Page 37 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

NOELLE

I’m starting to think that Shay seriously undersold her board game abilities.

Since we made things official, she’s joined me at every family dinner, most of which end with a board game.

The only time she lost was last weekend, when we’d been up since three a.m. because we had to drive to Cheyenne to pick up the new bakery sign, because there was a delay and they couldn’t ship it to us in time.

A thirteen-hour round trip, and she still came second.

She fits in with my family like she was always supposed to be here.

It helps that they’ve been spending a lot of time together.

No one was surprised to hear that I wouldn’t be reopening The Enchanted Bakery, or that Shay and I were going to be working together going forward.

Apparently, it wasn’t a secret how miserable I was running the bakery.

My family was giving me space but planning an intervention for after Christmas if I was still so unhappy.

I’m not.

My parents and Uncle Henry (and Sunny) have been amazing, splitting their time between helping Shay and me set up the new bakery and helping out at The Enchanted Workshop now that the Christmas season is in full swing.

Rora took a last-minute job at a local ski lodge, covering for their photographer for a couple of weeks, to get away from the festivities.

That’s not to say she hasn’t helped with our new bakery; she single-handedly designed our new branding, website, and did a beautiful photoshoot for us.

And, though she might complain about Wintermore at this time of year, she still showed up to pre-Christmas dinner and dutifully put on the “Mrs. Claus” sweater that my mom handed her.

It’s clearly a not-so-subtle hint, considering my uncle Henry’s matching “Santa Claus” sweater.

I know my parents are dying for them to get married, mostly because they want Rora to legally be a Whitten.

Both Rora and Uncle Henry have been going by Stanley-Whitten since Sunny was born, but I don’t think either of them is in a rush to plan a wedding, especially not if they’re trying to have another baby.

I’m surprised they haven’t eloped, to be honest.

When Rora and my uncle Henry continue to dodge the hints my parents are dropping their way, Shay and I become their targets. Shay, mostly.

“Have you ever been married, Shay?” my mom asks, and Rora snorts, probably just happy the attention isn’t on her anymore.

“I got divorced four years ago, but I was married for seventeen years.”

“Seventeen?” Felix says, his jaw practically on the floor. “Damn. I can’t imagine being with someone that long.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Rora tosses a pillow at him.

Shay doesn’t seem to mind—she’s used to Felix at this point.

As she’s telling my parents about Philippe, Felix leans over and whispers, “You would’ve been nine when Shay got married.”

“Right,” I reply. “So that’s one year older than Abigail was when you graduated high school.”

His face turns scarlet, and I snuggle into Shay’s side, satisfied.

Do I feel a little bad that Felix clearly has the biggest crush of his life on the one person he absolutely can’t have without ruining his relationship with his best friend?

Of course I do. On the other hand… I’m his sister—if I don’t humble him, who will?

I yawn, and Shay looks over at me, her gray eyes reflecting the twinkling Christmas tree lights. “Sleepy, mon délice?”

“A little,” I admit.

“You two should head up to bed. Big day tomorrow,” my dad says, and I’m on my feet, tugging Shay toward the stairs, bidding everyone goodnight, before he’s finished speaking.

My parents don’t insist that we all stay on holidays, but they like it when we do. Even Rora, Uncle Henry, and Sunny, who live across the street, are staying.

I took most of my stuff with me when I moved, so my childhood bedroom is mostly old trinkets and Grey’s Anatomy posters I’ve had since I was twelve.

Shay peruses the room, no doubt cataloguing the alarming number of Addison posters. She looks at me, eyebrow raised.

“She was my lesbian awakening.”

“Good choice,” Shay hums. “Alanis Morrisette for me. I lost my virginity at a house party my junior year of high school on an inflatable couch listening to ‘You Oughta Know.’”

“I couldn’t have guessed any part of that sentence.

Jesus,” I say after laughing so hard my abs hurt.

“Damn, that’s a much better story than mine.

Also junior year, but a plain old bed—not that one, I got a new one when I graduated college—listening to her One Direction playlist. She cried for three hours after and called her mom to come pick her up at like two a.m. because she was homesick.

” It’s no wonder that Mayor Blackwood doesn’t like me.

“Three hours? Damn.” Shay peers at my bed. “Did you bring a lot of people back here before me?”

“Oh sure,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. She steps closer, and I spread my legs so she can tuck herself between them. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Wintermore is full of queer women, and they’re all breaking my door down to get to me.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Shay says, leaning down and brushing her nose against my jaw. My head falls back, my eyes fluttering closed. “You’re all mine, and I don’t plan to give you up.”

“You better not,” I say, luxuriating in her answering laugh as it vibrates over my skin.

She kisses me, and she tastes like chocolate and coffee liqueur, sweet and syrupy. Standing above me, she has complete control of the pace of our kiss, and she’s taking it so fucking slow. Every brush of her tongue against mine is intentional, languid, and it’s driving me out of my mind.

