Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Then her eyes mimic mine, closing briefly as she begins to chew.

I watch her, enraptured. Because never has someone else eating my food given me so much pleasure before.

She nods her head as she delights in my culinary creation, and when her lids flutter open again, that same look is there. Needy and desirous. My eyes drop to her lips where the sage butter left behind a sheen reflecting in the light of the kitchen.

I resist the urge to lean forward and take her mouth with mine. Instead, I shove that thought aside and cut another piece, take a bite, then lift the other half for her again.

I repeat this several times until we’ve finished the dish, nothing but a layer of butter and seeds left on the plate.

“That was incredible,” she tells me. “You sure do know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, I do,” I say, the thickness in my voice betraying the alternate meaning. I may know my way around the kitchen, but I know my way around a woman’s body just as well. Maybe better.

I let my mind wander, imagining her legs wrapped around me, her hands lifting my shirt, my fingers slipping under the little sweater that she put on and cupping her breast.

My eyes drop down when I feel something against where I’m braced on the counter, then widen in surprise to discover Murphy’s little finger is tucked against the side of my hand.

Without thinking, I shift my hand slightly, my fingers tracing gently around her wrist. I hear her breath catch in her throat, and when I look up into her eyes, that needy look is still there.

“This okay?” I trail a path up her calf and past her knee, my hand coming to a rest on her bare thigh.

Her head bobs, but she doesn’t say anything.

And I get it.

There’s something delicate here, something fragile that could snap and break at any moment.

I feel just boozy enough on the wine and far too drunk on her to pay my own internal warning system any further notice. I can smell the subtle notes of her perfume over the diminishing scent of dinner, and it’s intoxicating.

I slide my hand upward, rubbing in gentle circles, my eyes never leaving hers. Her pupils begin to dilate and her breathing picks up pace the farther up my hand travels.

I move so my body is directly in front of her, her legs hanging off the edge of the counter on either side of me.

I’m playing with fire. I can feel it in my skin, in my bones, in the tiny cells pumping their way through my veins.

But I can’t stop.

Part of me wants to believe that if we’re barely touching, it doesn’t count. That just this tiny little movement isn’t anything to be truly worried about.

I have both hands on her now, one on each thigh, my thumbs stroking and massaging, then slipping just barely under the hem of her shorts. The skin there is just slightly warmer, and it’s suddenly driving me crazy that I can’t feel the rest of her. All of her.

“This okay?” I ask again.

She nods this time with her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in labored breaths that pick up pace as I reach the crease of her thigh.

“How about … this?” I whisper, one thumb stroking gently down the seam pressed against her core.

She gasps audibly, her eyes growing hooded. Her tongue pressing against the ridge of her front two teeth.

Her hips shift minutely under my hands, so I stroke her again, my dick growing firmer with each second of contact between us.

When she whimpers, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to come just from that little noise alone.

“Wes,” she whispers.

I shake my head, not wanting her to say anything else.

There’s too much risk of either of us realizing the mistake we’re making, and I feel too far gone to let my conscience get any louder than it is.