The Learning Hours(52)

Laurel





The birthday cake sits dead center in the dining room, a round, red velvet confection covered in white cream cheese frosting. Twenty-one candles are sunk into the saccharine center, the lights in my small dining room dim. Normally, we use this waste of a space for piling our shit on the table, but tonight, the room is clean, paper and clutter stacked neatly on the sideboard our landlord kept with the house.

Fussing with my dress, I button and unbutton the top twice, examining myself this way and that, smooth legs, cleavage, hair. My dress is flirty, black, and hardly appropriate for the cold weather we’ve been having, but we’re inside where it’s warm, and it’s sexy, so there is no way I’m changing out of it now.

The doorbells rings; fluffing my hair in the mirror, I plump my cleavage. Swipe on more lip stain. Smooth down the pleats in my black, flouncy skirt.

My breath hitches when I slowly drag open the door.

Rhett stands on the porch holding a small bouquet of flowers. Black polo shirt and dark jeans, he fidgets a little under my scrutiny.

“Jolies fleurs pour une jolie fille.” He hands them to me once I stop gaping and shove open the door. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”

I press my nose to the delicate pink buds. Inhale. “You’re not supposed to be bringing me gifts—this is your night.”

“You are…stunning.” He steps into the entryway, pressing me against the door. Pressing a heated kiss on my gasping mouth. “Étourdissant.”

“These are beautiful.” I exhale. “Thank you.”

Usher him inside, turn the lock on the door. Pad barefoot into the room, dragging him along by the hand. The house is dim, save the flickering candles in the center of the dining room table. Twenty-one glowing wishes, dancing in the shadows.

“Let me find a vase and some water for these.” I plant another kiss on his cheek. “Take off your shoes and get comfortable.”

Better yet, take off your shirt, pants, and anything else you’ve got on while you’re getting undressed. Save us the time later. Ha ha.

His shoes get set by the door as his sharp brown eyes scan the room. Take in our beige sectional and the framed grouping of roommate photographs on the wall above it.

It’s a good kind of strange having him in my house; he’s huge, much bigger than Donovan, and an imposing figure, broad shoulders, and narrow waist.

I watch him from the corner of my eye as I cut the ends of the flowers, run the stems under water, and place them in a large mason jar.

So pretty.

I join him in the dining room, where he stands staring down at the cake, a beacon in the darkened room.

“Babe, there are no chairs in here.”

Babe.

“I know, I know,” I fuss. “But I thought it would be romantic to sit on top. You know that scene in the movie Sixteen Candles, where Jake Ryan finally gets Samantha in his house? And then they finally…”

Well, actually, they do nothing, because the damn movie fades to black before they get to the good part before they start to make out or have hot, passionate, cake sex.

Er…

Or maybe not.

Rhett bends at the waist, giving the underside of the table a cursory onceover before pressing on the surface, both palms splayed on the top. “I think it will hold us.”

His slow hands skim my hips when he approaches from behind, trailing up the silky fabric of my skirt. Spanning across my waist, they haul me up and onto the table as if I were light as a feather.

He crosses the room in three strides. Removes his socks, tossing them to the carpet. Sits on the edge of the table, pivoting his legs to the center. Crosses his legs.

Flicks his hair.

The cake blazes before us, candles down to within an inch, outdated chandelier above us at a dim glow.

“Happy birthday,” I whisper. “And congratulations on today. I’m glad I was there.”

Our eyes meet across the table. “Me too. Knowing you were there was…different.”

Tempted by the sweet icing, I dip my finger in the frosting and lick it clean. “Different? How?”

“Sensing your presence. I’ve never had someone I care about come watch me before besides my family.”

“Oh, I was watching you all right—all the parts of you.” I wiggle my manicured brows. “Speaking of watching you, your mom was really bothered by the signs.”

“What signs?”

“The ones people bring to cheer you on. I didn’t think those were allowed at wrestling meets.”

“I mean, they’re allowed, but most people don’t bring them. It’s not a sport like football where people are screamin’ in the stands.”

