Page 16 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

NOELLE

I’m not in the habit of kissing people I hate.

Hell, I’m not in the habit of hating people—or kissing people much these days.

I have no idea what came over me, other than, in that moment, I couldn’t not kiss her. And what a kiss.

It was nothing, really. Our lips barely touched. But I can still feel the ghost of her, burned against my mouth.

Has she burrowed under my skin so easily because I’ve avoided spending time with her for so long? Was it the lingering effect of being trapped together? Or is this just Shay?

She’s fucking with my head, and she’s not doing anything beyond existing in my orbit. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.

But one little kiss, and I’m… invigorated. Fuck. This is the last thing I need.

I’ve reached the point of no return where, like it or not, I have to admit it to myself: Shay Harland is fucking hot. She’s also pretty nice. Nicer than I’ve treated her anyway, but I already knew that. She’s never been the problem in that regard—my personal hang-ups are just that: personal.

So I have a crush. So what? I’m a thirty-year-old woman, I’ve had plenty of crushes in my lifetime, and, clearly, not a single one of them turned into anything worth a damn.

I wasn’t a late-blooming lesbian by any means.

When the girls in our class started talking about having crushes on boys, Rora and I would sit in my bedroom and wonder if there was something wrong with us.

Until we watched Grey’s Anatomy, and I dreamed about Addison Montgomery for a month straight.

Rora dutifully watched it on repeat with me before admitting that she had a thing for Mark and Lexi. Formative experiences all around.

Growing up queer in Wintermore was better than most small towns.

I’m sure comments were made, but my family is well respected, and if anyone did say anything, it never made it back to me.

I had one girlfriend in high school—Mayor Blackwood’s daughter—but the world opened up for me in college.

I dated casually, and not so casually, and had my heart broken so many times.

And every time, I thought it would never come back together.

I’ve had crushes on all kinds of women over the years, though never someone so much older than me, or someone that I claimed to hate. Maybe hate is too strong a word. In fact, it’s possible I don’t hate Shay as much as I thought I did. Or at all. I’m so goddamn confused.

Right now, the only person I hate is myself, because I had no business kissing Shay, and I had no business liking it so much.

The permanent exhaustion I’m so used to is mixed with a buzzing energy at the center point of my chest that makes me want to throw up as I finally make it into my apartment and lock the door behind me.

I like peace, but not like this. It’s too quiet, and I need something to shut out the screaming chorus of “What the fuck?” that’s blaring in my head on repeat.

I find a package of spicy ramen at the back of my pantry and toss it in a pan with some water until it’s cooked. I add a heaping spoonful of chili oil and crush up some uncooked noodles—I like the crunch—before devouring it. It does nothing to fill the empty space behind my ribs.

So I plant myself on the couch and pick up the sci-fi book Felix has been nagging me to read for months, but I can’t focus.

I scrub my kitchen, sort my laundry, and water my plants until I run out of chores.

I scroll through my phone until my feed blurs before my eyes, and I realize I’m not taking anything in.

Since I’m apparently all for admitting things to myself tonight, here’s another: I’ve forgotten how to not work. I’ve forgotten how to leave the bakery at a reasonable hour and just relax. Unless I have a specific task pre-planned, I have no idea how to fill my time.

I waste twenty minutes on an everything shower with scalding water to distract me from my own thoughts, and another half hour giving myself a waste of a blowout, considering I’m going to have to put my hair up for work tomorrow. And it’s still only eight p.m.

My bed is rarely made these days, and tonight is no exception. I have so little time to get ready before rushing to the bakery every morning, why bother? I climb under the rumpled covers and flick on my TV for the first time in I don’t even know how long.

I snort when a rerun of Grey’s is playing. Of fucking course.

The episode is from an early season, and I take none of it in as I stare at the screen.

All I can think about is… her. Shay. How her lips felt, how her hair felt, how much I regret pulling away.

If that’s the only kiss we get—and it better be—then I really could’ve done more with it.

I have to live the rest of my life knowing how soft her lips are, but not what she tastes like.

