Mai Tai'd Up (25 page)

And then he tilted his head to one side and gave me that killer half grin. “We should totally have pancakes for dinner.”

I looked at the bedside clock. “It’s after midnight, Lucas. We’re way past dinner.”

“Then we should totally have midnight snack pancakes.”

“You don’t know how to make pancakes,” I pointed out.

“You’re really not getting it, are you?”

“Am I supposed to make
you
pancakes?”

“That’s a great idea!” he said, mock surprise on his face as he ran his hand smoothly over my bottom, then gave it a little spank.

“Oh!”

“I knew you were a dirty girl,” he laughed.

Pancakes. Not the worst idea.

A
t 2:17
A.M.
, I attempted to make pancakes. At 2:19
A.M.
, I banished Lucas to an orange leatherette bar stool at the other end of the island because he was handsy, and I went through five eggs trying to get just one in the bowl without shells everywhere. So pointing my whisk, away we went to the safe side of the kitchen where I could cook and he could watch. And watch he did. I could feel his eyes on me now as I poured batter into neat little
rounds on the griddle. I snuck a peek or two myself. Clad in those broken-down jeans and his T-shirt, no shoes, no socks, Lucas looked rumpled. Sexy. And well ridden. And I should know.

We’d had the sex. And it was amazing. But already I was beginning to wonder what this meant. Where was this going? What would happen to the easy, breezy way we had with each other now? And what was going to happen when he left the country, in like, hours?

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, breaking me from my stupor.

“Hmm?” I looked at him, confused.

“You just went somewhere. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry, just thinking. Will you pour some orange juice?”

“Am I allowed to leave my chair?” he asked, and I grinned at him.

“If you can behave, then yes. Only for juice, though. Then it’s back to your post.” I flipped the first round of pancakes over on the griddle, then took the opportunity to watch
him
as he moved with a quiet grace around the kitchen. He knew that the metallic tumblers in the far cupboard would keep the orange juice icy cold all through the meal, knew the orange juice was in the door of the fridge instead of the back—he was well acquainted with my kitchen.

And not just the kitchen. As I watched him open the carton, those long elegant fingers reminded me of everything he’d done to my body only minutes before. How careful and strong and sure they were, whether coaxing toe-curling orgasms from me, or tenderly sweeping a piece of hair back from my face so he could sneak a kiss.

Back on his stool, orange juice poured, his eyes returned to me once more. I deflected. “How many?” I asked, pointing to the griddle.

“As many as I’m allowed to have,” he said seriously, and I looked over my shoulder at him. He already held his knife and fork in hand. “And if they taste as good as they look, I may have to eat yours too.”

“No way, mister, I’m starving.” I flipped the pancakes onto two plates, then covered said pancakes with butter and syrup. “Start with these, and if you’re still hungry I’ll make you more.”

“Oh, I’ll still be hungry,” he murmured, getting that same look on his face he had earlier. I crossed to him, setting his plate down before him and neatly sidestepping his roaming hands. I needed a few moments to process what we’d just done. I’d take those moments while filling myself up with pancakes.

“So good in my mouth,” he said around a mouthful, beaming.

I couldn’t help but giggle. “My mom’s recipe. She didn’t make them as much as I got older; too much sugar, you know. But when I was little, every Sunday morning she’d make pancakes. Then I got hips, and oatmeal and fruit became my breakfast.” I stabbed up a gooey forkful, dripping with butter and syrup.

“Wait, what do hips have to do with pancakes?” he asked, really not understanding at all.

“Pageant girl, remember? Everything was about caloric intake. How many were coming in, and how many was I burning off,” I explained, giving my hip a squeeze, something I couldn’t have done even two months ago. “I’ve gained at least ten pounds since I’ve moved up here, thanks in part to the pudding hoard in there.”

“That’s crazy,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’ve seen the pudding.”

“No I mean, the whole girls-not-having-hips thing. You’re
supposed
to have hips. That’s all there is to it. Otherwise, what would we boys have to hang on to?” he said, winking at me over his pancake.

