I follow Brett into his house, expecting the inside to have a similar feel as the outside, but the interior is modern, bright, and cozy. His place is clean, and I shouldn’t find it surprising, but after living with Ace for so long and being the only one who would ever clean, it’s something to notice.
Brett flips on the lights as we continue walking through the open concept. "You’re so neat and orderly.” I’m stating the obvious, but it’s something worth mentioning. Most men are not this clean.
“The habit was drilled into me for years. If you ask my mother about me being neat, she would laugh. I used to make her nuts, leaving messes everywhere I went."
He leads me into the living room area and gestures to the couch. "Have a seat," he says. "I’ll get us a couple of drinks."
I plop down onto his plush sofa and make myself comfortable between a mess of throw pillows. Most men don’t decorate with throw pillows, but it’s my favorite part of a comfortable sofa. He has good taste. Maybe someone decorated for him. I can see Parker being picky about decorations. She might have had a say in some of the decor.
Brett returns with two glasses and a small amount of bourbon in each glass. "This is another good one," he says. "Quinn White Mountain."
Dad rarely brought those bottles home. He had his favorites and stuck with them.
"Are you missing the South right now with all this snow?" Brett asks.
I look out toward his back porch through his oversized windows, watching the crystal flakes fall in front of his dim outdoor lights. "Nah, I’m happy to be home."
Brett leans forward for a small remote and presses a button, bringing his fireplace to life.
"Impressive," I tell him. "Is there a Marvin Gaye button too?" I bite down on my bottom lip, teasing him. Maybe he knew the restaurant was closed. This could all be a part of his plan, getting me to his house alone.
Though, I think I’m okay with the direction tonight is heading.
"Whoa, slow down there," he says. "You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?"
He has hands up in defense as if I’m accusing him of this imaginary plan working out so perfectly. "I only wanted to order delivery and warm up by the fire. I don’t know where your mind is at ..."
He’s trying to embarrass me, or make me blush, but I can hold my own too.
There’s space between us on the couch, so maybe his intentions are innocent. He takes his drink from the coffee table and takes a small sip. "Try it," he says.
I take my glass, but he places his hand on mine before I take a sip. "Close your eyes when you take a taste. It’s easier to determine the flavors." He asked me to close my eyes last time too. It works. "Your other senses become stronger when you block one out."
"I taste honey and vanilla," I tell him.
When I open my eyes, he has a prideful grin. "You’re getting good at this," he says.
"I’m a natural-born bourbon-taster," I jest.
I place my glass down while feeling Brett’s gaze burn against the side of my face. My heart beats a little faster, wondering what he’s thinking—wondering what’s on his mind.
"Are you cold?" he asks.
"A little, but I’m warming up.”
He takes a throw blanket from the other side of the sofa and wraps it around my shoulders, removing all the space between us. I lose my focus on the flames in the fireplace, feeling Brett’s breath tickle the side of my neck. A kiss beneath my ear sends thrilling chills through every inch of my body. "Did you wash your hair again?" he mutters into my ear.
"Maybe," I tease.
Brett touches his hand to my cheek and crashes his lips against mine, stealing my breath, stopping my pulse; creating chaos in the core of my body. This kiss is different from the others, there’s heat behind his lips, there’s power and control—a desire stronger than before. I melt into the mess of pillows I was leaning against, watching his body flex over mine as he continues to steal my lips as if they were once taken from him.
The weight of his body warms me from the inside out, the scent of his cologne is mild, but the slight spice is something I could inhale all day and never get sick of. His hands slide up the back of my shirt, the heat from his touch burns my sensitive skin, and I want to beg for more of everything. I tug at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head, finding more artwork, rigid muscles, and perfection in every form. My shirt is next to go, and our bodies are flush, creating friction and need. His hands skate up the center of my torso, cupping my breast as his lips travel down the base of my neck. My body craves more, arching in toward his.
With a quick swivel of his fingers, my bra falls loose, and in the same second, the doorbell rings.
My eyes flash open. Brett’s eyes close, and he scrunches his nose with frustration. "We ordered food," he says.
"We did," I laugh, holding my arm over my face.
