Page 17 of Contingently Yours
Slipping my tongue over that pillowy lower lip of his, a burst of flavor explodes in my mouth when his tongue meets mine.
My breath hitches. He tastes like nothing and yet everything all at once—a chemical reaction like that stuff in food at buffets they say makes people unable to stop eating even after they’re full.
I’m suddenly starving, carving my tongue around his because no kiss has ever felt like this.
There’s got to be a catch. I’ll hate it in about two seconds.
Thick fingers dig into the meat of my shoulder. I’m about to come to my senses and give up on my lesson about who this dickhead belongs to, expecting him to push me away, but he doesn’t. Those fingers grip and pull me closer.
Closer.
Lucas Everette wants my mouth. That discovery alone has me pulling back to breathe.
I get only an inch away and a second of air. His parted, panting lips chase mine, letting out a needy little whimper.
Fucking hell. That sound.
If his taste is a food additive, that whimper is absinthe.
When his mouth crashes into mine again, I shove my tongue as deep as I can into it.
I don’t know what in the hell is wrong with me, but I take it out on him with a punishing kiss that has him grunting and whining.
Not fucking helping. Jesus. How is the best kiss I’ve ever had, an angry one with a grumpy, wood-whittling veteran who has a penis and more body hair than my front lawn?
A low whistle infringes on the feral noises Lucas is spilling down my throat. “Reckon I better talk to the fellas about rewarding me like that when I go fishing,” Dario says behind me.
Shit. We have an audience.
What am I saying? Of course, we have an audience. That was the point. Why the hell else would I have let this happen?
Pulling back, I stare at Lucas’ flushed face.
The rosy tint above his beard isn’t from his time in the sun.
The way his chest is heaving isn’t from pulling in that fish.
He’s a fuse, and I was the flame. His hand is still clutching my shoulder like he’s still lost in our angry kiss.
My God, the man is putty in my hands. I don’t know what to do with this information, nor the tightening in my balls, but I’m still a professional, damn it.
Releasing my grip from his sweaty waist, I give his cheek a pat to smack him out of his fog. It might be a tad self-serving, given my peculiar fascination with the way it makes the flesh in his cheeks quiver.
“That’s how I get him to bring the big ones home to his man,” I tell our client, ignoring the breathiness in my voice.
Clearing my throat, I turn and flash Dario a smile. It’s now that I notice the bucket by his feet, filled with water and several other fish.
“Looks like you two have earned your keep for the day,” I joke, hoping it’ll put an end to their bonding time.
Lucas looks discombobulated, which is just completely offensive to me.
He’s the one who went back for seconds. Is he regretting it now?
Giving him a slap on the ass jolts his attention back to me.
“You going to go cook these up for our guests, sweetheart?”
It takes him ten awkward seconds to respond. “Um…y-yeah. I-I can do that.”
“Great. Should we go tell the boys?” I ask Dario, not waiting, as I start back down the dock.
“Yeah. Let me just help with the poles.”
“Ah. Leave it. Lucas loves to play with his tackle. Don’t you, babe?”
If looks could kill. Luckily, he gets his shit together in time and manages a smile for Dario, waving him on.
After a cold shower and making drinks for the Hepperlys, I’m confident I’ve put the newest incident well enough behind me. That is until my boyfriend starts scuttling food out from the kitchen. Food that smells delicious. The bastard can actually cook?
The guys fawn over the delicious aromas, but I’m too stunned to care.
My attention is snared by the professional-looking display of Lucas’ handiwork.
He literally caught, killed, cooked, and served this entire meal, and it looks like something I’ve paid for in a five-star restaurant.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen a man in an apron before that I can recall, but my gaze is fixated on how that white fabric is cinched around his waist each time he hurries back into the kitchen like his life depends on taking care of us.
He seems to be good at that—taking care of people.
No way would I have hauled all that luggage he’s carted around if he’d thrown me under the bus the way I did to him.
Listen to me… One French kiss and I’m complimenting the guy. I’m such a man. Picking up my fork, I dig into the flaky seafood. It melts on my tongue, the flavor a perfect pairing with my beer.
Fine. So he has one tolerable quality. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
When he finally quits fussing over the Hepperlys and joins us, their praise flows for his culinary prowess.
A mix of pride and possessiveness swirls inside me.
Neither makes any sense. I have no right to be proud of someone complimenting him like he’s an extension of me because he’s not.
And possessive, well, that’s equally absurd.
They’re happily married. They’re not Lucas hunting, no matter what my lapse in judgment made me think I saw on the dock today.
It’s got to be all this pretending catching up to me.
Maybe I’m like one of those method actors.
I’ve gone so tits to the wall with trying to make us look believable that I’ve started to catch feelings.
Fake feelings, of course. If there’s a bisexual bone in my body, it sure as shit wouldn’t have Lucas on its radar under any other circumstances.