“So it’s an evolutionary thing? Hips exist solely for your hands?” I asked, remembering exactly the way he’d done just that, holding my hips, pushing and pulling me back and forth on top of him. I blushed at the very recent memory.

“I’m a doctor, Chloe. I know what I’m talking about,” he said very seriously.

“So I should defer to you on this one, should I?” I laughed, getting up to make some more pancakes.

“You should. All my patients do.”

“Well, if the poodles trust you, I suppose I should too.” I grabbed the mixing bowl and gave it another whisk as he chased one last bite around his plate. And as I watched him, I realized that this,
this
very thing, was what I wanted to do for the foreseeable future. Walk around my kitchen in one of his shirts, bare beneath, cooking for him while he watched me do it. Talk about poodles and hips and all manner of things. I was struck by the simplicity of it all; how easy and how perfect it was. And I smiled at him. “You want some more?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he said.

“Lucas?”

“Yep?”

“You gave me three orgasms in less than thirty minutes. Pretty sure that justifies a few more pancakes, don’t you think?”

His face was pure male satisfaction, with a hint of mischief. “Are you having any more?”

“Three was pretty fantastic,” I chuckled, ladling a few more circles on the griddle. Warm hands suddenly slipped around my waist from behind, pulling me snugly back against him. His hands found my shirt buttons and started unbuttoning them one at a time.

“Hey, I can’t be naked and cook you pancakes,” I protested, slapping at his hands. If by protested you mean using the least
amount of energy to remove those gorgeous hands from my still humming body, then protest I did.

“You sure about that?” he whispered all hot and bothered in my ear.

“I’m gonna burn your pancakes,” I warned.

“I’m gonna watch you burn my pancakes,” he warned back, now sweeping my hair up and kissing my shoulders.

“I’m gonna hit you with this whisk,” I threatened.

“I’m gonna bend you over this counter.”

Pancakes were burned. An orange Formica counter was defiled.

“A
m I hurting you?”

“Depends. Can you feel me breathing?”

“I think so.”

“Then I’m good.”

“I’d say you were more than good.”

“Well, of course you’d say it. You’re still inside me.”

“Dirty girl.”

“I’m not, though. Seriously, this is so unlike me.”

“Apparently not.”

“According to my track record, it is
very
unlike me. Official Chloe never gets to have sex in the kitchen.”

“Well, I don’t know who this official Chloe is, but I’m enjoying the shit out of
un
official Chloe.” Lucas punctuated this sentence with a kiss in the middle of my back. I was facedown on the counter, my shirt up around my shoulders. He had, in fact, bent me over the counter. And he had made it so very good. He was slumped across me, resting most of his weight on me, and I felt covered, cuddly, and content.

“Midnight-snack pancakes are my new favorite meal,” he murmured from somewhere just above my bum.

“Quarter-to-three pancakes, if you want to get technical,” I giggled, stretching my arms over my head and lengthening my spine.

“Isn’t that a song?”

“There’s a song called quarter-to-three pancakes?”

“Quarter to three,” he sang under this breath, “There’s no one in the place, except, you and me . . .” He placed a kiss in exactly the small of my back. “. . . and pancakes . . .”

“Oh, man.” I laughed, harder still when he bit me on the bottom. Quarter to three, what a long day this had been. Wait, it was tomorrow already. Which meant that he was leaving . . . Fudge. He was leaving for Belize the next day. For three months.

And that’s why we’d decided not to start anything. Well, there goes that bright idea. I moved a bit, just enough that he got the hint and stood up, pulling me with him. I hastened to pull my shirt down, my skin still flushed with the excitement he’d coaxed forth.

He sensed the change, and caught my hand. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I answered, resisting the pull for a second. But one look at that messy hair and I fell against his chest. There was no frenzy, no frantic now. I rested my head on him as he leaned against the counter, running his hands up and down my spine. I listened to him breathing, and even though it seemed blasphemous in the face of what had just happened, all I could think about was how I used to fall asleep to Charles’ sounds. First deep sighs as he settled in. Then tiny quick breaths as he found the best spot on the pillow. Then finally the slow, lingering exhales as he’d begin to nod off. And when I knew he was asleep, that’s when I’d nod off.