“Well your mom wasn’t a fan. She was horrified. She kept asking how girls could proposition a guy like that. It was terrible…I felt so guilty.”

“You’re nothin’ like those girls.”

I groan out of frustration, run a hand through my long hair. Flip it over my bare shoulder. “I felt so guilty about the whole flyer thing, I almost told her.” Move in closer. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”

His eyes get wide, the glint unmistakable. “Is that so?”

“So close.”

He leans forward a few inches. “Dodged that bullet then, didn’t we? She would have flipped the fuck out.”

“Wendy? Uh, yeah. She was glaring daggers at those mat chasers.”

Our noses touch. “She’s always been overprotective.”

“I don’t blame her.” I will be, too, if I have sons.

“Why?”

I reach down, swipe a finger full of frosting, tongue swirls over it. Sucks. “Because you’re mine.”

We lean into each other, over the blazing cake, lips unyielding. My tongue goes right into his mouth, dragging along his, our moans a delicious chorus.

“You taste so fucking good,” he says, sucking the frosting off my bottom lip.

I shiver. “So do you.”

The candles, pretty as they are, are hot. Burning brightly beneath us, singeing the bodice of my dress. I pull back, grinning. “You better blow out your candles and make a wish before we burn this place down.”

Rhett studies me intently, our eyes meet and hold. “I wish—”

“No!” I chastise. “You don’t say it out loud or it won’t come true.”

“It won’t?”

“No.” Do guys know nothing? Ugh.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” His body bends, shoulders hunch so he’s within reach. He inhales a deep breath and blows and blows until all twenty-one candles are extinguished, gray smoke rising from the wicks.

We watch as it dissipates into thin air.

“Want some birthday cake?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He grins. “Is it as sweet as your cookies?”

“Sweeter.”

“Got a knife?”

“No.”

“Forks?”

I shake my head. Mouth the word no.

“No forks. No knife.” He feigns a search for cutlery. “No plates. How do you suggest we eat this?”

“We’ll have to be creative. Are you creative, Rhett?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

I laugh at his honesty. Laugh at how darn cute he is, finger dipping into the top of his cake one more time. Break off a small chunk and raise it to his lips, feeding it to him.

His mouth opens, takes the offering. Lips close around my fingers. Suck.

Then.

That index finger on his left hand takes its own leisurely jog through the glaze, filching an inch of decorative trim along the top. He drags that sweet finger along my collarbone, gaze so blazing it strips me bare. Fiery.

I hold my breath, waiting.

Moan when his tongue hits my frosting-soiled skin, licking an unhurried line along my clavicle, lapping it up.

He takes another swipe at the cake, dragging his finger between the valley of my breasts. Busies his face between them, licking. Pushes up the undersides of my boobs, sucking the smooth globes above my neckline.

I want to rip my dress off and cover myself with frosting so he spends the rest of the night with his mouth on my skin.

“Take your shirt off,” I utter quietly, head still tipped back from his ministrations, and I don’t have to ask him twice; his shirt is ripped off within seconds, dragged up that shredded, firm body.

I push the cake plate to one side of the table, out of my way. Scoot forward so I’m in front of him, fingers drifting to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning the fly below his belly button.

Give a soft tug.

He’s a quick study, and his ass rises so I can tow the denim down over his hips. Skim the pants down his thighs and onto the floor.

“Take your dress off,” he utters quietly, the timbre and tone of his voice giving me goose bumps. Rhett watches me with hooded eyes; they’re at half-mast, lust-filled. Full of yearning and desire when the cold metal zipper of my dress whirs down its track.

Rhett braces himself up by the arms, watching me, following my movements like a starving man waiting for his next meal. I follow the lines of his body, the way he positions himself on the table, starting at his calves, working my way up his legs as he sits cross-legged on the table top. Over the bulge in his boxers, across his defined, washboard abs. His rock-hard pecs. Those incredible unyielding shoulders.

Flared nostrils. Serious expression.

My mouth waters a little at the sight of him sitting next to a cake, knowing what is inevitably going to be done with it.