“Is that so?” He slowly raises a brow. “And would this be one of those times?”
I nod in response, consumed by the deep ache in my chest to feel his lips pressed against mine.
Gently, he plucks the near-empty bowl from my hand and steps forward, a questioning stare pinned on my face, searching for something. I fumble, placing my hot water bottle on the counter in anticipation before he lowers his head and slants his mouth to meet mine. His hand slides to the back of my neck. Carefully, he captures my lips with a warm embrace. Sweet and tender, his other hand falls to my hip, pulling me closer to him. A stabbing pain punctuates the movement, but I’ve wanted this for too damn long to surrender to my endo.
I catch his lip with my teeth, challenging him, and he responds, slamming my back against the wall and pinning my hands above my head with one of his own.
Breathless, I feel my chest heave against his as he leaves my mouth, kissing along my jawline and down the nape of my neck.
The mixer roars in the back, angry it’s been left unattended for so long. “I should get that,” I say through shallow breaths.
“Leave it.” He presses another kiss to my lips, and I almost oblige him, leaving the buttercream to die.
“I can’t—” I grab his arms and walk him toward the counter, flicking the switch as a charged silence fills the new space. Liam’s back hits the counter. I undo his apron, slowly peeling it off him before relinquishing my attention to his buttons. Shirt free, I work a hand up, feeling the rough and lean ridges of his abdomen, so different from my soft curves. Power slices through me as I raise on my toes, inches from his lips, and his part as if on command at my proximity. His warm mouth grazes my lips in surrender, and then, as if he remembers this is some new competition we’re playing, he recaptures mine.
“We’re going to ruin the sponge if I don’t curl it soon,” I whisper.
“I’ll make you another one.” His mouth brushes against mine with his response, urgent and desperate.
“I don’t know. It’s a complicated sponge,” I tease, dragging a finger slowly down his chest and tracing the sculpted v along his pant line. His body quivers under my touch.
“Evie, please.” The ragged plea in his voice catches me off guard, and I meet his eyes. Air steals from my lungs at the look of longing held there like this is as much a fantasy of his as it’s always been of mine.
“You’ll have to beat the egg whites until they’re stiff.”
“I’ll beat whatever the hell you want,” he says between heaving breaths.
I bite back the snicker.
“Come here with your dirty-ass mind.” He wraps an arm around my back and hoists me up on the counter, untying and removing my apron. His hand runs under my shirt, and I try not to wince, knowing it’s running over a mess of scar tissue and dermal fibrosis where he has nothing but rugged ridges and smooth skin.
Liam’s fingers shoot off my stomach with a gasp. “Shit, Evie, your stomach is burning.”
“I’m so sorry. I had my hot water bottle close to scalding because it’s the only way to keep my flare under control. I didn’t think—” I blink back to my mess of reality. We knocked over the colored bowls at some point, and a rainbow is dripping down to the floor, scattering among a rash of sprinkles. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Right. Apparently I wasn’t either.” He smiles bashfully. “Let’s get you down from there, huh?” He offers out his hand.
“Oh, uhm. Yeah. I got it.” I go to pop down, but the movement of the past few minutes was too much for a day like today, so I stay put for a few moments longer.
And then, because my uterus is a thief of joy who simply cannot go more than five minutes without being the center of attention. It screams. Rather loudly. Everything inside of me roars with pain. Spots cloud my vision as a not-so-pleasant breathless wave takes hold of my body, and I fight to manage the words, “I’m blacking out.”
14
All I Do(nut) Is Dream of You
Stronghandsgripthetop of my arms as spots cloud my vision, and my head swirls like it’s disconnected from the rest of me.
The spasm sinks its claws further into my lower left side and rips my breath away before it reaches my lungs.
“What do you need?” Liam whispers against my forehead.
My head falls on his chest, and I relax a fraction.
The spots clear, but the someone-gave-Stabby-the-Uterus-a-knife-and-now-she’s-living-up-to-her-namesake sensation doesn’t dissipate.
“I need help getting down.”
He grabs my hand and lowers me off the counter. Flour and sugar cover me from head to toe. I sigh. I don’t have the spoons—the energy reserves—for a shower, but sticky sheets don’t sound pleasant either.
