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Drying the plate, he puts it with the rest of the clean dishes. “You okay?” he says, bending his knees a bit so he can look me in the eye.
“What?” I take the bar rag from his hand and turn away, pretending it’s because I want to wipe down the counters when I really want to do it get away from the way he’s looking at me. Like he can see right through me. Knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Yeah, just—are you sure your uncle is okay with us using the kitchen like this?” I lean over the prep area, wiping its spotless surface clean.
He doesn’t answer me right away and I stop what I’m doing to look at him. “Are we going to get in trouble?” I ask, looking around the kitchen, suddenly worried that we didn’t put things back the way we found them.
He grins at me and shakes his head. “Trouble?” He takes the bar towel from me and tosses it in the sink. “No. We’re not going to get in trouble for using the kitchen.” He takes my hand and pulls me through the door, toward the pool table. Letting go of my hand, he stoops to stick a key into the side of the table, releasing the balls in a loud, clanking rush. “Loser folds,” he says, straightening himself to choose a pool cue.
I’m better than the average pool player but Patrick is a shark. We both know I’m going to end up folding laundry but I take the cue he’s offering me. “You’re on.”
An hour and three games later, Patrick dumps a basket of warm, clean laundry onto the pool table. “Get busy,” he tells me, fishing a random sock out of the pile with a shit-eating grin.
“Get busy,” I mimic him, picking up one of his T-shirts, matching its corners carefully before folding in half. He laughs at me before digging in to help me.
“No one likes a sore loser, Cari,” he tells me, folding a pair of my yoga pants.
“No one likes an asshole either,” I shoot back, arching an eyebrow at him and he laughs, tossing a sock at my face.
“You do,” he says, pointing at himself, laughing. “Exhibit A.”
We fall into another stretch of silence, sorting and folding our laundry, this one heavier than the last. He folds one of my sundresses. A pair of my underwear. I watch him, standing there bare-chested, track pants slung low on his hips—so perfect I want to cry—purposely picking my clothes from the pile so he can fold them for me. Mushrooms and toast. My favorite songs on the jukebox. Doing my laundry. It’s so normal I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating—not because he’s coming on too strong or because he’s smothering me. Because I know that sooner or later, he’s going to figure it out. That girls like me don’t belong with guys like him. That he can do better. That he is better and I don’t want to wait until I’m comfortable and secure for the other shoe to drop. I want out. I want it over. Over and done with.
“I sneak my panties into your laundry on purpose.” From the corner of my eye, I can see that my admission stalls his hands for a second.
“Sadly, touching your underwear is the highlight of my week,” he says, shooting me a lopsided grin.
Because making things worse is sorta my things, I keep talking. “I don’t forget my lunch,” I tell him, gaze focused on the Oxford I’m folding. “I leave it on purpose so you’ll bring it to me.”
The grin on his face dims a bit. “I like taking it to you.”
I snatch another one of his shirts from the pile. “I know my robe is see-through. That’s why I wear it.”
His hands go still around the pair of shorts he’s folding. “I figured.”
“I went out with Chase to make you jealous.”
I’m almost relieved when I see him drop the smile completely. “Anything else you want to get off your chest?”
Anything else? There’s plenty. I could go on for days and days about how calculating and manipulative I’ve been. A million reasons he should run from me, as far and fast as he can. “I walked in on you in the shower on purpose because I knew what you were doing.” I reach out, pluck something random from the pile in front of me. “I heard you say my name.”
He sighs, nodding his head. “Why are you doing this?” he finally says, tossing a matched pair of socks onto his pile of clothes. He looks wary, like I’m an animal who might try to bite him. “Did I say something—do something wrong?”
“I like assholes, right?” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “I must be pretty fucked up if I can only get hot for guys who treat me like shit, right?” I point at him. “Exhibit A.”
“That’s not—” It’s like I spit on him, his head jerking back on his neck, mouth slightly open like he can’t decide what to do or say next. Finally, he makes a choice. “I don’t want to do this.” He reaches out to cup my face. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
I raise myself on my toes to press my mouth to his, reveling in the way he stiffens for a moment, like he’s not sure it kissing me back is the right thing to do. It spurs me on. Makes me bold. Slipping my tongue between his lips, I lick and tease his mouth, my hands sliding down his back, my fingers playing at the waistband of his pants, slipping inside to grip his bare ass, pulling Patrick as close as I can get him. Pushing my breasts against his bare chest, the thin cotton of my dress abrades my swollen nipples until he gives in. Groans into my mouth.
It sounds like my name.
Without breaking contact, I turn us so he’s leaning against the pool table. The movement seems to rouse him and he drags his mouth away from mine. “Wait,” he says, eyes squeezed shut, breath heavy in his chest, hands gripped around my arms to set me away. “Let’s just take a—”
I slip out of his grip and sink to my knees, snagging the elastic waistband of his track pants, taking them with me, exposing his rock-hard shaft. Before he can stop me, I reach out to wrap my hand around the base of his cock. “Cari,” he groans, a low, animal sound, half encouragement, half warning.
I ignore the warning, raising myself on my knees so I can run my tongue along the ridged line of tendon between his stomach and his pelvis and his abdominal muscles contract, flexing hard before he shutters out a curse. “This isn’t what I meant,” he growls at me. “We don’t have to—”
I run my tongue up the length of him. “You said you didn’t want to fight,” I say before taking him into my mouth, opening wide, pulling him in as deep as I can, I relax, taking deep breaths through my nose, forcing my throat to relax to accommodate his size. When I’ve taken him as deep as I can, I flatten my tongue, giving him a long, hard suck while bobbing my head, licking every inch of him I can reach while my hand does the rest, stroking and pumping against the base of his cock.
“Oh, fuck…” He shifts backward, hands braced against the side of the pool table, arms locked straight, hips flexing instinctively against the suction of my mouth. “Cari…” He leans forward a bit so he can look down at me. The second we make eye contact, his cock jerks in my mouth. “Stop,” he gasps even as one of his hands reaches down, threading through my hair to lightly cup the back of my head, encouraging me to do the exact opposite.