“I need to take care of Goose,” he says, standing close to me as he tugs at the lapel of my peacoat. “At my place.”
“Ahhh.” My voice has a slight teasing lilt, but my body is filled with full-blown desire. “I see. So we need to go back toyour placejust so we can take care of Goose?”
He nods, very seriously, pulling me closer to him until I slip my arms around his waist.
“Exactly. It will only take five minutes. Maybe ten. Depending on what Goose needs and what’s in that bag of yours—twelve hours tops.”
I laugh, and he does too. Then he kisses me, deep and slow like he did at the brewery. He tastes like hot chocolate and maple syrup and moves his mouth with sexy precision. Like every swipe of his tongue and scrape of his teeth is working toward something. Dessert after a dinner filled with it. We connect at the mouth but every nerve ending across my body starts thrumming with life.
When we pull apart, we go to his place.
Jay’s camper is a sight to behold: a large silver capsule with big windows and a patio area wrapped in colorful strands of Christmas lights. It belongs on a Christmas card with the lineWish you were here!
“Before we go inside,” I say, my mouth going bone dry as his hand stills on the handle of the silver door. “I’m wondering how frequently you do this sort of thing?” His eyes meet mine and I tighten the belt of my coat. “Bring women home, I mean. I don’t need exact numbers, just more to understand if this is what we are doing and then that’s it or if, I don’t know, we do it again. Or am I kicked out of the club. Or ...” This is not going well. “You’re a good-looking man. I would expect you find yourself in this situation.” His lips tug to one side; I clear my throat. “I haven’t had sex in nearly two years. I need to go into this—” I wave my finger back and forth between us. “This, knowing if this is for tonight or if it’s maybe—” I pause. Swallow. “Longer?”
“What do you want?” he asks, taking my hand in his and angling his head to meet my eyes. “Do you want to come in here once and that’s it?”
The man could be a bag of milk in bed and I’d still want to come back here.
I bite my lip. “A different option might be better.”
“Good.”
In my belly: butterflies.
He tugs the door open and Goose barks then pounces on him before darting outside. My attention is already all over the interior, touching every surface like I’m blind and it’s Braille. Like if I don’t feel it all beneath my fingertips, I’ll never comprehend it. The walls are rounded toward the ceiling making it a bit like I imagine a submarine would be. It’s new but vintage. A little retro farmhouse. To the immediate right, a sleek leather sofa under a window lined with Christmas lights and a small coffee table on a plaid printed rug. At one end on the floor, there’s a doggy bed and a stand holding two dishes.
Jay closes the door once I’m fully inside, and I feel his eyes glued to me.
To my left, a little strip of kitchen cabinets lines one wall. A small sink, small stove, small bright red refrigerator, and a coffee pot. A single magnet pins a large family photo of what I assume to be Jay, his parents, and brother and sister with their families. On the wall above the kitchen counter, a row of four hooks, which hold mismatched mugs. Across from the cabinets, a small dinette table with bright red cushioned seats and a butcher-block tabletop—complete with a mini Christmas tree under a wall full of windows. Outside: a tree line and darkness.
Down a short hall, there are two closed doors.
Jay clears his throat. “So this is it.”
I nod but say nothing, trying to absorb it all. This camper is a fraction of the size of my house, but it’s incredible. Small, but incredible.
I look at him, he’s—“Are you nervous?”
He stuffs one hand in his pocket, a little pink splashing his cheeks for the first time ever as he strokes his mustache with the other. It’s utterly adorable. “I know it’s different than you’re used to. There’s not a lot of room for four kids to?—”
My eyes widen. “You’ve thought of my kids being here?”
“I’ve thought of you being here,” he says, leaning a hip against the small kitchen counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “So, yeah, I’ve thought about what that would look like if you ever brought them. The table turns into a bed. So does the sofa.”
Being a mom makes you weird because those unassuming words send a shot of desire straight through me and nearly melts off my panties.
I shrug out of my coat and hang it on a hook next to a flannel then slip my phone out of my pocket and set it on the counter.
“That,” I say with a lift of my chin as I stand next to him, “is incredibly hot of you to think about.”
He hooks a hand around my waist and drags me to him, kissing me on the mouth with an amused rumble in his chest. My body responds like a lit match to a dry Christmas tree: consumed.
He presses against me; I moan.
Then I feel him.
Hard.
