I scoot to the edge of the bed and pull her between my thighs. “Give me a couple more hours.”
“It’s already ten.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” I lightly knead her clit through her peach-colored thong.
“Okay,” she pants. “But only one hour.”
One hour turned into three, then I reluctantly deliver Cocoa to her grandmother’s doorstep at one thirty.
It never crossed my mind that Maverick and I could be spending Thanksgiving together. So much has happened in the past forty-eight hours. We even shared our first real kiss, and it was epically amazing.
My fingertips coast along my throat and my breaths quicken, recalling his thorough exploration of my body last night. I’m still sore.
“Girl, stir those mashed potatoes.” My grandmother swats my behind. “And turn the fire down before they burn at the bottom.”
She stands next to me at the stove, frying chicken wings.
“Sorry,” I mumble, doing as instructed.
“Your head has been in the clouds since this morning.” Her perceptive gaze slowly roams over me and my cheeks heat. “You in love?”
“N-no,” I stutter.
“I was young once too, ya know,” she states, wagging her finger at me. “Your fast tail stayed out late two nights in a row.”
“Grandma,” I gripe.
Several family members bustle around the kitchen assisting in preparations for today’s feast and she’s airing my dirty laundry. Though busy at their assigned tasks, they’re actively eavesdropping.
The Matthews love them some juicy gossip. I was able to slip away for a couple hours yesterday and got back around midnight to find my grandmother waiting in the dark living room for me. She clicked on the lamp, scaring me half to death, then ordered me to sit.
To my mortification, she proceeded to discuss the birds and the bees.
“Don’t you ‘Grandma’ me, child.” She swats my butt again, this time with an oven mitt instead of her hand.
“Ouch,” I whine dramatically, though I felt nothing.
Aunt Renee purses her lips, attempting to suppress her mirth as she drizzles glaze on the Bundt cake at the counter. Being the only girl and the youngest of five kids, she couldn’t get away with half the stuff her brothers did. She knows all too well the tight ship Bertha Anne Matthews runs.
“My mama would’ve whooped my backside had I ran the streets all hours of the night like a trollop,” my grandma states, using tongs to take the crispy chicken out of the hot grease and place the pieces on a draining rack.
“Trollop?” I giggle.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she admonishes and raises her hand to swat my derriere for a third time, but I dart away. “It’s not too late for me to tan your hide.”
“He’s lonely and has a difficult living situation,” I say, because Bertha Anne has a bleeding heart for tortured souls. “He needed a friend.”
Her ire dissipates. “Oh, well, I’m glad he has you.”
My phone chimes and I fish it out of my back pocket.
Maverick: I’m outside.
“He’s here!” I toss the spoon on the stove and race from the kitchen, stuffing my phone back into my pocket.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” my grandmother calls after me.
In my haste, I almost crash into my little cousins chasing each other through the crowded house.
