

I nodded and excused myself to the bedroom. When I emerged a few minutes later in light cotton pants and a tan
k top, Reece approached me and inspected my arm.

“Wow, she really did a number on you,” he said, running his finger over my forearm. It tickled, and I squirmed.

“She wants to start a business,” I replied.

Reece looked
horrified. I laughed hard.

“She better get her practice on if she thinks she’s
gonna find and keep clients,” he said.

“For reals
,” I replied.

And then he waved his h
ands all around my living room.

“I like this whole weathered thin
g you’ve got going on,” he said, and just like that, the botched spray tan was no longer important.

“
Shabby chic,” I said. “With a little retro thrown in.”

“I guess that’s the technical term?” he replied, smiling at me.

I nodded. He pointed to the corner of the room.

“That’s a TV armoire. What do you use that for?” He pointed in the other direction to my flat screen. “Your TV’s there.”

“I didn’t have a coat closet,” I replied, “until that.”

“I like your ingenuity,” Reece said, walking over to the armoire.

I like the fact that he used the word “ingenuity.” It stirred up some deeply buried sexual feelings. God, I was aching for sex, but I also wasn’t an idiot. Sex too soon with a guy you like is a huge no-no. It can mess up the entire evolution of the relationship. No. I would not have sex with Reece today no matter that he said “ingenuity” and was standing in my living room in pajamas.

“Did you paint this?” he asked, running his hand up the side of the armoire.

“Yep.”

“How’d you get it to look all old like this?”

“It’s a technique called crackling,” I replied.

He n
odded and turned to my couch. “What other talents do you have?”

I shrugged. “Well, I sew. I made all the slipcovers for my couch and chairs.”

He ran his hand over the pale pink and green striped material covering the couch arm.

“I like this fabric,” he said. “It looks like you.”

“That material is called ticking,” I said, giggling.

Reece cocked his head.

“I’m serious. Ticking fabric is used in furniture upholstery,” I explained.

“The
n it couldn’t be more fitting for you,” he said.

I’d never shared that with anyone because, let’s face it: Who the hell cares about ticking fabric? But I thought it was clever
, considering, and Reece seemed genuinely interested. I’d never had a guy over to my house who actually looked around and asked me questions.

“What is this?” he asked, picking up a large metal jug off the floor.

“It’s a milk jug. Used up until the 1930s. It’s made of galvanized tin. I found it at an antique mall several years ago. It was buried in the corner and looked like it needed a home.”

Reece placed the jug back on the floor.

“Do you go to antique malls a lot?” he asked.

I nodded. “And flea markets. And any little off-beat stores that might have interesting finds.”

“Maybe I could go with you some time,” he suggested.

I lit up like a match when it first strikes the
box. The longer I talked to Reece, the more I realized that I dated a bunch of losers in the past. Many of them showed little interest in my hobbies. None of them ever offered to accompany me antiquing. I forced Brian once he became my fiancé, because he was my fiancé. But this guy standing in front of me? This guy with the plaid pajama pants and hidden muscles under his tee that weren’t doing the best job hiding? This guy
wanted
to go antiquing with me. What guy ever wants to do that? And I don’t care if he was just being nice. The fact that he offered was enough to make my panties wet.

“That would be really fun,” I said.

“Good. We’ll plan for next weekend,” he replied, and grabbed the bags he’d placed on the coffee table. “I like it, Bailey. I like your living room. Now show me your kitchen.”

I led him to the next room where he commented on my red and white checkered floor—“Did you paint that yourself?”—and asked where he could purchase a retro stove.

“Oh, stop already!” I laughed.

“What?” he asked.

“You don’t have to pretend to show interest in this stuff.” I waved my hand airily.

“I’m not pretending anything,” he replied.

I nodded, unconvinced, then gasped when he took hold of my shoulders and turned me toward him. He looked at me dead-on.

“I’m not pretending anything,” he repeated evenly.

When a man talks to you like that, you pay attention. You believe him. And in that moment, I believed Reece. I believed everything he’d ever say to me.

I
nodded again, this time in respectful acknowledgement of his words.

“Good,” he said, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
“Now let’s make pancakes.”

Making pancakes with Reece was sexy. Eating pancakes with Reece was smol
dering. Yes. I said smoldering. We sat at my vintage ‘50s four-top diner table, side by side, rolling bacon in our pancakes and dipping them in syrup. We stuffed ourselves, and then the real fun began. Reece held my hand up to his lips. My fingers were sticky with syrup, and he placed each one in his mouth, sucking gently, eliminating the need for me to wash my hands.

He dropped my hand and grabbed the sides of my chair, turning me to face him, my knees grazing the inside of his. He crooked his finger at me. I grinned and shook my head.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

“You have plans with that syrup. I can just tell,” I replied.

“Do not. Now come here. I wanna tell you something,” he ordered.

I hesitated for a second before leaning forward. He barely brushed my lips with his own. I inhaled the faint maple sweetness on his breath and wanted him to kiss me again. This time not a peck. This time long, deep, and demanding.

