But I don’t have to ask for it. Because she pushes up to her elbows, drags soft fingers down my pecs, then reads my thoughts perfectly. “Want me to ride you? Finish you off like that?”
I groan so loud I bet they can hear me in the town square. A bolt of fresh lust slams into me. “You are indeed an angel. It’s official.”
In seconds, we switch positions, me flat on my back.
She straddles me, rises over my cock, then lowers herself back down. The grin on her face is filthy as she takes me in again, slides her palms up my chest, and presses them against me.
Then gives me the best view in the entire universe.
Her tits bouncing up and down as she rises up, slams down, then does it over and over, annihilating my senses until white-hot magic pulls me under as I come hard inside my next-door neighbor.
Who I should not be fucking.
Not at all.
But right now, I don’t fucking care.
19
Liam
That cut dinner short.
And I regret nothing.
The possibility of sex is why I picked an easy recipe. Why I came home an hour early and made it.
So it’d be ready.
Because when you invite a woman over for dinner, you shouldn’t ignore her belly simply because you plan to enjoy her body for an appetizer.
Plus, I do like the possibility of dessert—her—and I’m hoping we get to have that course before Ethan returns in an hour and a half.
Ninety minutes.
I can do this.
I serve the pasta primavera, and we sit at the kitchen table.
“Speaking of recipes, did you follow one for this?” January digs her fork into the dish, waggles a piece of bow tie pasta on the tines, then pops it into her mouth, closing her luscious lips around the meal I made for her.
I smile, waggling my eyebrows. “I’m quite proud of myself for finding this recipe for your vegetarian heart and body. And one that doesn’t have too many vegetables I despise in it.” I take a bite of the pasta too.
She peers at the food. “So it’s green veggies on your verboten list. But you’re okay with . . . gray veggies?” She roots around on her plate, pointing to some of the mushrooms I picked up from the farmers market over the weekend.
What can I say? I was hopeful. Hopeful that I’d make dinner for her at some point, so I pregamed at the market.
“Mushrooms are good in my book.”
She pokes an artichoke, spears it, then holds it up like she’s captured it. “But artichokes? Aren’t they green?”
“Ah. That is a most excellent question,” I say, taking a bite, chewing, then answering her when I’m done. “I consider artichokes to be part of the so-called beige family of vegetables.”
“I had no idea beige was a family of vegetables.”
“Learn something new every day.”
“You are a font of knowledge.” She reaches for her glass of white wine and takes a healthy drink. When she sets down the glass, she picks up the fork again, pushes through the pasta, and lands on a slice of carrot. “And clearly orange vegetables are satisfactory, on account of not being green.”
“Yes, they do seem to pass my general vegetable test.”
She gestures to the salad she whipped up. The clever, creative salad. “Good thing I didn’t put Granny Smith apples or honeydew melons in there.”
“Your salad is the height of brilliance.”
With a naughty eyebrow arch, she blows on her fingernails. “Pretty proud of that one.”
“As you should be, you temptress.” My eyes shift to the absolutely delicious fruit salad she made. I tap my fork on the side of the bowl. “See? This is my idea of a perfect salad. Peaches. Pitted cherries. And raspberries. You are a genius.”
Just to make my point, I dip my fork in, snag a peach, and savor every juicy bite of it.
She laughs. “You do like sweet things, Liam.”
I arch one brow. “You’re just figuring this out now?”
“I’m simply pointing it out now.”
I lean in closer to her, my face inches away from hers. “I love sweet things. All sorts of sweet things. I enjoy all the sweetest tastes around.” Because I can’t resist how very sweet she is, I press a kiss to her cheek, sighing happily as I inhale her decadent scent. Maybe it’s peaches—perhaps it’s cherries. Whatever it is, her scent goes to my head.
She sets down her fork, shuddering the slightest bit. She slides a thumb across my jaw, then says, “How sweet am I?”
I bring my lips to hers, dusting a soft, barely-there kiss across them, murmuring, “The sweetest. You are absolutely the sweetest, January.”
“Am I?” It comes out flirty.
I answer in kind, as I dust my lips along her neck, up to her ear, nipping that earlobe once more. “You taste and smell incredible. Your hair, your skin, your lips, and your absolutely delicious pussy that I would really like to kiss and lick and suck again tonight.”
