Beard Science(43)

On the drive to the bakery, I forced myself to obey the speed limit. I had no reason to rush. No reason at all. Duane and Jess would be meeting us at Big Todd’s, the least sleazy adult shop in Knoxville, at 9:30 PM. I wasn’t nervous. I was . . . anxious, on Jennifer’s behalf.

Despite obeying the speed limit, I was five minutes early. I hated being early. It was like having to wait for the same thing twice. Jenn’s car was parked in the spot closest to the kitchen door and I could see her shadow moving around the kitchen. Rather than waiting for the appointed time, I walked to the back entrance and knocked.

I heard some rustling from within and then ignored the anticipatory jump in my pulse. I liked how she looked, that was it. I was not excited to see her. I hadn’t been counting the hours. I was looking forward to the end of our arrangement. I did not need her in my life distracting me.

I was going to take her to Big Todd’s. She was going to get a sex toy. She was going to feel empowered. She would use it and I would not think about her using it. And then, with any luck, this big step would be the last help she needed from me. She’d be standing up to her momma, speaking her mind, and getting off on weekdays.

. . . Getting off work. Not getting off getting off. Work. Getting off work. Yep.

Jennifer opened the door and I stepped back, gulping in air and crossing my arms over my chest. I was ready to get this over with.

“Hi, Cletus.” She smiled, soft and open. Her big, bright eyes moved between mine, and her whole face lit up, as though illuminated from within by sunshine and angel dust.

I lost my train of thought because it was replaced by, It’s too soon. I’m not ready.

“Come on in. I have cookies.” Jennifer reached for my arm and pulled me into the kitchen, shutting the door behind me. “It’s cold outside, where’s your jacket?”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, never mind.” Jennifer walked around to face me and rubbed her hands up and down my arms. She then entwined our fingers together and brought my palms to her cheeks, pressing them there. “Goodness. You’re so cold.”

She grinned up at me, shivering, sharing her warmth as though I had a right to it. I stared at her. In truth, I stared at my hands on her face. I was experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. I’d had a dream like this, where I held her face between my palms and then we’d devoured each other.

Instinct had me licking my lips and the movement drew her eyes to my mouth.

Her grin waned.

I tiled her chin.

She let me.

Her breathing changed.

I stepped forward.

She smelled like vanilla and nutmeg.

Her eyes drifted shut.

And I marveled at the beauty of her trust as my mouth laid claim to hers.





CHAPTER 18


“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.