“Agreed.” Cort nods, his eyes gleaming, humoring me, before setting his beer bottle on the floor and covering my ankle again. “What else?” His voice drops lower as he tugs my foot into his lap and knuckles the arch of it.
“Guys are always like,I can’t wait to see her lips wrapped around my cock.” My masculine impression isn’t wavering. “How about a woman says, I can’t wait to see your head between my thighs?”
Cort arches a brow at me.
“It’s not an invitation. I’m just saying?—”
“Why isn’t it an invitation?” Cort questions, looking up at me at the same time he adds pressure against the bottom of my foot. My leg jerks, kicking at him.
“So, this is a booty call?”
When Cort doesn’t immediately answer, I throw my legs off the couch and rise. “I need more wine. And it’s time to glaze the cake.”
What is wrong with me? I’m not trying to pick a fight with him. I’m also not trying to seduce him. I just don’t understand what he’s doing here. And I don’t know why I’m tossing out sexual comments, when my brain keeps saying don’t go there.
Once back in the kitchen, I reach for the bottle of wine, but Cort is right behind me, and he covers my hand.
“Vale,” he whispers near my ear. “I’m here because I’ve missed you.” Sincerity fills his voice, and I turn to face him. He’s so close. Too close. Close enough I get a strong whiff of his now-familiar scent. Balsam fir and a hint of asphalt. Beer and mint on his breath. I close my eyes fighting the pull to him.
“I need to glaze the cake.” My comment rumbles in my throat, choking down the admission of how much I’ve missed him.
“Bee.” He cups the side of my neck with one hand, and I glance up at him. His mouth is inches from mine, holding still, waiting for my permission. And I gently push against his chest.
“Cake,” I whisper. The weight of his absence still weighs heavily on me. I need more time to pull myself together and tap down my conflicting desires.
I want him. I want him not. I just want him to want me.
Cort steps back, giving me the space I need to brush the honey glaze on the top of each layer, allowing the sticky sweetness to drip into the spongy cake. He has refilled my wine glass and leans against the counter while I work, diligently watching me stroke the pastry brush back and forth over each layer.
“Ready for round two of the movie?” I ask after cleaning up by sealing the glaze in a jar and lightly placing plastic wrap over each cake layer.
When Cort doesn’t answer, I glance at him, feet apart from me between the kitchen island and the sink counter.
“I want a second chance,” he states, holding his gaze on me. “With you.”
No words have ever surprised me more, and I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly our mouths clash. We are a frenzy of lips and tongues, roaming hands and the removal of his short-sleeved shirt. Ideally, he’d pick me up and pin me to the wall, but with his bum knee and bad back, I have another idea.
“Let’s go to my room.”
32
[Cort]
Never had an invitation been so sweet, nor had I expected to hear it a second time.
Following Vale to her bedroom the first time I made a house call was like an out-of-body experience. I’d walked the halls of this house thousands of times but always stopped at one particular bedroom door. My best friend’s.
Just like the last time, I breeze past that doorway, and head to the final room.
On that other night, Vale was mumbling under her breath about never sneaking boys into her room before, and as much as I wanted to remind her then that I am a man, Vale is well aware of that point by now.
When she walked through the house, locking doors and turning off lights before climbing the stairs tonight, I had a strange sense of doing this every night with her. Maybe not in this house, but mine.
Once we reach her bedroom, Vale remains silent. The space is tight. Her double bed takes up most of the room along with a slim dresser and a wicker chair in the corner.
“Having second thoughts?” I ask as she stands near the foot of her bed, still not speaking.
“Just seems so strange, right? You in my room. After all this time.”
