Page 15
I just huff and turn on my heels.
* * *
I decide breakfast is my job from now on. Mostly to save my eggs.
I sit him down at the kitchen table, and when it creaks under him, we both look at it. Then I go to the pantry and come back with the good stuff. A whole frame of honeycomb from the spring harvest, heavy, golden, and dripping, wrapped in cloth. I set it on a plate in front of Rowan and break off a piece with my fingers.
“Here,” I say. “You’ve never had real honey. Not straight from the comb.”
He takes it from my fingers with his mouth. Slowly. On purpose. His lips close around my fingertips, and his tongue drags along them, and I feel it all the way down in my pussy.
Then he chews, thinking about it.
“Well?” I ask. “That’s my best honey. People come from three valleys for that honey.”
“It’s good.”
“Good?”
“It’s fine.” He licks a drop off his bottom lip. “It’s honey.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me? That’s award-winning honey. The mayor’s wife cried when she tasted that honey.”
“The mayor’s wife cries at everything. I watched her cry at a goose once.” He picks up the comb and turns it around, studying it, honey running down his fingers. “It’s just that I already know what the best thing I’ve ever tasted is. And this isn’t it.”
He looks up at me.
Oh.
Oh, he’s talking about me.
Heat floods up my neck. “Rowan…”
“Come here.”
I should say something smart. I should say I’m not getting honey all over my kitchen when I just watched him break five eggs in it. Instead, I walk around the table and stand between his knees, and he reaches up and unwraps the quilt from my shoulders, slow.
It falls to the floor. I’m naked in my kitchen in broad daylight, with the window wide open and the meadow right there. Anybody could walk by. Auntie Bess could walk by.
And I really don’t give a damn.
“Can I?” he asks, holding up the honeycomb.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He squeezes it right over my chest.
It’s cool from the pantry, thick and slow and heavy, and it makes me shiver. It runs down between my breasts and over my nipples in two golden lines, and I gasp, because it’s sticky and sweet-smelling and so much more sensual than I expected. Then it slides down my stomach, over the curve of my belly, and he stops it with his tongue before it can get any lower.
The flat of his tongue drags up my stomach. Warm and textured, that grain dragging over my skin, licking up every drop of honey, following the trail all the way back up between my breasts. Then his mouth closes over my nipple and sucks, hard, and I grab his shoulders and moan so loud the chickens next door probably hear it.
“Better,” he groans against my skin. “So much fucking better.”
“It’s the same honey…”
“It’s not the same at all.”
He moves to my other nipple and licks it clean, slow, his tongue circling and flicking until I’m squirming, and then he does something I’m going to think about for the rest of my life. He takes my wrist and squeezes honey over my fingers, then sucks them into his mouth one by one, his eyes locked on mine the whole time.
