Home > Flashpoint (Forged in Fire #1)(9)

Flashpoint (Forged in Fire #1)(9)
Author: Skye Jordan

“—stay the fuck out of my life.”

I release her arm, take her head in both hands, and kiss her.

Holy shit, I didn’t think this through at all, but the ensuing silence is blissful. The feeling of her mouth against mine is a fucking fantasy, one I know will turn into Pandora’s box the second I let her go.

I break the kiss, and she’s instantly talking. “What in the hell—”

So, I kiss her again. I honestly don’t know what else to do to stop this out-of-control roller coaster.

She must not know what else to do either, because she relaxes into me. The feel of her luscious body melting into mine makes something shift between us. The anger has turned to passion, and when her mouth moves against mine, my brain implodes.

I lose it. Just absolutely lose it. This is something I’ve wanted for so long, a bomb could go off and I wouldn’t stop kissing her. Her lips are soft, the way she kisses, sensual. My body reacts instantly, and my heart tries to lunge toward my throat.

I wrap one arm at her waist, the other at the base of her neck and kiss her until she opens to me. Until she meets my tongue. Until she moans into my mouth. A lightning strike of lust jolts every cell in my body. She’s soft and warm and real, her curves fitting me perfectly, and she tastes like pure woman with an edge of lime.

Need coils low in my belly and sinks south. I hold her tighter, slide my hand into her hair. Her fingers curl into my shirt. Time slows. Lust burns.

I’ve never wanted anyone this badly. This completely. All the little things that make her unique layer and layer until I’m three hundred percent sure I never want to stop. I already ache, and she moves against me like she wants the same thing I do.

“Cole!”

Tucker’s bellow from the front door hits like a bucket of ice water, and Natalie and I break apart.

“Dude,” Tucker calls into the night. “Where are you? You said you’d close.”

Natalie crosses one arm and presses her fingers against her lips.

I drop my head back against the wall and bang it a couple of times while clenching my teeth.

We stand there a few awkward, awful moments until I gather the fucking courage to look at her and say, “That—”

“Should never have happened,” she finishes.

Which isn’t at all what I was going to say. I was thinking about ending that sentence more along the lines of “was amazing” or “took too damn long to happen.” But when my head is clear, when her body isn’t my second skin, when her tongue isn’t in my mouth, I realize she just saved me from myself, even if it will take me months to stop fantasizing about the last incredible three minutes.

She closes her eyes and presses both hands to her face, shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” My words come out snappish. Fuck my life right now. Just fuck my life. “I mean, I’m here too.”

She lowers her hands, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Wow.”

I have no idea if she means Wow, I’m an idiot or Wow, that was amazing, but I exhale the same sentiment. “Wow.”

As in, Wow, if that’s how you kiss, we definitely need to hit the sheets. Like, yesterday.

I mentally slap myself and chant Evan’s wife, Evan’s wife, Evan’s fucking wife in my head. That, at least, cools me down a little.

She sighs, and her shoulders drop. “Can we forget this night ever happened?”

Ouch.

“Like completely rewind and erase?” she adds.

Jesus.

I exhale, long and slow, hoping to get my head out of my ass so I can take control of myself. But all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss her again.

She reaches across the foot separating us and takes my tee between her fingers, worrying the fabric. The gesture is oddly sweet, and it takes everything I’ve got not to pull her into me again.

“I’m,” she says so softly I barely hear her, “I’m gonna go, before…”

Before?

Fire flares in my blood, but she responds before I can.

“I’m just…gonna go.”

 

 

3

 

 

Natalie

 

 

My alarm goes off for the third time, and for the third time, I hit snooze. But I’m not snoozing, I’m staring at the ceiling, thinking about Cole. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened between us and why all damn night.

That kiss shattered a wall that’s been in place for years, and I don’t understand what I see on the other side. It’s like looking at a Jackson Pollock painting. I’m not even sure if what I remember is reality or fantasy, because Cole kissed me like he meant it, then he acted like it was a mistake. So, was it deliberate or impulsive? Meaningful or insignificant?

I tell myself it doesn’t matter either way. It won’t happen again. But that doesn’t keep my mind from continually spinning the last puzzle piece, trying to make it fit.

With a groan, I throw off my covers, sit up, grab my phone, and text my mom.

Sorry, I slept late. Don’t worry about the baking, I’ll be there soon. I can get everything started before we open.

I skip the shower, the makeup, the hair. Hardly matters when I spend half my life in the kitchen of my mom’s café. I pull on leggings, a T-shirt, and push into my running shoes.

Part of me desperately wants to get my mom’s take on this blip between Cole and me. She’s my best friend, my rock. She never judges me, and she always gives the best advice. Usually, I can guess what she’ll say about something, but in this case, I’m not so sure.

I cover my face with both hands and tell myself for the millionth time, “It was just a kiss.”

But as I slide my tongue over my bottom lip, I can still feel the micro abrasions his stubble left. I can’t lie to myself. I may not know what that kiss meant to Cole, but to me, it was so much more than a kiss.

I run a brush through my hair and knot it in a bun, throw on a light jacket, then I’m out the door.

On the short drive, I force my mind to think about what needs to be done at the café, not what needs to be done about Cole. Cinnamon rolls first, coffee cake second, croissants third. Once the morning baking is out of the way, I’ll start on cookies and pies and cakes for the lunch and dinner crowd. And after everything for the café has been made, I’ll start on my regular orders, restocking the shelves and baskets of stores all around town with various sweets. And finally, I’ll create desserts for the local restaurants.

I glance at the time—6:45 a.m.—and sigh out my frustration for oversleeping. I just hope the regulars at the café hit their snooze buttons too, or I’m going to have half a dozen people bitching about having no warm cinnamon rolls to greet them.

I’ll do chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, and oatmeal cookies today, but I don’t have the patience to deal with decorated shortbread. In this mood, I’d probably end up creating frowny faces and black clouds. So, maybe butter cookies instead. And brownies. Yeah, brownies. A girl needs chocolate on a day like today.

In the pie department, I need an apple crumb, a peach cream, and a lemon custard to fill out the display case and match the menu.

I’ll have to down a pot of coffee to stay awake to finish everything I need to do.

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