“Huh?” my addled brain asks but sends the message to my arm on which cabinet to point to.
My fingers tug on the hem of his shirt, greedy to explore the hard plains of his torso.
“Forks?”
Since my hands are busy, my head indicates with an angled tilt which drawer to pull open.
Finally, I mentally cheer when his shirt is bunched up enough for me to seal my lips over his sun-kissed, tanned chest. His skin is warm and smooth like satin. As my lips attack his torso, my hands frenetically grapple the button and zipper of his shorts.
A long masculine finger eases my chin up until I’m forced to meet Mason’s blue eyes. They scorch me with their desire as they slowly drag across my face, his intense visual inspection making my core throb with anticipation.
“Ready to eat?”
The deep huskiness of his voice causes tingling goose bumps to erupt from my neck to my ankles.
If by eat, he means hot, sweaty, mindless sex, then, yes.
Mason presses a kiss to my forehead, then to the tip of my nose. “Brandon, could you grab the pan with the pasta?”
My eyes flutter closed at the sweetness of his kisses, then immediately pop wide open.
Brandon?
The lust clouding my senses evaporates quicker than a raindrop on a hot sidewalk when my brother replies, “On it.”
Oh. My. God.
How much did he see? When did he get here? How long has he been standing in the kitchen?
“Hope bottled water, soda, or iced tea is okay. That’s about all we have,” I hear Brandon say through the sheer panic and mortification quickly overtaking me.
“Ladybug, your choice. Water, soda, or iced tea?” Mason casually asks me, like my hand isn’t currently shoved down his shorts and inside his underwear.
I blink. Blink again.
“Iced tea,” I automatically answer, then… being about as subtle as an elephant in a room full of mice, I jerk back when I realize where my hand is. I’m going to hell.
The smirking grin he sends me just adds to my flustered state.
Spurred into action by absolute embarrassment, I slide off the counter and slip out from under Mason. I don’t get far when he curls a finger in my belt loop and reels me back in. I push, and he pulls.
“Mason.”
“Aria.”
Picking up the foil-covered glass baking pan, Brandon watches our tug-of-war with amused interest.
“Inside or outside?” he asks.
Two sets of male eyes look at me and wait for an answer.
I sigh in defeat, clearly outnumbered. “Outside.”
“I’ll grab the blanket.” Brandon uses his foot to slide the back door open, then disappears out onto the deck.
After Mom and Dirk married, I started coming up with silly “traditions” to do with Brandon, like Sunday pancakes or Christmas Eve movie nights where we would pile blankets and pillows on the floor next to the tree and eat all the sugar cookies we made while watchingDie Hard—which is totally a Christmas movie, no matter what anyone says. Another thing we liked to do was have picnic dinners under the stars, which we did often. Brandon and I have kept up our traditions over the years, and I’ll miss them, miss him, when he goes off to college and starts adulting.
“He’s a good kid. Has a much better head on his shoulders than I did at eighteen. You’re doing a great job with him, Aria.”
