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Oh. My. God.
My inner voice has turned into Perky’s.
I made the right choice.
Brownies it is.
The light from my fridge as I open the door shows my creamy thighs, the tops a little red. A smattering of love bites cover my breasts. Or maybe that’s just my splotchy skin. I shiver, then pull out the white baker’s box and a bottle of milk.
My carefully constructed pots de crème are sitting patiently, waiting their turn.
“I see you,” I whisper. “Don’t worry. You’re next.”
One minute later, I have a full glass of cow juice, an open box of brownies, and my inner voice has been silenced with the classic witch’s brew of sugar, chocolate, and disbelief.
There’s a soft aqua throw on the end of my sofa, slumped and disheveled from our earlier make-out session. How quaint. Hours ago, being touched and kissed so deeply by Will was extraordinary.
What just happened in my bedroom?
It was even better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.
Grabbing the throw, I drape it around my shoulders, the fringe tickling the tops of my thighs. Digging in the box for brownie number two, I take a bite and sigh, letting my shoulders drop, my butt bones melting into the chair, guard down for just a moment as the throw slips to the floor in a puddle, gone as I descend into a sweet haze.
Until I realize I’m not alone.
“What are you doing awake?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. A completely naked Will stands before me as I eat brownies directly from the box, caught red-handed and chocolate-mouthed. I don’t even have a robe on. No draped sheet around me. Mallory Monahan is one hundred percent unclothed, bent over a white pastry box, smelling like sex and gorging on brownies while her hot high school crush is standing in her kitchen with questions.
Naked.
And… hard.
“Uhhhh.” I can’t say anything else because my tongue is currently occupied by cacao-inspired bliss and crushing embarrassment at being found shoveling sugar into my face like a desperate addict fighting withdrawal symptoms.
His eyes dart to the box. “Ooh. Great idea. I’m starving.” Palm flat on his belly, he moves it, a gesture of hunger.
It makes his erection a focal point. Evolutionarily speaking, we’re drawn to look at movement, right? Survival instincts are hardwired. The memory of staring at him for years in high school is a deep groove in my brain matter.
So it’s not my fault that I stare.
My amygdala is my favorite scapegoat.
“Like the view?” Will says as he bends over my shoulder, breaks a brownie in half, and lifts it to his mouth. His chest brushes against my shoulder before he pulls back, but then he purposely leans against me, heat pouring off him.
“Hmmm?” I ask, playing dumb. A big glass of milk in front of me becomes my haven. I drink until my mouth is clear.
Will saunters over to the fridge, opens it, and the refrigerator light should also play the “Hallelujah Chorus,” because my God, what an ass he has. It’s the kind of muscle structure that deserves gallery showings.
Though I would prefer to be a private collector.
With the glass bottle of milk from Hesserman’s Dairy in one hand, he moves over to my cabinets, opening one. I lick my upper lip, finding a rich crumb of brownie on it. A tingling sensation starts in my inner thighs and travels up the midline of my body, spreading out as our nakedness begins to seem normal. Will emerges from the shadow of the cabinet door with a tall glass, setting it on the counter and pouring.
He gestures to mine. “Want a refill?”
“Seconds are always good,” I murmur.
“Oh? You want seconds of everything? That can be arranged.” To my surprise, he’s not being porny.
He’s in the fridge again, beautiful backside on display, grabbing the plate of herbs and a small wheel of ripe Brie.
