“I made you dinner.” He led her over to the kitchen, where a steaming silver pot of red minestrone soup and fresh French bread waited. He’d thought to keep it light; he’d thought about including a salad, knowing how they both felt about the importance of vegetables, but opted to keep it simple. Who knew how their bodies would react to so much fiber; he didn’t want to be embarrassed in the throes of . . .
“And the surprises keep coming . . .” She sniffed it. “Smells delicious, babe.”
“My mom’s recipe.”
Ainsley gave a gasp. “Your mom shared the minestrone soup recipe with you? The top-secret, not-outside-the-family recipe?”
“No, I found it in her kitchen.”
“So you stole us the recipe.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I see. Are we going to have to go on the lam now?”
He shook his head, pulling out silverware. “On the lam?” he asked with disdain.
She ignored him. “I can have my hair cut and dyed in an hour. We’ll travel light, set up a little roadside stand near the beach, and sell our illicit soup to weary travelers . . .”
“Stop.” She was just making him more nervous, and their food was getting cold. The sooner they ate, the sooner they could get on with it. Or rather, get it on. “First of all, everyone knows people at the beach mostly want clam chowder from Mo’s.”
“True.” She snagged a piece of bread and took a bite. “You think we should go farther inland?”
“Secondly, we’re not going anywhere,” he said, steering her toward the table. “Let’s eat.”
“Right.” She rubbed her hands together greedily. “Let’s fuel up. We’ll need the calories for our life on the run.”
“I just said we’re not going anywhere!” he said gruffly. “Now sit down.”
“What’s got you in a mood today?” she asked, sinking into her seat at the table. “Rough day of sleep?” She looked at her phone, frowning. “Wait, shouldn’t you be at work right now?”
“I’m transitioning back to days.”
Ainsley clapped her hands excitedly. “Are you serious?”
“I’m usually serious.”
“This is so great! Now we can actually do stuff together!”
Speaking of which . . . He cleared his throat. “Yes. It’s good news. Now let’s eat, your food is getting cold.” My feet, too.
She put down her bread. “Kiss me first,” she murmured. “When we get good news, we kiss. It’s a thing.”
Since they were both sitting, it was easier than it sometimes was. In fact, it was so easy that he kissed her a bit longer than he might’ve otherwise. Touched her a bit more, too, since he wasn’t tired from a long night of work. Being with her was a comfort; he’d spent all day thinking about her. He relished the sweet little noises she was making now, as she climbed into his lap. Wait, no. We have to eat first. She wasn’t sticking to the script . . . which was probably unfair, because she hadn’t seen the script. Next time, maybe he would email her a copy of the night’s agenda with time for amendments. That would prevent misunderstandings like this.
“Did Winnie say when she’d be back?” she murmured as she kissed his neck.
“Out all night,” he breathed. Kyle nuzzled her with his nose, searching for her lips against his again, pressed her harder, and their tongues tangled like two salmon he’d once seen spawning. They were just as wet, too. Kissing was really weird; good, but weird.
God, she was really going after him . . . It felt good. Really good. Her hands skimmed over his chest, moving restlessly. He could taste her desperation on his tongue, and guilt gnawed at him. He should’ve done this earlier. No matter. He’d do it now. Ainsley squeaked as he stood up, supporting her under her legs. She wouldn’t see the rose petals he’d scattered in the hallway if he was carrying her, but he didn’t dare stop her now. He crushed them under his socked feet as he marched down the hallway toward her bedroom. Things were moving in the right direction, and objects in motion tended to stay in motion . . . Did sex have its own physics, or did it mirror the rest of the natural world? If he stopped her now, he was fairly sure it would require some friction . . . but not the kind she was looking for. Not the kind he’d committed to if he wanted to keep her. And he wanted to keep her very, very badly.
He’d scattered more rose petals on her denim down comforter; he’d had to make the bed first, but then he’d scattered them. He didn’t love what a slob she was, but maybe when he lived with her, he could reform her. It hadn’t worked with any other facet of her personality, but he would try nonetheless. She was clawing at his shirt as he laid her gently on the bed, and he shucked it off for her. Her hands against his skin were hot, and it ratcheted up his desire another notch. Her mouth never stopped moving against his; she probably didn’t even realize she was groaning. Poor girl. Well, she’d feel better in a few minutes, hopefully. He’d done significant research and was confident he could help her. He moved to unbutton her jeans (thank God for casual Friday; she could’ve been wearing something much more complicated), and she stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Her gaze was hazy and heated when it met his, her lips redder than usual from his kisses. He loved seeing her like that, and it spurred him on.
“What are you doing?” she breathed.
That didn’t, though.
Isn’t it obvious? Kyle didn’t answer; he’d already decided that since he knew she wanted this very much, he didn’t need to stop unless she asked him to. Flipping her shirt up, he kissed her stomach, and she sighed, threading her fingers into his hair, gently scratching his scalp. She felt good, tasted good, even. That surprised him a little. Maybe this wouldn’t be as hard as he’d thought.
“Kyle, honey? What’s happening here?” Now that her mouth wasn’t occupied, her brain seemed to have re-engaged as well. Crap. “Are these . . . rose petals? When did you light candles?”
“They’re electric. Real is a hazard,” he murmured against her skin as he came back up to kiss her neck. Apparently, it had been a mistake to leave her top half unattended. If she was distracted enough, she wouldn’t ask questions or make him remember or recant what he’d said before about this. His own words slammed back into him like a battering ram: 91 percent effective. Look at Starla and Charlie. I can see us together. Can’t you? That future was what had given him pause: When his father had explained sex to him as a kid, he’d told him that he should wait until he was married. It didn’t matter now that he knew other people did things differently; an order had been established in his mind. And he found that very difficult to subvert in any context.
“Kyle?”
“I changed my mind,” he said, kissing back toward her mouth. “I want you.” Technically true. “I want to have sex with you. Now.” He tried to go in for another sultry kiss, but she turned her face away. Uh-oh.
“Did you?” she asked lightly, scratching his back with her fingernails gently. “Talk me through that decision, will you?”
“Sure,” he said, resting his body against hers, hoping to distract her again. “I thought about it, and you’re right. There’s no reason to wait.” He kissed her again, and she let him, but the heat wasn’t there. Damn it. He felt sweaty and panicky; this wasn’t going at all how he’d planned it. He wasn’t sure he could work himself up again like this anytime soon if it wasn’t going to happen tonight. And her roommate was out tonight. The pressure felt like a vise on his skull. This is it, this is the perfect time. It has to be now.