Cream of the Crop
Page 30

“You don’t say,” he mused as he walked behind me. “And how does an advertising executive know about chestnut?”
“My dad’s in construction in the city, doing renovations. I lived on his job sites when I was a kid, practically grew up surrounded by architectural salvage. Some kids had dolls; I loved to line up staircase spindles like little toy soldiers. Except I couldn’t ever play with anything made out of chestnut. It’s so hard to find, people pay top dollar to have it added back into their brownstone.” I turned in a full circle, marveling once again at the detail, stopping when I caught his gaze.
“What?”
“You surprise me,” he said, his eyes sharp and assessing.
His expression unnerved me a little, almost as though he could see right through me, seeing more than I usually reveal. I changed the subject. “Do you know much about the family that built the barn?”
“A little. The previous owners told me some.” He shrugged. “And people in town love to talk about their shared history, so I’ve picked up some bits and pieces here and there.”
“They are a chatty bunch, aren’t they?” I laughed, thinking about how many people stopped by this morning over pancakes to talk to a “new face in town.” “You, however, not so much.”
“Nope.”
He grinned at me, a teasing expression on his face.
“Did you grow up here?”
“Nope.”
Hmmm. “Are we playing twenty questions?”
“I don’t play games.” He took a step. “At all.” He took another step.
“Games can be fun,” I answered, standing my ground. Dating was a game, sex was a game, life was a game, for those who looked at it that way. Make your own rules, try not to run over anyone on the board, or at least make them think they wanted to be run over when it happened.
“You sure talk a lot for a girl who only said oh and yes forty-eight hours ago.” He took another step. So did I. Toward him.
Aaaaand cue soundtrack: “Simple Things,” by Miguel.
“You make me nervous,” I admitted, naming the feeling that had taken root deep in my tummy. The butterflies, the racing pulse, the tingling in my fingers and toes.
“I do?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded, taking that last step to just in front of him, my toes nudging at his. Other feelings were beginning to take over. A slow warmth was starting to spread, moving those nervous tingles further through my body. “But right now you make me . . . other things.” And then I stepped forward again, driving him backward, step by step, into one of the stalls. His hands came up, and I mirrored his, like that game of shadows you played when you were a kid in dance class, except here our hands touched. Fingers tangled. I ran my thumb down the center of his palm, and I could see his breathing change. He lightly pinched the skin between my ring and pinky fingers, and why this made me shudder, I don’t know . . . but I did.
I moved forward again, and suddenly I’m in charge, and I’m running this crazy train, and he was up against the back of the stall, and I pressed into his body. On tiptoes, I opened his arms and wrapped them around me, closing them tight around my hips, the way I already knew he liked to hold me.
Did he always like to hold women this way, gripping tightly? Or was it just me? Did he like the control, or did he just love the feel of a woman under his fingertips? Did I feel different from most women he’d been with, with actual curves to hold on to? I breathed through another shuddery shiver as I imagined him holding on to those very curves, his hands tightening as he guided me up and down on his . . .
Time to stop imagining what he was like and actually enjoy it. Still on my toes, I leaned in, inhaling that autumnal scent that was concentrated in this lovely warm spot in the exact center of his throat, where I could see his pulse beating.
I kissed it. He moaned. I licked it. He groaned. His pulse sped under my tongue. I allowed myself a secret smile, enjoying my effect on him. I pulled his head down to mine, and whispered, “You’re too tall. Get down here.”
He did, but whispered back, “You really do talk too much.”
But then no talking, because we were finally kissing. Again. I love kissing this guy.
Every Saturday at the farmers’ market, as I’d walked away, I’d fantasized what it would be like to kiss Oscar. To feel those lips on mine. Would he be soft and gentle? Would he be strong and forceful? Would he lick my lower lip until I opened up, then slide his tongue against mine sensually? Or would he put his perfect hands on my face, turn it how he wanted it, and fuck my mouth with his own?
Yes. Yes. Yes. And fucking hell, yes.
Because while Oscar didn’t talk much, when he’s focused on something, he’s all in. Fully present. This kiss, these kisses, they are lazy and unhurried, frantic and frenzied. How can they be both?
My hands left the perfection of his hair and slid down his incredibly strong chest, and I could feel his muscles through his thermal shirt.
While guys I’d dated ranged from tall to short, lean to not, white to brown to black, I tended to gravitate toward tall and lean; not so much muscle-bound.
This guy might change my mind forever. Feeling his innate strength beneath my fingertips, feeling the actual striations of his individual muscles, knowing that if I knew more about anatomy I’d be able to tell a pec from a delt to a tri-something; Oscar had them all. Tri-something. Great idea.
I snuck my hands down while the rest of the entire planet was watching him devote himself to sucking gently on my lower lip, and lifted just the edge of his shirt.