“I've always liked cute things,” he says, moving his hands down my sides, his gaze almost too intense to look at. And yet, I can't pull myself away either. “Soft, vulnerable things.”
“I'm not soft or vulnerable,” I huff as Ranger pushes the hair back from my face. His smile is lascivious, crafted in equal parts anger and lust. He's upset about what we've just discovered, but it's almost like looking at me soothes away some of that rage. I swallow a lump in my throat.
“It's okay to be soft and vulnerable sometimes. That's why I like that shit. It reminds me that I don't have to be on top of Mark Grandam, beating the shit out of him, to be happy. Life is balance, Chuck. Hard and soft. I'm too fucking hard sometimes; I need something to take the edge off.”
He curls a single finger under the waistband of my panties, one on either side as I stand there motionless, transfixed with him, with the hard line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, his gently slanted eyes, the dark blue color that reminds me of an endless galaxy.
“You put your panties on over your garter belt and thigh-highs,” he remarks, his smile turning several levels away from cute and charming, and much closer to lascivious. “Only a naughty girl knows you put the panties on top, so you can take them off without removing the rest.”
“I read it in a book somewhere!” I howl, but it's too late: Ranger is pushing them down my hips, dropping to his knees, so he can help me pull them over my shoes. After he got naked, he slipped his feet back into his boots, so at least we're both still wearing footwear.
He stands up and grabs the apron, tossing it over my head, and then turning me around to tie the back.
We've come full circle, haven't we? I think, remembering when I first stumbled onto his naked baking, how we almost had sex at his mother's house, how I couldn't forget this moment for the rest of my life, even if I tried.
“Let's make some dark chocolate avocado pudding,” he says finally, and I swear to god, I've never heard a word come out as sexually as pudding. Pudding. Holy shit. My hands twist together in front of my apron as Ranger moves back over to the counter, removing the lemon meringue pie from the oven and then grabbing a knife to cut the avocado in half. “Maybe some brownies, too.” He nods his chin in the direction of his discarded pants. “Check the back pocket—I think I have some weed in there. Wouldn’t say no to ‘special brownies’ right about now.”
I do as he asked, bending down to dig through the jeans when I realize that the room's gone completely silent.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see him staring at me with wide eyes and realize what I must look like.
Naked, wearing shiny shoes and thigh-highs, a frilly apron aaaaand … nothing else. The view must be, um, intense.
I barely have time to stand up and turn around before Ranger's there, pushing me up against the first island, his forehead to mine, his breathing harsh and ragged.
“Goddamn it, Chuck,” he murmurs, rubbing his face against mine. With a shudder, I close my eyes and grab onto the front of his apron. I'm not the only one trembling, apparently, and I can't get enough of this, of him.
“Oh, Ranger,” I whisper back, sliding my palms down the corded muscles in his arms. He responds with a shiver, putting his hands under my thighs and lifting me up to sit on the counter. Because of his height, and the height of the countertop, he's now settled comfortably between my thighs. I can feel the hardness beneath his apron, the same way I did that day in his mother's kitchen. “The twins and Church,” I start, swallowing hard as Ranger grinds against that fervent heat between my legs, “they were afraid for you to find out my secret; they were afraid you'd turn me into your sister.”
The laugh that escapes his throat is best described as bawdy, this dark sound that has my nipples tightening to hard points.
“Does it seem like I consider you a sister? Because if so, then I've either fucked up royally, or you've seen some kinky shit in your day.”
I snort a laugh, but the sound is cut off when Ranger crushes his mouth to mine.
Holy mother of unicorns, I think, throwing my arms around his neck.
Ranger's mouth is a fervid, wild mess of heat and blind need, but underneath it all, in the careful way he touches me, in the frantic beat of his heart as he presses his body to mine … there's affection and tenderness there.
He likes me! My brain squeals as we gasp, coming up for air and looking right at each other.
