Bespoken: An Opposites-Attract Standalone Romance (Carmel Cove Book 2) Page 18

  I turned back to look at her, adoringly biting her lower lip, the soft brown waves of her hair shined under the new lights I’d installed in the kitchen when I moved in; they were the first improvement I’d made.

  This wasn’t my forever home, but you need good light in the kitchen and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

  “Darlin’,” I assured gently. “First off, they’re just cookies. If it took a rocket scientist to make ‘em, I wouldn’t be doin’ it. Second”—I turned and caught her heartbreakingly worried gaze—“I can’t imagine a single thing that, if you put your mind to it, you wouldn’t do perfectly.”

  She deserved every damn compliment and confidence I could give—and my mind had encyclopedias worth of them, collected over the past several weeks. But if she continued to plump her lower lip by tugging on it with her teeth, and her cheeks continued to turn that rose pink every time, I’d die from desire before I ever got to say them all.

  “There’s a white mixing bowl in that cabinet over there if you want to grab it,” I suggested, my eyes catching on the way her arms had crossed to push those perfect tits up against her blouse, the shadow between the swells begging for my finger to trace.

  After last night, it took every last shred of concentration, every possible distraction, and several rounds with my fist in a very cold shower, to not remember what the soft weight looked and felt like in my hand.

  Spinning eagerly to help, I regretted what I’d done the instant she turned and rose up on her toes, giving me a tease of the soft skin of her waist where her shirt rode up and a perfect look at the mouth-watering globes of her ass highlighted by her jeans.

  “Christ,” I bit the word out softly, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, and took one helluva deep breath.

  “You okay?”

  My head whipped to Jules, standing in the middle of my kitchen, clutching that mixing bowl against her stomach. Hell. Really, what I wanted to say was no, I’m not okay. I’m not okay because I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, I can’t stop wantin’ you, and I can’t stop wantin’ to believe that the two of us belong together.

  “Yeah,” I bit out. “Just one sec. I need to grab somethin’.”

  I turned and walked out of the kitchen and into my room.

  What I needed was one second—one breath of air that didn’t inflate my lungs with the scent of her sweetness. But I also left for another reason—the kind that killed two birds with one stone.

  “You should put this on,” I said as I returned to the kitchen, holding out a folded and freshly cleaned ‘Madison Construction’ tee. It was going to be about a hundred sizes too big for her but it was better than nothing.

  Her clothes were much too nice to get dirty from making cookies—and if I didn’t use measuring cups, I sure as hell didn’t own an apron. Her clothes also made her so damn tempting, I was liable to forget my memorized recipe.

  Her brow scrunched as she gingerly took the shirt from my hand and let it unfold in front of her.

  “I don’t have an apron, and I don’t want you to get your clothes all messy,” I explained and understanding dawned on her face. Reaching for the hem, she quickly tugged the fabric over her head and let it fall down over her.

  I groaned. It should’ve made it better—the long loose shirt covering up all those curves that I wanted to strip bare and worship. But it didn’t. Not even a bit.

  Because when she stood there, barefoot, wearin’ my shirt with my name on it like she was all mine, excited over the simple pleasure of baking some Christmas cookies, it was damn hard for me to justify that I couldn’t make her happy in my world, even if it didn’t come with the fancy houses and personal chefs who’d be doing all this for her.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Repeating the words didn’t make them any more true, only more believable for her. “Alright, let’s get these guys goin’.” I reached for the bowl, swallowing a hiss as my fingers brushed hers. “First, we’re goin’ to start with the butter that should be room temp by now…”

  For the next fifteen minutes, desire simmered on the back burner, growing slowly with each slight touch and every lingering gaze.

  I did my best to focus on showing her how to make my secret snickerdoodle cookies—first, going through all the ingredients and then instructing her on my eyeball measurements. But each step only seemed to be a part of the recipe for desire—and disaster.