Even the Grey’s Anatomy writers couldn’t come up with something so tragic.

She definitely kissed back. It was brief, it was nothing really, but she kissed me back. Was it just because she’s so nice, or…

Or did she want me to kiss her? Is she sitting toiling over what the kiss could’ve been? Is she imagining what it would feel like to have my lips all over her, my tongue all over her?

I know so little about her, and now that I’m no longer denying this stupid little crush I have, what’s the harm in looking her up?

I start with Facebook, expecting her profile to be locked down. But it’s not. She doesn’t post often—it’s mostly someone, her mom, I think, sharing things to her feed and her commenting or liking.

I check out her About section, doing the math on her graduation year: she’s either forty-six or forty-seven.

She grew up in Oakland, California, practically right next door to Berkeley, where I went to college.

Her parents still live there, from what I can tell.

She has a few pictures from recent years, from trips home and a few family weddings.

I find the pictures from her wedding. She had to have been younger than me when she got married.

Philippe is her ex’s name. She looks… resigned, in the pictures.

Neither happy nor sad, just there. I’ve only met her brother in passing—I don’t go up the mountain often, and he doesn’t come down—but he hasn’t changed much from what I can tell.

He looks miserable in Shay’s wedding pictures, like there’s a dark cloud hanging over him.

Which is exactly how he looks now, in my experience.

She was beautiful on her wedding day, she’s beautiful in every picture on her feed, but they have nothing on the real thing. They don’t capture the glow of her aura, the delicate intensity of every move she makes.

I throw my phone down, lying back with a groan, squeezing my eyes closed. Not even the picture in my head does her justice, but I can’t get her out. Every inch of me is humming with electricity—wishing, wishing, wishing…

Fuck it.

I’d rather deal with the post-orgasm regret of getting off to the thought of Shay than this goddamn emptiness.

I kick off my underwear and spread my legs, running one hand up the inside of my old college T-shirt, and letting the other skate south. I take a deep breath, letting the image of her consume me, imagining how she feels, how she tastes.

Lemons, I decide. Lemons, and sugar, and vanilla, and sunshine. Sweet and tart, soft and rich.

My moan is too loud in the silence of the room as I brush my clit with one finger, but I can’t hold it back. I try to imagine how she would touch me: slow, tentative, scrutinizing every reaction. She would do whatever it took to make it good for me, I know it.

And I know my fingers don’t feel half as good as hers would.

I open my nightstand drawer and blindly pull out a toy, hoping it’s charged and powerful. I’m not picky when it comes to sex toys. I like to try new things, so anything could be in there, but my hand closes around a basic suction toy.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

I breathe a sigh of relief when it buzzes to life, and an even bigger, happier sigh when I press it to my clit.

There’s no point in fucking around—it’s been a long day, and I’m not interested in dragging this out.

I turn up the speed, one, two, three, until I’m writhing in the sheets.

My body twists, my head pressing back into the pillows as sparkles dance before my eyes, and all I can smell is lemon.

It’s easy to imagine the weight of Shay on top of me when I’m so out of my mind with lust, easy to imagine it’s her lips around my clit and not an expensive piece of pink silicon.

So easy to imagine that I can practically feel her hair tickling my thighs. I can’t open my eyes, but if I did, I bet I could imagine her between my legs, silver eyes looking up at me through her long lashes.

The vision in my head hits me like a freight train, and I come to the thought of Shay’s mouth on me, with her name on my tongue.

I press the toy harder against my clit, catching every aftershock as it rolls over my body like flames, biting my lip so hard I’m surprised I can’t taste blood.

My hips buck off the bed, my body rising with the orgasm and then falling, slowly, softly, like I’m floating on a cloud.

My phone chimes while I’m still trying to breathe through the dregs of the orgasm, and I reach clumsily for it, knocking it to the floor. Embarrassing.

I grumble as I have to lean down to grab it, and almost drop my phone again when I read the notification:

You have a match! Chat with Shay now!

What the fuck?