State of Grace (11 page)

“It’s you …” he said, stunned horror dawning across his handsome face as he looked at the new body she hated with a passion.

Just like the kids at school, he was disgusted. Repelled. For the millionth time, she wished away her boobs, ass, and hips. Her mother and father always told her she was beautiful and that she had a figure to be proud of, but they were supposed to say that, they were her parents. She could see the truth written all over Sean’s face. 

She felt tears sting her eyes, and her mouth worked open and closed several times, but no sound escaped. He still stood there, staring at her with that awful, bewildered expression on his face. She felt a tear slip down her cheek. 

She wasn’t sad, she’d assured herself. She was angry. She was so angry that she’d closed the short distance between them, placed her hands on his unbelievable chest, and pushed hard, a short war cry erupting from her lips.

He’d fallen, caught off-guard by her force. He hadn’t bothered to get up, he just sat there with his ass in the sand and stared at her, confused. 

She let out a short scream again before she turned tail and ran straight back to the house, tears streaming down her face. 

She’d spent the rest of the summer in shorts and baggy t-shirts.

Her thirteen-year old self would have
never
seen this coming. She stayed in the bathroom for a few more minutes, staring at herself in the mirror and wondering exactly how she’d ended up in this predicament.

Nothing came to her.

Exasperated and annoyed with both herself and the situation, she resolved that she couldn’t do anything to change the past, but she could damn well control the future. Despite his god-like ability to give her multiple orgasms that blew her mind and body out of the stratosphere, carrying on with him like she was one of his floozies wasn’t about to happen. She was headed for big trouble if this continued. If she didn’t intervene and set him straight now, she would be well on her way, albeit an orgasm-laden way, to hell.

Firmly decided, she went to go find him so she could calmly request that he leave and never contact her again. They’d have to figure out a way to either share or interact with the family, but they were both adults. There was no reason they couldn’t find a way to work around this, she reasoned.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, she was immediately distracted by the luscious scent of coffee wafting through the air. She wandered towards the kitchen, where she found him pulling various spices out of her cabinets and lightly shaking them over two steaming mugs. He caught sight of her when he turned to open the stainless steel fridge door, and he winked.

The gall.

“Make yourself at home why don’t you,” she said snidely.

“Already did, thanks,” he said cheerfully, topping off each mug with a generous serving of milk. He placed one of the mugs in her hand. “Drink.”

She sniffed at the liquid. It smelled good. It smelled really good. As much as she needed him out, she wanted to taste this concoction more. A few more minutes before kicking him out wouldn’t hurt. She brought the cup to her lips and tipped the steaming liquid into her mouth.

Sweet, spicy goodness flooded her mouth, and she couldn’t help herself from moaning, just a little. She sipped again before she noticed he was grinning at her.

Immediately suspicious, she narrowed her eyes at him before she set the cup down. “What’s in that?” she demanded.

 “Milk, brown sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, a little chocolate syrup, and some of the dark roast you had sitting in the cupboard. It’s called a Mexican coffee.”

“What else?”

  His smile turned wicked. “Come on Gracie. Don’t worry, I’m not drugging you. You know that you don’t need much convincing to let me into your bed.”

She was going to throw the cup of steaming delight at him if she didn’t occupy herself with something else to do, so she snatched her mug and took a healthy sip. Her stomach grumbled, and she morosely wondered if he was good at making anything else.

“What’s your specialty, Gracie?  I made you coffee, you make me breakfast. Tit for tat.” It seemed his mind was on his appetite, too.

She sipped at her coffee, refusing to look at him. “I’m not making you anything. You need to leave, and this needs to stop.”

He sighed dramatically. “This again? Will you at least feed me before you try to kick me out?”

She set her cup down, and stomped over to where he stood in front of the fridge. He looked at her eagerly, but she dashed his hopes when she pushed him out of the way and grabbed a box of frozen waffles from the freezer compartment. She tossed them on the countertop and grabbed a banana for herself.

“I’m going to my room. The waffles take less than three minutes to toast. You have five minutes to eat and five more to leave. Be out of here in less than fifteen.”

He caught her hand and whirled her around to face him. “What, no fluffy omelets and bacon?  No pancakes drenched in syrup? Look at how many times you came, and this is what I get?”

Her stomach grumbled at the mention of omelets, bacon, and pancakes. The happy place between her thighs pulsed at the mention of coming, but she tried to ignore it. “It’s not like I asked for it!  Pushy bastard, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

His eyes darkened, and he smirked as he lowered his mouth to hers. He kept it there, not kissing her, just touching his lips to hers. “You sure as hell didn’t ask for it, baby. You begged.  Besides, you seemed to like me when I’m pushy,” he huskily reminded her.

His teasingly seductive words left her feeling both outraged and uncomfortably aroused.

Unbelievable
.

Her brain was at war with her vagina.

Mentally cursing her nether regions, she was working up to a scream when her stomach protested its hunger—loudly.

She flushed deeply, and he laughed. She considered stepping on his instep, but then he stopped laughing and looked at her curiously. “Wait—if you’re hungry, why are you just eating a banana?”

She ignored him and tried to pull away, but he just drew her even more tightly into his arms.

“You’re not on some ridiculous diet, are you?  I like your—no, I love your body the way it is. You get rid of these curves, you answer to me.”

Hormones. Hunger. Sex. Food. Disoriented by his closeness, she blurted out the truth. “I can’t cook.” As soon as she realized what she’d admitted, she slapped her hand over her mouth. 

“You can’t cook? What about all those dishes you bring for the holidays? The mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese? Your ‘world-famous’ pumpkin pie?”

