Page 53 of Cherry Picking

She gives me a deadpan look. “What the fuck are you doing here, Maxwell?”

“I want you,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I shouldn’t have stopped you at the club. I wanted to kiss you then. I want to now. Excuses be damned.”

Her eyes go wide, lips parting. That penetrating gaze drags up and down my body, slowly assessing me. Part of me worries she’s second-guessing everything—all the late nights spent texting, her general attraction to me.

Then she grabs me by the front of my shirt, yanking me across the threshold. Our mouths crash together, lips on frantic lips. I aimlessly grope for the door behind me. Once I grab hold, I slam it shut, the flimsy frame rattling in our haste.

“You should get that reinforced,” I mumble against her lips.

She pulls back, shaking her head. “Shut up.”

The right side of my face curls into a smirk. I kiss her again, savoring the softness of her mouth. She tastes so sweet. Smells even sweeter up close, like honey, rich vanilla, and jasmine.

When we break apart, she takes my hand, loops our fingers together, and draws me through the living area and toward the open door of her bedroom. It’s a one-bedroom apartment with nothing but the basics for furniture, but she’s made it homey in here.

There are plants everywhere, glowing lamps and string lights, and tons of mismatched frames that decorate the walls. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner covered in strands of fake pearls and dried blood orange slices tied up with string.

It’s how I imagine a modern-day witch might celebrate the holiday. Earthy and a little moody—it suits her.

In her room, the bed is full-sized, barely big enough for the two of us. She walks herself backward, dragging me with her until her thighs hit the edge of the mattress. One hand loops around my neck and tugs.

We tumble onto the soft mess of blankets together. She’s spread out on her back, smiling up at me as I brace myself, hands pressed beside her shoulders.

I haven’t had the opportunity to look at her this closely before. Only now do I see the beauty mark on the apple of her cheek, the small uneven dusting of freckles across her nose. She’s flushed, lips kiss-swollen.

Her ginger hair is fanned out on the pillow behind her, a white strand stuck to the corner of her mouth. I brush a finger across it, tucking it back behind her ear. Then my lips reattach to her neck.

I nip her pulse point and breathe in deep, savoring the sweet, honeyed scent of white flowers again.

“What is that?” I ask. “Your perfume?”

“Xochipilli,” she whispers, head back, neck still exposed to me.

I frown. “Say that again?”

She huffs, chin falling forward. When she perches on her elbows, I move back an inch to give her space.

“We’re making out on my bed in the middle of the night,” she says, exasperated. “And here you are, worried about the pronunciation of my perfume. Is that what you do with your girls on the road? Charm them with endless questions?”

“There are no girls on the road.”

Her brow wrinkles. “What?”

“There are—” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “—no girls.”

Her eyes narrow. “Well, that’s a lie.”

“It’s not. I haven’t been with anyone in over two years.”

I’ve made every excuse not to. I’ve been too tired after a game. I’ve said it’s not worth the effort of vetting them. That they don’t interest me enough to go back to their place, and especially not to bring them to mine.

Augie was right when he said I had a long dry spell. It’s just not a good investment of my time.

Evie stares up at me, gaze darting around my face. It’s like she’s trying to see through the layers, into the very soul of me, judging whether or not I’m feeding her a line. I wouldn’t do that.

I don’t need to tell lies to get a woman into bed with me. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

Her thumb swipes across my bottom lip, traces the contours of my cheek and up across the bridge of my nose. Once she’s found whatever she’s been looking for, her smile grows—wider and wider until it cracks into laughter.