  “Okay, last we’ll add in the flour in parts.” I looked from the bowl down to her hands, one holding the spatula from mixing all the wet ingredients together. “So, usually, I put about two and a half handfuls in total. Ends up being about two-and-three-quarter cups.”

  Her eyes slid slowly up to mine, her eyelashes kissing her cheek in slow motion as she blinked twice and clarified, “You use your hand… to measure the flour?”

  Shit.

  The rest of my MacGyver measurements had been borderline acceptable. But now, I’d just told the girl who’d probably never gotten her hands dirty in her life to reach in and scoop out flour from the bag.

  “Sorry.” I cleared my throat and grabbed the bag. “I can do that part. Does get a bit messy.”

  I froze when her small, warm fingers closed over mine, stopping them from opening the bag.

  Need roared through my veins, hotter than the damn oven, and I couldn’t tell if it was only my fingertips that were pulsing, or if it was hers, too.

  “I want to do it,” she said softly, staring at where our hands overlapped. “Please.”

  I grunted and released my hold even though it meant releasing her. Hell, she could’ve begged me to stick my hand in the damn oven and I wouldn’t have been able to say no to her.

  I watched in fascination as she pulled open the top and without hesitation, dipped her hand into the soft flour. Hardly a second could have passed before a huge smile spread over her face, brightening her eyes… and brightening the whole damn room.

  Maybe I hadn’t needed those kitchen lights after all; maybe all I’d needed was her.

  “I feel like I’m breaking some sort of rule.” She giggled, dumping her first handful into the bowl with the other ingredients.

  Without missing a beat, she reached for the spatula again and began to mix it smoothly in with the rest.

  A hoarse rumble escaped my chest, desire slowly suffocating out all other appropriate thoughts.

  “You aren’t, darlin’, trust me,” I swore, watching her reach for more. “At least not in baking…”

  I bit my tongue as her eyes looked up to mine from underneath her thick lashes. I didn’t say anything more, but I couldn’t hide the truth from my eyes.

  Being here, she might be breaking the rules of society, possibly breaking all those fancy rules of propriety, but she was definitely breakin’ down all the rules I’d laid out for myself when it came to how I felt about her. And those were the ones I was most worried about.

  It ended up taking a few more Jules-sized handfuls to get the batter consistency right before I pulled out the baking sheet and we began to portion out and shape the cookies.

  “I hope they come out okay,” she said softly as I slipped the two filled trays into the oven and shut the door.

  “They’ll be perfect.”

  She angled toward me as I set the timer on the oven. I might estimate the rest of this process but timing was the one thing I’d always found to be critical.

  “Thank you.” Her voice melted over me like butter.

  My lips quirked to the side. “No need to thank me, darlin’, it’s just cookies.”

  My whole body tensed when a small but determined grip latched on to my bicep. “Not just for the cookies, Mick.” I turned, losing myself in her gaze that looked a helluva lot like my cookie dough—thick and textured with sugared crystals of desire. “For everything.”

  Air escaped in a tight stream from my lips as I let out a deep breath. Just like my heart didn’t need my mind to tell it to beat, it didn’t need her thanks to know I’d do anything
for her.

  I wrangled a half-smile and a quick nod, but before I could turn back to the sink and the mess we’d made, her other hand rose and my breath crashed in my chest as her finger traced along my cheek, along the line of my dimple.

  Shit.

  “Jules—” Her name erupted like a strangled plea from my body that had been turned to lust-hardened stone by her touch.

  Every beat of my heart, every pulse of desire through my veins was a battle against muscles of a body that fought to remain still—to not take what it so desperately wanted.

  “I want this, Mick,” she whispered, her fingers moving to the corner of my lips. “I want you.”

  “Darlin’,” I warned, fighting both the urge to throw myself into the goddamn oven because at least that burn would be less painful than this innocent incineration. “I told you, you deserve—”

  Her eyes hardened and rocketed up to mine as she cut in, “I know what you told me. But I’m tired of people telling me… speaking for me. I know myself. I know because I’ve spent a long time being someone else… a faded, silent version of myself. And I don’t want that anymore.”