Shay pulls back and lifts my sweater over my head, then my shirt, and I start to question if this is a good idea, given how much I’m already struggling to stay quiet.

Her fingers ghost over my skin, tickling and teasing, and I have to bite down on my lip when her mouth follows their path.

“Speaking of forever,” she murmurs against my skin. I feel every word reverberating across my collarbone. “What your parents were talking about earlier—”

“Oh my god, please ignore them. They’re antsy because they want Rora and my uncle Henry to get married, that’s all.”

“They don’t want to?” Shay asks, unclipping my bra and sliding it from my body.

“They do—fuck. Do we have to talk about this while you have your tongue all over me?”

I feel her lips curve up in a smile against my breast. “I can stop.”

“You better not,” I gasp. “Okay, yeah, they do want to get married. They’re just focused on having another baby first.”

Shay hums, and I clench my fists as sparkles appear behind my eyelids. “Makes sense. What about you?”

“What about me?”

She nudges me backward so I’m lying on the bed, and the ends of her hair brush against my naval as she descends, kissing lower and lower.

“Do you want to get married?”

I can’t believe she expects me to be able to concentrate, let alone carry on a conversation, this conversation, when she’s gripping my thighs like that.

“Um, yes? Yes, I do. But it’s also not a dealbreaker for me if you don’t want to get married again. Not that I think you want to marry me or anything, but—”

“I do.”

She gives me about half a second to process that before she pushes my jeans down, my underwear aside, and drags her tongue through my lips, flicking the tip over my clit.

“Oh my god,” I groan, grabbing a pillow and practically smothering myself with it.

Shay seems to take my muffling solution as a challenge, increasing the speed and pressure of her tongue. I reach for her, my fingers gripping her hair, my legs closing around her. Shay moans, and I find myself rolling my hips without even meaning to, fucking her face.

She teases my entrance with her tongue, pressing the tip inside me while she pushes her thumb firmly on my clit.

I don’t know how she’s learned my body so well, so quickly, but she plays me like I’m an instrument, and she’s a prodigy.

Every single brush of her fingers, every touch of her tongue, feels intentional, designed specifically to undo me, stitch by stitch.

My body is burning, Shay’s touch consuming me. But not so much that my mind isn’t playing two words on repeat:

“I do.”

She wants to get married. She wants to marry me, specifically. The thought tips me over the edge—well, I suppose it’s more a combination of the woman I love wanting to marry me, and the same woman pressing two fingers inside me, closing her mouth around my clit, and humming.

I break apart like glass, crying into the pillow, my back bowing off the bed. Shay drags her tongue over me, slowing but not stopping her fingers as they massage inside me.

“Je suis tellement putain d’obsédée par ton go?t.” I swear I almost come again as the French falls from her lips.

Shay pulls me back together, coaxing me down from my high with soft kisses against my clit. My body goes limp, my legs slipping down her back, and I drop the pillow, drawing in a deep breath.

Shay sits back, and I push myself up on my elbows, trying to catch my breath.

“Shay.”

“What?”

“You can’t just tell someone you want to marry them, then go down on them and give them a mind-blowing orgasm with no explanation.”

She holds her hands up, gesturing to me. “Clearly, I can.”

A quiet laugh falls from her lips at my stunned expression, and she stands, leaning over me, her lips almost close enough to kiss.

“Did you mean it?” I ask, my heart hammering.

She gives me one chaste kiss and climbs up on the bed, lying with her head on the pillow, and patting the spot beside her. I’d be embarrassed by the sheer amount of effort it takes me to lie beside her if she weren’t the one who had turned my bones to Jell-O.

“Of course I mean it,” she answers, playing with the ends of my hair. The purple is faded, and I rarely do the same color twice in a row, but purple is Shay’s favorite color, so it’s staying. “Why wouldn’t I want to marry you? Je t’aime, mon délice.”

“Hey, I know that one!” I joke, and she snorts, her eyes glimmering.

I also know the nickname now—my curiosity got the better of me, and I looked it up: “my delight,” she calls me. If I’d known that’s what it meant the first time she said it, there would’ve been no chance of me pretending I wanted to be friends.

“A lot of people don’t want to get remarried after they get divorced,” I point out.

“True. But I’d like to know how it feels to be married to the person I’m supposed to be married to,” she replies, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I assume you want a Christmas-themed wedding.” She assumes correctly.

“And this Christmas is probably a little soon, but that gives me plenty of time to plan the most outlandish proposal you could possibly think of.” Her eyes are so bright; how did I go so long without noticing the way she glows?

“What if I want to be the one to propose?” I ask, and she screws up her mouth.

“Hmm. I suppose we could do that cute thing where we accidentally propose at the same time. As long as you say yes, I don’t really care when or how it happens.”

I press my forehead to hers, murmuring, “I’ll say yes,” against her lips, then lose myself in my favorite flavor.