She needed to hide, so she buried her face in his chest. “I order it from a caterer and use my dishes,” she admitted guiltily, her voice muffled against his chest.

His shoulders shook silently, and it only took a few seconds before she realized that his big body was rumbling with suppressed laughter.

“Not funny,” she mumbled.

He pressed a kiss against her damp hair at the top of her head. “Don’t worry babe. I’ll feed you.” She could still hear the laughter in his voice, so she jerked away, grabbing her coffee, and heading over to the countertop.

He made quick work of pulling ingredients and kitchen utensils she didn’t even know she had out of her cupboards. He moved so quickly and efficiently that he made her head spin. She gave up trying to memorize the steps he took and settled for drinking her coffee in silence.

He stood at her free range stove, pouring thick batter onto a non-stick griddle, taking turns between flipping flap jacks and turning to shake his head at her. “Why’d you lie about the food?”

Okay, so maybe not so much in silence.

She looked at him balefully. “Are we really having this conversation?”

“Among others, don’t forget.”

She stayed silent, but then he ripped off the edge of a cooked pancake and strode over to her, holding it to her lips. She sniffed at it before opening her mouth so he could feed it to her.

Buttery, cake-y goodness almost melted on her tongue, and she made a little sound in her throat.

“Want more?”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He gave her a satisfied smile before moving back to the stove. “Start talking.”

Realizing that she’d been had, she let out a huff. “If you must know, my mother made me take cooking classes when I graduated from college and got my own place. I was always helpless in the kitchen. I can make toast and simple stuff, but she didn’t want me always eating processed foods, so she got me the classes. I went to the first one, and I hated it. I told her I went to the rest so she’d get off my back, but then she told me I could show off what I learned when I came home for the holidays. After that, I found a local woman online that does small scale catering, so she makes my dishes for me,” she paused, noting that he was still cracking up at her plight, but then she was willing to forgive once he opened another cabinet and pulled out two plates.

Her mouth watered as he arranged the plates before drizzling syrup across them. 

Being shirtless and almost naked didn’t hurt either.

 He slid a plate in front of her before seating himself. “Eat,” he commanded, before digging in.

She didn’t hesitate. The tantalizing aroma of the food and his coffee dispelled any reservations she had about his culinary skills.

“Oh God, this is good,” she moaned around a mouthful of fluffy pancake. “What did you do to the syrup?” She forked another bite into her mouth, positive her taste-buds were dancing.

“I saw you had some amaretto in the cupboard, so I just added a bit to the syrup you had.” He shrugged.

She looked at him with newfound respect. “Who knew?” she muttered, before taking another healthy bite and closing her eyes in delight.

“Better than sex?” he asked wickedly.

Her eyes shot open, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I don’t know why you do that,” she mumbled, looking down at her plate.

“Do what?”

“That. You take pleasure out of tormenting me. That’s why this would never work.” Alarmed that she might say too much, she shoved another forkful into her mouth, absently noting that he was almost done with his plate, and he’d taken twice as much food as her.

“Let’s finish eating, and then we’ll talk,” he said quietly.

She began to shake her head, but he held his hand up. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m tired of whatever game it is we’re playing. We’re gonna talk about it, even if I have to tie you down to the bed and keep you there until you’re willing.”

Heat suffused her body at the thought. 

God forbid … or God willing.

“Fine,” she agreed curtly. “We’ll talk, but then it’s time for you to leave.”

“We’ll see,” he murmured vaguely, right before he reached over and kissed her stupid.

 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You know that if my brother ever finds out about this, you’re a dead man.” 

It was late Saturday afternoon, and after an incredibly decadent breakfast, he’d managed to work himself into a game of
Mario Kart
(her weakness), more sex, and takeout. Open cartons littered the surface of her otherwise pristine glass coffee table as an old Eddie Murphy movie played on the TV. He’d maneuvered them onto the couch with her back pressed against his chest with both arms wrapped tightly around her, her head tucked under his chin as they both watched the images dance across the screen. Self-conscious, especially after the day’s indulgence, she’d been holding her breath shallowly to try and suck her stomach in until the not-so-cheery thought that her brother would kill Sean crossed her mind. 

Without thinking, she blurted it out. 

An arm with a light sprinkling of hair reached over her to grab the remote from amongst the cartons on the table. That move also gave him easy leverage to roll her underneath his body as his thumb deftly pressed pause. 

More than a little mortified, she gave up trying to suck in and focused on willing away the color that surely accompanied the heat that took over her face. Despite their previous intimacy, she rolled her eyes heavenward, suddenly interested in the tiny, tawny fibers that covered the arm of her sofa. 

She expected him to command her attention, so when he instead sharply nipped her bottom lip, she jerked her head forward with a glare. 

Amused blue eyes, the color of the ocean, attractively crinkled at the corners as he raised a finger to trace her scowl. His other hand trailed lightly over the skin of her hand all the way up to her shoulder before repeating the same motion on her neck, over her chest, and around the curve of her breast.

“Every limb,” he whispered softly over her lips as he brushed his mouth against her own, “every inch of skin …”

By this time, his hand was torturously moving downward over the sensitive skin of her stomach, and she fought a soft moan as her hips instinctively arched towards him.

The tip of his tongue traced over the rim of her mouth, and everything else forgotten, she held her breath suspended, waiting for his next move. 

“Every hair,” he murmured against her mouth, and his fingers dipped into her neatly trimmed curls. She made a pleading sound of frustration deep in her throat as he stilled against her mouth.