  I swore, low and harshly. “I’m sorry, Jules. I just don’t want you to be disappointed—”

  “I’m not, Mick. I’m not confused about what I want for my life. Not anymore. And I’m not confused about the reasons I want you.”

  Christ, I was done for.

  Then again, I was done for the moment I saw her; I just never thought I’d go down like this.

  “I know you worry that nothing will make up for the luxury my life would be lacking. But no amount of luxury makes up for moments like this—like baking cookies barefoot in a kitchen or buying a couch because your sister loves it. A life may be filled with things, but without people… without love… it’s like”—she glanced around—“baking hundreds of thousands of cookies and having no one to share them with. How many can you eat before the happiness of doing so dims? How many designer clothes and purses, galas and five course meals, does it take to realize there’s no happiness in any of it? Not very many, I can tell you. Not very many at all.”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  God, this woman was so much more than people wanted to see. They were blinded by her life and the shine that came with it, and I’d tried to claim that as my excuse to keep her away.

  I was a simple man. But I wasn’t such a damn fool to not realize I’d made a mistake.

  “And if it’s only that you don’t want me, that’s fine, but then you’re going to have to speak for yourself.” Her hand drifted down onto my chest and curled into my shirt. “Because I’m telling you I want you, and that means I’m spoken for.”

  I growled as she broke through the very last of my rules and, dammit, my own insecurities. I was a good man. I did my damnedest to do the right thing by everyone, and I was proud of that. But I wasn’t too proud to admit that I pushed too far with Jules, afraid that if I didn’t, one day I’d come up short.

  “You know damn well, darlin’, that wantin’ you is the only thing that’s never been a problem,” I rasped. Cupping her cheeks, I lifted her face to mine, marking her with my flour-fingerprints. “And it’s somethin’ I’d rather show you than tell you.”

  Jules

  I wondered if there was a recipe for kissing, for how much lips, tongue, and teeth made up the perfect kiss. If there were, my gorgeous Goliath wouldn’t use it anyway—not the way he kissed me. No, each of Mick’s kisses was a new masterpiece, made with the same ingredients but in different, heart-pounding combinations.

  This time, the combination led to something that tasted potent with desperation, smooth with relief, and the addicting sweet-and-saltiness of pure need.

  His mouth crushed mine, the hot intensity channeled to both protect and possess me, and my lips parted under the onslaught. Unsure, but impatient for more—and the thought of more paled when his tongue slipped between them and began to stake his claim with fervent desire.

  I wasn’t sure if what I said was going to work—if it was enough to stop his misplaced sense of chivalry from taking over. But, like David’s stone against a gorgeous Goliath, the small, forceful truth was enough to break through the strength of his barriers.

  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I sagged against his solid wall of heat, reveling in the taste of him—honesty laced with the sugary hint of cookie batter. Raw. Addictive. Real.

  I’d never had any kiss like Mick’s before—let alone three.

  His lips slanted over mine, delving deeper with a trace of familiarity—of knowing where he was going, but just as eager to be there as the first time. His tongue marked every inch of my mouth, stroking the length of my tongue with demanding desperation that promised no difference between the third, thirtieth, or thousandth kiss. Because something so good was impossible to remember perfectly—only by experiencing it again could that same perfection be found.

  Strong arms locked around me, one hand boldly threading through my hair to angle my head; the other claimed one cheek of my ass and lifted me tight to him. My small frame was deliciously engulfed by his large one. He was solid strength pressed to all the places where I was soft and wanting, and I’d never felt as powerful and powerless as I did at that moment.

  Powerful over him. Powerless over myself.

  It seemed every beat of my heart was like an earthquake that shook everything around me. Everything except for him. He was layer upon layer of muscle and man, and every inappropriate instinct I’d quelled over the years, turned me into a beggar in his arms.

