“Where are you going?” he asks, nipping at my earlobe. I’m now sitting on his lap, my back to his front, and I can feel his erection growing under my ass.
“To get our clothes.” I giggle, swatting at him.
“I’m not done with you yet, Montgomery,” he threatens. One of his hands snakes down the front of my stomach, undoing the button of my jeans. I moan when he cups my pussy. “Why aren’t you naked?” he growls into my ear.
I can’t even answer him because all I can focus on is his hand in my pants. He teases my clit before thrusting two fingers inside me. I squirm on his lap, wanting more, and drop my head back to rest on his shoulder. He continues working me with his one hand while the other pinches and twists my nipples again.
“My turn,” he says, using my words against me before adding a third finger.
“Oh god,” I pant.
He curls his fingers inside me, hitting my sweet spot over and over again, but it isn’t until his thumb presses down on my clit that I come. Explosions of colour burst behind my closed eyelids. I shudder around him, riding out the aftershocks of my orgasm as he pulls his fingers out of me. Then he brings them up to his mouth, just like he did that night in the cab, and licks my juices off them.
“Even sweeter than I remember,” he whispers in my ear.
I don’t know how it’s possible for me to be this turned on again already. Am I tired? Hell yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not also horny as hell.
He helps me stand, not letting go of my hips until he’s sure that I’m steady. When I hear him get up behind me, I start to move away, but he grabs on to me again, dragging me back to him.
“No. No. Beatle,” he says, hooking his hands into the sides of my jeans. “This is a naked party now,” he announces before pulling my pants down off my legs, taking my panties with them. Once I’m fully undressed, he takes my hand, leading us out of the garage.
“Where are we going?” I laugh, noticing that he’s not heading towards the bedroom.
“To the kitchen,” he answers, still walking.
“We’ve already done it in the kitchen though,” I whimper, and he turns around to wink at me.
“I know, baby. I’m not eating you in the kitchen,” he says gruffly. “Not this time, anyway.”
He sits me down on one of the island stools before moving to the fridge. Then he digs around for a minute before pulling out the most delicious-looking pie.
I raise my eyebrows at him in question. “We’re in the kitchen to eat pie?”
“Sustenance, baby,” he scolds, turning on the oven. “You’re going to need it.” He’s completely unashamed of his naked body. His sexy-as-sin, tattooed, naked body that’s heating up homemade pie, I might add.
I might have felt weird sitting around naked with another guy, but not with Jami. My heart is scared of loving him, but my head can’t deny that our souls seem to be intertwined. He knows me—well, most of me.
I let my thoughts wander to the fact that I still haven’t told him about what happened to my dad as he puts the pie in the oven, setting the timer. As he grabs two forks, setting them down on the counter, it occurs to me that we’re in the kitchen and Martha’s nowhere to be found. Dogs are always in the kitchen when someone’s cooking.
“Where’s Martha?” I ask him.
“She’s in bed,” he answers.
“She’s in bed?”
“She sleeps in her kennel at night,” he clarifies.
“Ohhh.” No one wants to be fooling around while the dog watches you. As much as I love Martha, that’s just way too awkward.
When the timer goes off a few minutes later, he pulls out the pie with a very masculine-looking floral oven mitt on, which makes me laugh.
“My mom gave it to me,” he whines.
I giggle again. “Sure she did.” I wish I had a camera to capture the image in front of me right now. Ruggedly handsome, tattooed Jami standing naked in his kitchen with a flowery pink oven mitt and a freshly baked pie. “I feel like I’m in some kind of naughty version of a Home and Garden magazine.”
“Laugh it up all you want, chuckles.” He sets the pie down. “You won’t be laughing when you bite into this,” he warns.
I laugh again because he somehow just made eating pie sound dirty.
He scowls at me. “I’m going to spank you later for laughing at me,” he growls, and I squeeze my legs together on the stool in response. For some reason, the threat sounds all too enjoyable to me.
He grabs ice cream from the freezer and makes us each a plate—a slice of rhubarb pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The moment my mouth closes around the first bite, I can’t help the moan that escapes my lips. I look up at him across the counter, where he’s standing eating his own portion.