Because a few more swipes of his tongue, and she’d have spontaneously come. No shit.
Of their own accord, her hands grazed his flat navel, feeling hot skin and that tempting happy trail leading down into his jeans. She followed it, her southern region continuing its steady stream.
And then he stepped back.
Far enough that her hands fell away, a foot of space between them, and a decade’s worth of precious hate.
Cupping the back of his neck, he blew out a breath.
“We don’t have to stop,” she whispered, Jose Cuervo speaking instead of Chloe Morgan. “It’s still the traditional booty call hour.”
He laughed shortly, but not in amusement.
And the timer on the oven sounded. A literal buzzkill.
“If only you could be a simple piece of ass.” Wincing in pain, he reached down to adjust himself. “This zipper’s cutting off my circulation.”
“Then lower it.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Umm, yeah,” she pointed out, gesturing toward an impressive denim-outlined erection. “You would, too.”
“Coming back here was a mistake,” he muttered, his libido cooling far faster than hers, based on his irritated movements.
Pulling the muffins out of the oven—something she’d been too distracted by a needy vagina to do—he all but threw the pans onto the counter, metal clanking against granite.
“Hey, be careful,” she warned, panic replacing her passion. “You’re gonna split the tops.”
Inspecting her three dozen drunk muffins, she shot him a dirty look. “These are for a paid event. I charged the bride seventy-two dollars a dozen.”
“Seventy?” He was aghast. “And you can’t fix the fucking air conditioner?”
“Seventy, plus two,” she corrected, in the same sarcastic tone he was using. “And I could fix the air conditioner, if she purchased two hundred dozen! Geez, what’s your problem?”
“My problem is this,” he said, pointing to his erection still raring to go. “Now I’ve gotta handle a boner tonight, on top of everything else. All because you couldn’t bother with a bra.”
Taking a moment to visualize him handling his boner, she couldn’t resist. “How exactly will you handle it? Slow and easy? Maybe light a candle, put on some stepsister porn, and weep in shame afterward? Or just jackhammer it out and be done with it?”
Slipping on an oven mitt, she transferred the muffins to cooling racks. “And where will it happen? The sofa? Your old twin bed? The daybed on the porch? No detail is too small.”
His smile was slow and positively sinful.
“The shower,” he said, but gave no specifics on pace. “And you’ve gone dirty on me.”
Laughing, her grin was flirty, her attention on the muffins. “You love it.”
It was an innocent reply. No malice intended. But suddenly . . .
You could cut the air with a butter knife.
“I did love you,” he said roughly, the confession so low she barely heard it.
Looking up, she held her breath, waiting for more. Waiting for . . .
I still love you.
But he didn’t say it. Instead, he stared at her with distant eyes. “And I do want you,” he added, the bulge in his jeans testifying. “But goddamn, Chloe, you make me hate myself for it.”
The harsh declaration reverberated long after he left the kitchen.
Right there, next to his cloud of judgment.
“Yeah, well, no muffin for you, then,” she called out sarcastically. “And I’m taking the booze too!”
Her only consolation?
The sound of the shower running overhead.
The walls were closing in.
Or maybe it was the boxes. Stacked one on top of the other, floor to nearly ceiling.
Filled with everything from utility bills long paid and years old to dog-eared Christmas cards sent from people he never met, to school pictures, family photos, grocery receipts, and dried flowers stuffed into envelopes.
And that was after a cursory opening of the cardboard tower blocking the A/C vent in the living room.
He’d not opened them by choice. Necessity, by reason of ninety-degree weather, facilitated it. Curiosity, after sliding them away from the vent to find the antiquated system blowing warm air, made him tear open a few.
It was as if his dad turned over drawers and emptied them straight into the boxes, not bothering to sift through and toss out the unimportant.
Jameson spent most of the night doing just that, collecting a few mementos and a slew of full trash bags. Nothing he came across offered clues about the missing money.
Nor did the task wipe away the lingering taste of Chloe and her tequila-fueled kiss.
After a quick but necessary shower—he was locked and loaded after a minute long make-out session—he prowled the rooms of Maine Lane, knowing merciful sleep would elude him.
Never was there a time when Chloe Morgan’s betrayal relented. Never had she let him rest. Not awake. Not asleep. Not in ten long years.
Last night proved it.
So, with a cup of coffee in hand—no shot of bourbon should he want a little hair of the dog, since she took the liquor along with her muffins—he sat on the top step of the back porch, watching the sky turn hazy blue as dawn broke over the Atlantic. Wondering how such a beautiful love story ended with such tragedy.
He was talking about him and Chloe, of course.
But also another couple. Jonah and Lydia.
Because those boxes held more than the inside of every drawer in Maine Lane. They contained a paper trail detailing his parents’ love story. Movie ticket stubs, restaurant receipts, playbills from date nights in the city. Sappy anniversary cards and random love letters—all PG, thank fucking God.
All poignant reminders that two destined people had shared a great life, supported by an even greater love, until suffering the greatest of losses.
And loss was something that other couple knew about, too.
A couple no longer but sharing the property—and an ill-advised kiss.
Cursing, Jameson rubbed his scratchy eyes. He knew he needed sleep when pussified words like poignant came to mind.
His phone rang about the same time the caffeine kicked in. Nico, a former SEAL teammate, explosives expert, and fellow diver on the oil rig.
“How’d you know I’d be up?” Jameson answered, greetings and salutations not necessary with Nico.
“Dude, you don’t sleep more than six hours during the best of times. Figured you’d be down to three during the worst.”
They weren’t roommates. They’d just run hundreds of capture-kill missions together over the years, sharing the pressures of time on the battlefield, and the finger-thrumming downtime off it.
If Jameson had a best friend, which he didn’t since the only bestie he ever wanted was an annoying little muffin maker, it would be Nico.
“Three would be a luxury.”
“That bad?”
He downed more coffee, then stretched his neck muscles.
“Could be worse, I guess.” He could have slept with Chloe last night. “Could be better.” He could have slept with Chloe last night.
Either option came with regret.
“You’ve been home, what? Five days now?”
“Florida’s my home,” he corrected. “And yeah, I drove straight through. Got here Monday.”