“Relentlessly screwing me every chance you get?”
“Crude.” I narrowed my eyes.
“But true. I don’t mind, Elsie. I haven’t had this much fun with a woman in … well … maybe forever.”
“You mean to tell me you haven’t had meaningless sex like this before? I find that hard to believe, Mr. I Can Sail A Boat Off The Coast Of Italy.”
“You like that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you care?”
“Yes. Impressing you is challenging and rather entertaining.”
“I’ve lived in Epperly my whole life. That sets the bar pretty low.”
“I disagree, but to answer your question, my ‘fun’ with you is more than sex. It’s simply you. One minute you’re feisty and stubborn as hell. The next minute you’re all Mama Bear. I blink again and you’re threatening to take me down as your competition, and then yes … there’s you letting go of all your inhibitions, and it’s pretty fucking spectacular. I think I’m getting a different version of you than your husband had. I have nothing to base that on; it’s just a feeling. It’s like watching a toddler take their first steps. I feel like you’re learning to live in the moment. And you’re excited and scared. You’re unsure of yourself. You worry about losing your footing, yet you can’t stop because you have to know where it might take you.”
I started to respond, but no words came out. We gazed at each other for a few seconds as he waited to see if he was right about me.
“Interesting assessment,” I said, almost whispering.
Was I that transparent?
“How do you feel?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Huh?”
“When my mom died, my dad said he could either live or live without her. So are you living or living without your husband?”
I nodded slowly.
“It makes no sense, right?”
I shook my head. Kael had no idea. “No. It makes perfect sense.”
“Yeah?”
I nodded again.
“What does that mean to you?”
Taking a deep breath, I released it slowly. “Am I Craig’s widow or am I Elsie?”
“What’s the difference between the two?” He thought he had me. He didn’t. My age gave me more wrinkles and gray hair, but it also gave me more life experience.
“One lives idle as an anchor, a living tombstone telling stories from the past. The other lives freely. Taking flight. Leaving everything behind.”
A map of concern spread in shallow lines along his forehead. “Yes.”
Before he could ask his question again, I answered it. “I feel like the bird.” I nodded to the sack. “Now … what treat did you bring?”
He gave me a few more thoughtful blinks before tearing his gaze from mine, pulling out a container, and opening it. “Caramel apple bread. Here.”
I hesitated for a second when he broke off a piece and brought it to my mouth.
“I know for a fact you can open wider than that.”
And just like that … he made my cheeks fill with heat. Stealing my sage moment and turning me into a blushing young girl again. I took the bite. “Mmm … that’s really good. You made it?”
“I mixed ingredients and baked it. I sell this at my shop. It’s one of my most popular items at the moment.”
I spat it out, splattering it all over the headrest of the front passenger’s seat. “Yuck! It’s awful.”
His lips parted, tongue idle, gaze ping-ponging between me and the caramel apple bread mess. “How old are you?” He narrowed his eyes as if it were a genuine question.
I wiped my mouth. “Old enough to know better than to give my competitor’s products any sort of endorsement.”
“Oh …” He rubbed his lips together for a few seconds as he grabbed a big chunk of the bread. “You’re going to endorse my products whether you like it or not.”
“No—”
Before I could get my head turned away from him, he grabbed the back of it with one hand while his other hand shoved the bread into my mouth and all over my face.
“Stop!” I giggled and squirmed, but his mouth silenced me, his tongue shoving more bread into it. I fought him for three more seconds, at the most, before surrendering to the sweet bread, his demanding lips, and his exploring hands snaking under my sweater.
New low … spending part of my Thanksgiving Day on an abandoned road with my sex toy in the backseat of my Tahoe while my family waited cluelessly at home for me to return with a carton of milk. I felt certain not a single one of them would imagine me with a thirty-year-old man shoving my bra up to knead my breasts and pinch my nipples—driving me insane. I wanted his mouth where his hands were and his hands to get rid of all the barriers that stood between his naked body and mine.
We wriggled and maneuvered in the tight space, tossing jackets and shirts into the back of the Tahoe, scooching and twisting to get out of our jeans. Before I could rid myself of my panties, he shoved the crotch of them to the side and slid two fingers into me.