Pepper had honey-colored hair, a lot of it, and unusual clear, olive-colored eyes that had a defined dark blue circle around the edge of the iris.
With her eyes, hair, flawless skin and fine features, all of this topping a tall, slender body with perfectly proportioned hips and tits, wearing cool clothes, with that look of welcome on her face, she was honest-to-Christ the full package.
And because of this, on sight of her, his cock jumped.
“Hey!” she greeted excitedly, already moving to open the storm door.
His cock jumped again.
“Hey,” he replied, feeling his lips curve.
She held open the door, he moved through and she remarked in the direction of the bag he was carrying, “That seems like a lot of Chinese food.”
He stopped just inside and stated, “I like noodles.”
She smiled up at him. “Right.”
“And egg rolls.”
“Awesome.”
“And crispy duck.”
Her body swayed back. “Whoa, pardner. That’s some fancy food you’re totin’ there. That’s, like, Christmas-dinner-type food. Warning, food like that gives a girl ideas.”
She could have any ideas she wanted, especially as pertained to him.
Fuck, he needed to kiss her.
Kiss her hard then fuck her harder then find some way to claim her in a primal way that could not be mistaken by her or anybody.
It was bizarre and actually unsettling, but by that, he found that he was thinking things like branding, tattoos, just something…permanent.
In other words, fucking caveman shit.
He’d wanted her before.
But this funny, honest, flirty chick who opened the door to him without any bullshit and let him into her house that, at a glimpse, he saw was ordered and mellow and smelled like…
He sniffed.
“Sweater weather,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
She shot him another smile, closed and—he was happy to see—locked the door. “The scent. The candle I’m burning. It’s called ‘sweater weather,’ and that’s the perfect name for it, don’t you think?”
He didn’t care what it was called, he just cared that it smelled fantastic, which it did.
It was not a question to answer so he didn’t, and not only because it wasn’t. But because she took his hand and guided him out of her foyer and into her house.
And while she did, he experienced another part of Pepper.
The home she created.
More…
The home she gave to Juno.
He’d spent some very good time in the foyer, in the dark, but that did not end well.
And he’d been up the stairs to her room.
That was it.
Seeing the bulk of it…
Damn.
His mother’s places were always temporary.
Dumps, or she’d move in with some guy who lived in either a bachelor pad or his own dump.
Auggie’s dad’s place was more permanent, since he never moved (his mom mostly left them, though sometimes she’d switch it up and kick his dad out, but these times heralded when she wasn’t quite feeling it, because she made Aug’s dad do his penance and then let him come back fairly quickly).
Still, his father’s house seemed transient, since his mother was consistently moving in and out, taking things with her she might not bring back, and if she did, she might put them somewhere else. Or she’d have a fit and smash something, rip it up, take it to the backyard and burn it. Or his father would do that.
Pepper’s place was…
Not even close to that.
“You unpack, I’ll get plates and drinks and stuff,” she ordered as she let him go when they were at her island.
Pepper went to a cupboard.
Auggie put the bags of food on the island.
“What do you want to drink?” she asked.
“Got beer?”
“Yup,” she said, taking down big plates that matched her kitchen, setting them by the food he was putting out, then heading to her fridge. “I got tomorrow off work, but I have to go in tonight. I called Ian and he moved the dance schedule, so I’ll be the last in the lineup. I still need to leave around eight thirty, latest nine.” She glanced at him. “Is that okay?”
He set the carton of lo mein down, saying, “Of course, baby.”
That earned him another smile, and she turned back to the fridge, opening the door. “Choices, Fat Tire or Blue Moon.”
It took him a minute to answer, primarily because he saw a mound of whipped cream sprinkled with shaved chocolate covering a pie dish in her refrigerator.
She’d made French silk pie.
Christ.
That was something else he’d never seen in his mom’s house.
Homemade pie.
Or anything she made special for Aug.
First face-to-face date, there it was.
With effort, he got out his answer to her question.
“Fat Tire.”
She grabbed a bottle of beer, as well as a big green bottle of Perrier.
She came back to the island with their drinks, set them down, and asked, “Glass or drink from the bottle?”
“Don’t dirty a glass.”
She gave him bright eyes and went for a drawer.
Aug popped tops on food, and she finished her gig, uncapping his beer, getting utensils, cloth napkins and pouring herself a glass of Perrier, to which she added already cut slices of lemon and lime she had in the fridge.