I strolled with purpose to the back door. I knocked. I waited. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still no answer.
Finding the door open, I frowned. The door shouldn’t have been unlocked. I would have to remind her to lock it when I left and make sure it was locked from now on.
“Jennifer?” I called, closing the door behind me, locking it, and searching the kitchen. The lights were on, a mixer sat on the counter with ingredients and such scattered about, but she was nowhere in sight.
I was just about to search the front when she appeared from the back pantry, carrying a bag of flour. I stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes moved over her form. Her back was to me and it was completely naked from her neck to the tie around her waist.
Jennifer had on an apron, red lace underwear, stockings, and nothing else.
I must’ve made a sound, though I didn’t recall doing so, because she spun, her eyes wide, and gasped.
“Oh my God!” Jumping, she dropped the bag of flour and it spilled over the floor. Her hands flew to her chest—which was mostly covered by the apron. Mostly.
She breathed out, closing her eyes, then her next breath was a relieved laugh. “Oh my God, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I was too busy re-memorizing every curve of her luscious body, barely concealed by the thin layer of cotton. My mouth watered. I wasn’t fixating on a fantasy or memories from Friday because the generosity of reality drove every other thought from my mind.
Silence both stretched and thickened . . . and so did other things.
But then she lifted her lashes, looked at me with her impossible violet eyes, and said in her sweet way, “I missed you.”
CHAPTER 24
“Civilized people must, I believe, satisfy the following criteria. . . Their hearts suffer the pain of what is hidden to the naked eye.”
Anton Chekhov, A Life in Letters
~Jennifer~
“I missed you.” The words erupted, slipping from my lips before I could catch them. They’d been running through my mind for the last three days.
I miss him. I miss Cletus.
Actually, the sentiment had been running through my mind before Friday, but I’d been shushing the thought, pushing it away. Before Friday, I’d thought missing Cletus was futile, because I thought it would be endless.
But since Friday . . .
Happy sigh.
I’d gone back to the Piggly Wiggly first thing on Saturday morning to collect the bananas. I didn’t want to be a scaredy-cat or ask Cletus to come with me. I’d been picking up the bananas on my own for years, no reason to stop now. But I did conduct a sweep of the parking lot before leaving my car. And I asked Mr. Johnson—the produce manager—to walk me out to my car.
Presently, I was smiling at Cletus, like a goof, lost in his chaotically handsome features.
Cletus’s eyes moved over me slowly, as though he hadn’t seen me in a long time. “I missed you, too.” His voice was gruff and had my stomach erupting with butterflies. Beautiful, lovely, velvety butterflies. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and twisted his lips to the side. “That’s an interesting outfit.”
I glanced down at myself and that’s when I saw—to my horror—that I was basically half-dressed.
“Oh my God! Look at me.” I endeavored to cover myself with my arms, trying and failing. “Wait. Don’t look at me! Crap! Turn around!”
Cletus lifted an eyebrow at my demand. “Really?”
“Yes. Really, Cletus,” I said on a rush, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “I don’t have a bra on under this apron.”
“I know.” He shrugged, his eyes skimming down, then up. Undaunted, he took a step forward.
My mouth fell open and I stared at him, frustration and embarrassment warring for control. Recognizing that Cletus had no plans to turn around or avert his eyes, I jogged past him to the back door. I felt his gaze on my backside as I slipped on my big coat and pulled it closed, holding the edges together.
When I turned I found him frowning. “You didn’t have to do that.”
A sound of disbelief tumbled from my lips.
“Yes. I really did.”
He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Suit yourself. No pun intended.”
My eyes flickered over him and I felt my cheeks heat, feeling the need to explain why I’d been baking half naked. “I sometimes take off the dress when I bake late at night, especially if it has a built-in corset. It hurts my ribs.”
“Makes sense.” He nodded once, twisting his lips to the side again. He was doing a bad job of fighting a grin, and the way his hooded eyes moved over my form made me feel warm and flustered.
My throat worked and my neck was burning hot as I searched his eyes. “I suppose you have lots of experience, with half-dressed women. It’s probably no big deal to you.”