  My hips rolled greedily against him, my core clenching with need to feel the hard bulge of his arousal like a steel rod against my stomach.

  His grunt toed the line between pleasure and pain, and the sound sent another rush of moisture into my underwear.

  “So damn sweet,” he purred against my lips.

  I moaned, my hips searching for that delicious friction again, and he gave it to me; his hand on my ass grinding my needy core against his length again.

  With a whimper, I met his tongue thrust for thrust, finding that mimicking the motion with my hips brought me closer to what this ache inside me needed. There was already so much to this man—so much he’d given me—and still, I wanted more.

  “Does the rest of you taste this sweet?” he rumbled, tugging my lower lip between his teeth.

  I gasped, my eyes, foggy with desire, opened slowly to latch on to his steady gaze.

  Feeling a little like I was drunk on his kisses and bold enough to say so, I replied with a throaty voice that was completely unintentional but more than fitting, “You’ll have to let me know.”

  “Christ,” he swore, resting his forehead onto mine.

  He tried to keep a handle on his control and a fizzle of frustration went through me. I wasn’t fragile. Not when it came to this. Letting out a small moan, I jerked my hips against his swelling cock, reveling in the hiss that slipped through his teeth.

  “You’re killin’ me, darlin’,” he murmured, showering my cheek with kisses, before trailing them down the side of my neck.

  “You said that before, but I don’t think it’s possible.” Another throaty chuckle escaped and my entire body tingled with goose bumps.

  He pulled back to look at me with every seriousness in his gaze. “Jules, you could bring me to my knees without even touchin’ me.”

  Time skipped like a scratched record, breaking the separate tracks our lives had been on, blurring the bounds of two worlds that seemed to exist in different tunes, and harmonized them together.

  The tip of my tongue darted out to lick my lower lip. I didn’t just want more from life. I wanted more from him… from this.

  My hands planted on the hard muscles of his chest and curled into his shirt, pulling him with newfound confidence toward me.

  “Please, Mick,” I begged breathlessly.

  But begging was superfluous when it came to Mick Madison—he’d promised from the start to do an
ything for me.

  With a growl, he claimed my mouth the way that I needed—forcefully and without restraint. Securing my arms back around the thickness of his neck, I didn’t even realize we were moving until my butt hit the edge of the counter.

  I lost a little bit of my mind to that kiss—and definitely some of my heart, too.

  His hands seared a path of their own, sliding up underneath both his borrowed shirt and mine and unclasping my bra to cup my naked breasts.

  Black and white spots burst in my vision like monochromatic fireworks of pleasure as he began to knead my swollen flesh. His tenderness was both expert and demanding—a skill of a man who worked with his hands for a living.

  “Perfect,” he rumbled, dragging his mouth from mine to kiss and bite along the edge of my jaw.

  “Mick…” I wasn’t quite sure what I was begging for as I arched into his grasp, propping my hands on the counter behind me. But if anyone knew what I needed, it was him.

  A small, strangled cry slipped from my lips as he began to pluck and roll my nipples, the sensitive buds sending warning flares with each erotic touch down to my sex until my underwear were hot and slick with desire.

  Too many layers. Not enough skin. Not enough him.

  I wiggled against him, feeling his hot, panting breaths on my neck as he fought for control.

  He fought to be a gentleman for me, but I just wanted him—both his heart of gold and the unrestrained brute whose desire promised to be rough and raw and completely ravishing.

  “Mick…” I pleaded, rolling myself against him. “I need… I need…” I gasped and shuddered as he pinched one of my nipples, sending sparks shooting out through my body.

  He knew what I needed. And I knew I wanted him to be the only one to ever give it to me.

  His response was a feral growl, one that left me shuddering in anticipation and hungry for release. My hands moved with a mind of their own along the ridges of his arms, over the breadth of his shoulders, up the cords of his neck, and dragged a flour-filled trail into the hair at the base of his skull.