And me?
Well, maybe I needed to get myself fully up on the sectional. For comfort. Not to watch her as she bounced around my kitchen, getting to know it, cleaning it like it belonged to her.
And, God, something about it just felt right.
A beautiful, kind, nurturing, wild woman in my house. A couple of giant dogs. The peace and quiet from the woods around us.
It was all just… right.
And then, as if it wasn’t confusing enough, she dug out what was useful in my fridge and freezer, as well as some canned goods, and started chopping shit up.
“What are you doing?”
“You have just enough of an array of things to make some Kitchen Sink Soup.”
“Kitchen Sink Soup?” I asked, confused.
“My Uncle Laz made it all the time when we were growing up. It has everything ‘but the kitchen sink’ in it. And even though the ingredients are always different, it always comes out great,” she told me as she emptied a can of corn into the pot she had put on the stove.
Twenty minutes later, the rich smells of soup were filling the air, and Billie was looking around the kitchen with her hands on her hips, trying to figure out what to do next.
“Billie,” I called, watching as her head snapped over.
“Yeah?” she asked, brows pinching at whatever it was that she found on my face.
“Come over here,” I demanded, voice soft.
She didn’t ask why, she just moved around the island and over into the living room as Tommy climbed off of the couch with an obnoxiously dramatic yawn before walking off to go explore the house. And likely find my empty bed to sprawl out on.
“Are you okay?” she asked, eyes concerned when she got to my side.
That concern switched to confusion, though, as my arm lifted, and my hand grabbed her wrist, pulling.
“What…” she started as I kept pulling, giving her no choice but to start leaning forward until her knee met the side of the couch. “I don’t w—“
“Yes, you do,” I corrected, drawing her down until my hands could grab her hips, pulling her to straddle me. Which she did. But her back was ramrod straight. Her eyes were guarded and wary, something that made regret pierce my gut. Because I’d put that look there.
“You said—“ she started again.
“I lied,” I told her as my hand settled at the side of her neck. “I lied, Billie. I’ve always wanted you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Billie
I lied, Billie. I’ve always wanted you.
I can’t tell you how many times I’d fantasized about him saying that very thing to me. Or how many times I’d berated myself for having those fantasies. Because he’d been very clear that he didn’t want that, had never wanted that, and would never want that. Not with me anyway.
I had never been able to stop thinking What if when it came to Rowe. Or to beat myself up for wondering what it would be like if things had been different.
So a part of me was almost, I don’t know, angry when I heard those words.
Don’t get me wrong, the larger part of me was elated, over the moon, over the fucking Milky Way to hear that it hadn’t all been in my head, that I wasn’t imagining the chemistry between us, that whatever it was that kept drawing me back to him even after his rejection was something more than me being a glutton for punishment.
But still, there was that little, niggling voice that was angry and resentful that in lying to me, he’d forced me to second-guess myself.
I was going to say something. I was going to demand an explanation. Hell, I wanted an apology.
But then his hands were drifting up my spine and slipping into my hair, and my righteous anger decided to take a back seat and let my desire take over instead.
Rowe’s dark gaze was on me as his fingers started working gentle circles across my scalp, making an immediate tremble course through me. Seeing it, feeling it, Rowe’s eyelids went heavier.
This time, my class wasn’t around. There weren’t any rules about no contact.
My hips sank down on Rowe’s lap, and I felt the proof of his words pressing against the juncture of my thighs, making me suck in a surprised breath.
I couldn’t seem to prevent my hips from rocking against him. Once. Twice.
Desire exploded through my system, the flames lapping at every inch of my skin, the fire burning through my bloodstream.
Suddenly, the thin material of my linen harem pants and tank top felt too hot, too itchy, too oppressive.
My arm lifted, reaching back to grab his wrist, guiding his hand around my body, sliding over my breast, but not lingering. I wanted him to linger. Sometime. But right then, the need for release was becoming a clawing, aching, undeniable thing.
So I glided his hand down my thigh toward where the material slit up the sides to allow for free range of motion. But also for curious fingertips to graze over bared skin. Up my thigh, over my hip. Then over. And down just slightly.