Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Murphy raises her hands and rests them gently on my shoulders. I take that as encouragement to continue and move my fingers again.

I stroke against the material of her shorts, reveling in the dampness I can feel beginning to soak through the fabric.

“Are you wet for me?” The question comes out practically a growl.

“Yes, Chef,” she says, her words a breathy moan that hit me square in the chest.

Fuck.

Murphy closes her eyes, digging her fingers into my shoulders as her hips begin to shift and search for what she wants.

But I grip her firmly, slowing her movement until her eyes fly open and connect with mine.

“Don’t move.”

Murphy stills, but desperation lingers in her eyes.

I continue stroking her, lightly at first, a gentle pressure that’s meant to tease her, before pressing more firmly to get a deeper reaction, then lightly again.

Minutes go by, and I can only imagine the torture building up inside of her, because it’s certainly growing inside of me. A deep, pulsing throb that reverberates through my entire body.

She digs her fingers into my shoulders, her head falling back. Her eyes close and her mouth opens with a thready cry. She tremors under my hands as a climax works its way through her body. As she comes down from the high, I watch her in awe. The sight of her falling apart is the most erotic thing I’ve seen in my entire life.

She pants, attempting to catch her breath, as her gaze returns to mine, a lazy smile on her face.

I smile back at her, but it slips away as she reaches for my belt.

Her body freezes as I grip her hands, halting her movements.

And in that moment, I know any of the endorphins that were racing through Murphy’s body have very suddenly and dramatically disappeared.

“Wha—” she starts but abruptly cuts off whatever she was about to say.

Then she’s pushing me out of the way and hopping down off the counter.

“Are you kidding me?” She rounds the counter in the center of the kitchen and stands on the other side.

Something slices through my chest when I realize she’s actively seeking physical distance from me.

“Look, Murphy—”

“Don’t fucking look, Murphy me. You just made me come.”

I wince, feeling the fire I allowed myself to play with burn and singe.

“And I’m glad I could do that for you,” I say, the sound of my own words making me sick to my stomach. “But that’s really as far as this can go.”

She watches me, an incredulous look on her face.

“You’re glad you could do that for me?” she echoes, her voice coming out high-pitched and awkward. “What the fuck was this?”

She looks … mortified. Regret slams into me, but not fast enough to right the wrong.

Murphy huffs out a laugh and then she’s gone, out of the kitchen, her little Keds stomping against the smoothed concrete in the dining room before I hear the front door of the restaurant open and then close.

All the different things I should have said come to mind in that moment.

It’s not a good idea.