It’s funny that when something is over, it’s not just the big occasions, like anniversaries and birthdays, that bring up emotions. It’s also the little things. The shows recorded on the DVR that he loved to binge watch. It’s the sandwiches cut in triangles, never in half. It’s the breathing patterns you know so well you can tell the instant they begin to dream.

When I’d started this new life in Monterey, one of the things I’d looked forward to most of all was being patternless. For the first time in my life, I
could
be patternless. Untethered. No one would know when I came and went, no one would know or critique what I ate for breakfast. No one would know if I peed with the bathroom door open or closed. The answer is closed, by the way.

The thing is, Lucas
did
know. He knew when I came and went, he knew what time I usually woke up because of the dogs. He knew what I liked for breakfast, he knew where the backup chocolate pudding hoard was stashed, he knew what it meant when Dino was on the hi-fi instead of Sinatra (that I was extra tired), and he knew that I always peed with the door closed. Because my God . . . who would pee with the door open?

I might have come here patternless, but I had set down roots almost immediately. I could see myself living here forever. Without knowing I was doing it, I’d tethered myself to the one man in town who knew what it was like to have his heart broken by the woman he loved. Though we’d joked about rebounding, that’s not what had happened.

I might love this particular tether. And he was leaving in less then twenty-four hours. And he’d be gone for twelve weeks. Which in the grand scheme of things? Was nothing. One grain of sand in the huge hourglass in the sky. But as the woman currently wrapped around this big piece of wonderful, I
wanted
these new patterns. I wanted to learn whether he wanted his
love every night before sleep, or if he was the kind of guy who’d wake up needing me. Did he shower in the morning, or after work? But . . . maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to talk about this right before his trip.

After all, we’d just gotten out of long-term relationships. And everyone says that your rebound is the guy you mess around with, have a great time with, before meeting the next
real
relationship. Could two rebounds cancel each other out? Or would they be double disaster?

I cuddled up to Lucas, his warm arms wrapped solidly around me, and we breathed together. And before I knew it, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulled me out of my head and into a slow, drowsy peace.

“Should I go?” he asked, his voice low and molasses thick.

“You better not,” I warned, burrowing deeper into his arms. And those arms picked me up, and carried me to bed.

He tugged the sheets back with me still clinging to him, pressing my nose into his shoulder, inhaling deeply. “You smell amazing, you know that?”

“I’m surprised, considering I didn’t get to finish my shower.” He chuckled, trying to set me down, but I didn’t want to let him go. He gave in, slipping under the covers with me and turning the light off. I craved him, craved his scent and his touch, and I continued to run my hands along his skin, dancing kiss after kiss along his shoulder as I wrapped myself around him once more. Had it really been so long that I’d been without contact like this? Was I just skin drunk?

Nah. I was Lucas drunk. He was the perfect cocktail.

I yawned, and it almost took my head off. “I’m so tired, but I kind of don’t want to close my eyes.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You thinking about tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I laid my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was literally like a lullaby. “I forgot to tell you—on the news, I saw something terrible about Belize.”

“You did?”

“Yes. It sank.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Chloe?”

“Hmm?”

“Belize isn’t an island.”

“It broke off first and then it sank.”

“You’re right. I
am
surprised I didn’t catch that on the news.”

“I guess you better stay stateside, then.” I sighed, snaking my leg over his.

“Can’t do that.”

“I know.”

We both sighed.

But it was naked sighing, so there’s that.

T
here’s something to be said for being the little spoon. You’re tucked in, you’re cozy, you’re warm and content. Someone is wrapped around you all night, not protecting you, necessarily, but if a zombie were to come in through the window, the chances are the big spoon gets it first, right?

Charles always liked to
be
spooned, but he didn’t like to be the spooner. Lucas was a great spooner. When I woke up the next morning, I had one giant hand nestled against my belly, the other curled around my shoulder and casually wrapped around one lucky breast. I’d slept like a rock and woke up with a smile on my face. My body felt rested, yet sore in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Or really, never had been. Not quite this way.