Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Instead, I pivot toward the kitchen. Coffee. Yeah. That’s what we need, because nothing about last night was normal.
The storm. The power outage.
Her mouth on mine.
My hands and lips on her skin.
Her hips grinding into my face like she’d been waiting her whole damn life for me to eat her out.
I yank open a cabinet. Mugs clink. Something crashes to the floor and bounces twice.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, crouching to pick up a rogue measuring cup that’s somehow managed to find its way into the cabinet. I find the drawer where it belongs, before starting two cups of coffee in the Keurig.
There’s a creak behind me, hardwood floors shifting. I glance up.
Annabelle stands in the doorway, hair in a messy bun atop her head, sleeves of a forest green hoodie pulled halfway down her hands. She’s swallowed up by it—bare legged, sleep shorts peeking beneath the hem as she eyes me up.
We stare at each other.
Neither one of us speaks.
At least, not right away.
“Coffee?” I offer, brandishing a mug like a peace treaty.
She nods slowly. “Sure.”
Cool. Casual. No mention of her orgasm that nearly caused a power surge.
I hand her a mug that says Namaste Bitches, and she doesn’t even smile at it. Just takes a sip and leans her hip against the counter like we’ve done this exactly zero times before.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Eventually.”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah. Same.”
A beat passes. Then another. The tension is stupid—sticky and slow like syrup—and I hate it, because I’m rarely in situations that make me uncomfortable.
I rake a hand through my hair. “So . . .”
“So,” she echoes, eyes darting to the floor.
Fuck, this is awkward.
We stand there in the kitchen like two people who’ve absolutely, undeniably seen each other naked but have now decided to pretend we’re distant cousins at a family reunion.
I clear my throat. “Want to sit outside?”
She nods, seemingly grateful for the change in scenery. “Sure. Fresh air. Vitamin D. Loon surveillance.”
I grab the second mug—mine says Espresso Yourself, because apparently the owner of this cottage has a boner for Pinterest—and we head out the screen door to the porch, careful not to look at each other too long.
Or at all.
Outside, the air is cool and damp. The storm is over, but the lake is still and gray; the day hasn’t decided what kind of weather it wants. Mist hovers just above the surface, curling around the wooden dock and the two kayaks bobbing in the water.
A loon calls out across the lake. Another one answers, as Annabelle and I take the two deck chairs, settling into them, both of us facing the horizon and not each other.
I chuckle. “You think those birds argue?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Probably. Bet the male forgot to pick up minnows on the way home and now she’s threatening to fly south early.”
I grin into my coffee. “You’re a nightmare to date, aren’t you?”
“Not in the least.” She sips. “I’m a goddamn delight.”
She smirks, and for the first time this morning, she doesn’t look like she wants to hide from me. She takes another long sip of her coffee, then sighs. “Okay, listen. About last night . . .”
Last night = one long orgasm.
For her, not me. But that’s fine—I don’t care. Listening to her moan as she came was the sexiest sound I’ve heard in a seriously long fucking time, and I don’t regret it, so neither should she. Two consenting adults.
Panic immediately surges in my chest. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Good,” she says quickly. “Great. Because I wasn’t going to.”
“Awesome. Perfect.” Great.
Cool.
Another loon cries out.
Annabelle tilts her head. “Do you think they do it in the water?”
Do it? Like—fuck? “Probably. Less cleanup.”
“I wonder if they have a special call for that. Like a horny warble.”
I laugh at her cheesy comment. “Better than a sad honk. That’s what ducks do.” As if I would know.
“Wow. Okay.” She laughs back and lifts her coffee mug. “So this is what we’re doing now. Talking about bird sex lives to avoid discussing ours.”
I nod. “Yup. Classic misdirection.”
We both sip at the same time, and for a second the silence is bearable. The kind that means neither of us knows what to say but we’re both pretending we feel relaxed.
Lies.
All lies . . .
She sets her mug down on the porch rail, tapping a fingernail against the ceramic. “So what’s the plan for today?”
I stretch my legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Supposed to check in with my coach. Do some therapy. Maybe take the kayak out later. You wanna come?”
She tilts her head. “We’re kayaking together now?”
“Sure. You can sit in the front and yell at ducks for honking wrong.”
She chuckles. “I do love me a power trip.”
We both laugh, hers low and throaty, and I have to glance away before I do something stupid like lean over and kiss her again.