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I chuckle. “Nothing wrong with snacks.”
Her nose scrunches. “No, but sometimes I miss meals. I’m not the best cook, even after the greatest efforts by my sister.”
“Your sister?”
Acacia’s face softens. “My sister is eleven years older than me and a professional chef. She pretty much took over family meals by the time I was old enough to start appreciating the food.”
My chest warms at the affection for her family as she speaks. I smile, nudging at her shoulder. “I’ve always heard that chefs hate cooking outside of the job, kind of like how cleaners sometimes have messy homes themselves.”
Plates pushed aside, Acacia wipes at her mouth and then leans against the cushions. “Thank you. That was so good.”
I settle next to her, stretching my arm across the back behind her head. She moves closer, resting in the crook of my arm and shoulder. Her big brown eyes blink up at me, and I swallow down my nerves. I’ve kissed plenty of girls, but I suddenly feel exposed and vulnerable, like kissing Acacia would be a completely different experience.
Leaning forward, I press my lips against hers. The pressure is soft, and I rest there for a few seconds. When she shifts slightly, I press harder. My hand cups her face, my fingertips tangling in her hair as I tilt her head back and move against her mouth. She copies my moves a little hesitantly, and the muffled whimper that hums in her throat sends arousal south, pumping my blood like a balloon animal.
I lick at the seam of her lips. When she gasps, I shove my tongue into her mouth, devouring the taste of her. She moans, her hand coming up to rest on my chest. I let go of her face and grab her thigh to drag her onto my lap. Acacia senses what I’m trying to do, swings her knee over, and drops down. My breath knocks out of my lungs, and I’m barely conscious of pushing and sending her off me.
A grunt rumbles in my chest as I cup my family jewels.
“Are you okay?” Acacia cries out, jumping off the couch.
My chin is pressed against my chest as I try to rock through the waves of pain rolling from between my thighs. I’ve been kicked in the balls a few times, and this is severely worse. I finally catch my breath and let out a small moan, squeezing my eyes shut as I hold myself.
“Callum. Please tell me what’s wrong. Is your dic-uhm… discostick okay?”
A humorless laugh escapes my throat and I look up at her. Even in the middle of a crisis, she still refuses to cuss. Her panicked expression makes my heart twist. She rushes to the kitchen and comes back with some ice wrapped in a paper towel. I grab it reluctantly, and press it against my aching meat.
Acacia hesitantly sits near me, making sure a whole couch cushion is between us. I swallow, trying not to think about the ruined moment between us.