“A half-dressed woman is always a big deal.” A smile lingered behind his eyes, it felt dark and delightfully wicked.
“Even at the Pink Pony?” I asked out of nowhere, surprising myself with the non sequitur.
I didn’t know what made me ask other than the fact that Beau and the owner of the Pink Pony were good friends; everyone was aware Cletus went fishing with them from time to time. I’d been having all kinds of crazy thoughts since seeing him last, usually involving best- and worst-case scenarios.
Or best worst-case scenarios, like—if Cletus went to the strip club—best-case was that he did so blindfolded and against his will. See? Crazy.
Cletus made a face. “I don’t much like those kinds of places.”
“Why? Don’t all men like looking at naked ladies?”
His eyes dropped to my coat and they heated. “I like to unwrap my own presents.”
The butterflies ceased flapping their wings and instead stripped naked. I liked that thought. I liked the idea of being unwrapped, like a present. But only if I could unwrap him, too.
“Did you come here to unwrap me?” I asked hopefully, relaxing my hold on the coat.
He smiled, his clever eyes narrowing just a bit. “Are you my present?”
Yes.
My embarrassed blush became something else. Heat still circled my neck, my heart still pounded, but the atmosphere shifted. My hot flash was no longer mortified at having been caught baking half-naked. Our smiles gradually waned as we stared at each other.
He took a step toward me, his eyes dropping to my jacket. Cletus inspected the edges, his expression thoughtful, then slipped his fingers inside the coat. I released my grip on the material as his hands parted the jacket and pushed. It fell to the floor.
“I didn’t come over here for this,” he said distractedly. His eyes studied the front of my apron as he pulled the tie at my back.
Meanwhile, I was a mess. I was a mess of wanting to tear his clothes off, and wanting to kiss his face off, and wanting more of what we’d done three nights ago. I simultaneously had the urge to shove him to the floor and attack him, and stand still to see what he would do next. Ultimately, I decided to stand still. I could always attack him later.
The bow holding the apron around my neck unraveled and the apron joined my coat on the floor, leaving me in just my panties and stockings. He looked at me. He looked at my body like I was his present. Like he had lots of ideas how he would play with me. I wasn’t cold, yet I shivered.
His eyes lifted, hot with intent, and he took a step forward. Instinctively, I took a step back. He gave me a barely there smile and continued to advance until my back met with the counter. Then he stopped.
“My dearest Jennifer,” he grumbly whispered, his fingers looping into the waistband of my underwear, “in case you’re making a list, this is the only thing I want for my birthday.” He lowered as he tugged the lace down my legs. I trembled again as his hands traced a light touch on the backs of my knees and calves.
I stepped out of my panties and watched as he pocketed them. Leaning forward, his eyes on me, he breathed a hot breath against the apex of my thighs.
I swayed, my hands coming to his shoulders for balance, my heart thundering. I was hot and cold all over, the ache of longing sharp and deliciously painful low in my belly. He used the leverage of my hands to cup my bottom, lifting me onto the counter. I sat perched on the edge and he spread my legs, his fingertips tracing my inner thighs until he parted me with his thumbs.
My brain was rioting, in chaos, and I was embarrassed, yet enthralled.
My pen pals had told me—in French, Japanese, and German—what having sex was like. They’d described what it felt like to have an orgasm, so I knew what we’d done on Friday had resulted in an orgasm for both of us. But nothing they’d described revealed the true intimacy of the act. How it was something beautiful and terrifying, to be naked and vulnerable, to be touched.
My breath hitched. I leaned backward at an angle and fought the urge to press my knees together. He was looking at me. His exhales falling across my exposed center made me clench and tense in anticipation and anxiety.
“Cletus?” I asked, with a mixture of uncertainty and eagerness.
He licked his lips and lowered his mouth to me. The air left my lungs as his wet, hot tongue connected with my wet, hot center. His tongue moved and my body gave a reflexive and inelegant lurch. I gasped. Unthinkingly, my fingers threaded through his hair and I pressed him to me, afraid he would stop.