He sealed his lips to mine. And then he spoke against them.

“I’m the one who came up with
Beboppin’ Bailey, just so you know,” he whispered.

I grinned. “So I guess you were irritated with Christopher for stealing it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well, it’s even cuter now that I know you thought of it,” I said.

“Good,” he replied.

I’d never had a conversation with someone
as our lips touched. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me—prolonging the moment right before our tongues mingled—or if he just had some things he really needed to get off his chest.

“I saw your little red pants first,” he continued. “That’s all it took.”

“My sister hates them,” I replied. I’ve no idea why that popped into my mind.

“Fuck your sister,” Reece said. “She doesn’t count.”

“She’s getting married before I am.”

“So?”

“She’s seven years younger.”

“And you’re prettier. So there.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. I was squirming in my seat. I grabbed his face and held him still, pressing my lips to his as hard as I could. It was a desperate “thank you” kiss because he was kind to me and said all the right things.

H
e kissed me back. Just as forcefully. And then he pulled back a fraction.

“I’m initiating all of this. You hear? I gave you the theater because I thought it was cute, but this? Right here? This is all me. So sit still,” he said.

I don’t “obey” people. That’s not what I do. But I wanted to obey him. I wanted him to tell me what to do for the rest of the day.

I froze when his mouth touched mine again. He nibbled my lips and asked me why I tasted so sweet. I didn’t respond, and he asked again.

“Because I just ate pancakes?” I said.

He took the opportunity of my talking to ease his tongue into my mouth. He was good, this one, and I gave him what I knew he wanted: my tongue. My body sparked with that anticipation of something new. A new mouth. New set of eyes. New voice and smile and body. I already loved
all the newness about this stranger in my kitchen.

He kissed me deeply. Just how I wanted and needed. He
explored every part of my mouth, violating me in the sweetest way with a maple syrup tongue. He pulled me onto his lap, spreading my legs on either side of his thigh. I twisted my body to look at him, and he shook his head.

“Face forward,” he said.

I obeyed and sat waiting, anticipating his next move. I didn’t have to wait long. He brushed my hair aside and planted kisses on the back of my neck, over and over. And then my right shoulder. I felt his hands slide under my tank top, gliding up and down my back.

“Is this too much?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“And what if I took your top off altogether?
Too soon?”

“We’re adults.” What a dumb response.

He hesitated for a half second before he took hold of the sides of my tank top and pulled it over my head. He tossed it on the floor, and I sat on his lap, facing away from him. No bra. I wondered if he expected a bra. I also wondered if he was back there making faces over my spray tan.

“You have a really pretty back,” he said.

“Aside from the botched tan?” I asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

I giggled.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just, you don’t often hear back compliments. That’s all.”

He made some sound from deep in his throat, then ran his hands over my back. He brought them to my shoulders, then ran them down again. Up and down. Up and down—encouraging my eyes to close and head to fall forward. I was lost in a semi-sleepy haze, afraid I might tumble off his leg but powerless to fight the o
verwhelming urge to sink into deep sleep. He slipped his hands around my sides and cupped my breasts, pinching my nipples gently. I snapped my head up.

“Oh good. You’re awake,” he cooed.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, letting my head fall back onto his shoulder.

He played with my nipples, rubbing his palms over them until they turned painfully hard. I pushed my body against his hands, and he cupped my breasts again, pinching my nipples harder.

I yelped and squirmed on his thigh, stimulating my clit, begging him to touch me between my legs.

“You,” he whispered.

“Me what?” I panted.

“Touch yourself.”

I flushed crimson. I’d never masturbated in front of a guy before. I’m not a prude; I’d just never done it.

I shook my head.

“Why?” he asked, massaging my breasts.

“I don’t know,” I replied. I couldn’t stop grinding on his thigh and asked him again to touch me.

“You do it,” he urged. “I wanna watch you touch yourself.”

“I’m embarrassed,” I breathed.

“Bailey,” he replied patiently. “Touch your pussy.” He pinched my nipples again, and this time I cried out.

I wasn’t sure about this game.
If I refused him, did that make me the winner? I didn’t think so. I think I was supposed to touch myself—to get off—and to claim my victory afterward.

I slid my hand i
n my pants, under my panties, and gasped at the feel of my wetness.

“Are you wet for me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now do your thing,” he instructed.

I stared at the kitchen ceiling as I rubbed my clit. Reece continued playing with my breasts, and I moaned as I felt the current surge up and down, throbbing deliciously between my legs before shooting electricity into my nipples. I rocked my hips, arching my back as the sensation built low—a starter fire in my abdomen. I rubbed myself more urgently, fanning the flames, conscious of the release that stood by me on the precipice, ready to snatch my hand before tumbling over the edge.

“Reece . . .”

I was scared to let him see me so vulnerable, but I was determined to come. I had to now. I’d taken the whole thing too far, and there was no turning back. There was no stomping on the fire. Only one way to put it out. An explosion of epic proportions.