I just nod as I walk over to her and hand over the glass. Her fingers graze mine as she reaches for the tumbler. She tilts her pointed chin upward so her eyes meet mine, and it’s the first time we’ve been eye-to-eye. I can feel my pulse quicken. My heart feels like a galloping horse and I swallow hard. She smiles sweetly and brings the glass to her full lips before pulling it back.
“We have to toast,” she says. I blink a few times before what she says registers, and I step back to my glass to fill it back up.
I don’t say anything as I walk back over to her, unsure of why I once again allow myself to get this close to her. She smells like vanilla, just like the whiskey, and I can feel my jaw clench as I salivate.
“To three months of being roomies.” She lifts her glass and clinks it softly against mine.
Roomies? She thinks we’re fucking roommates?
I give a slight head nod and am about to take a swig when she grabs my wrist and stops me. It feels like her hand is about to burn through my skin and my eyes dart to hers.
“You have to keep eye contact or it’s bad luck,” she says with a serious look on her face before repeating the toast again and gently tapping my glass with hers. This time, I keep my eyes trained on hers as I down the entire glass. I savor the burn as I watch her little pink tongue dart out and lick a drop of the amber liquid off her lip.
I groan inwardly. What I wouldn’t give to see her do that to my cock, which is now straining against the fly of my jeans. I quickly turn away and set my glass on the table next to the couch.
“I need to wash up.” I don’t bother waiting for her to respond as I walk to the bathroom to get away from her.
I turn the shower faucet all the way to hot, but I don’t wait for the water to warm before I step in and blast myself with cold water. It does nothing to tamper my raging hard-on. I place one hand on the shower wall and the other around the base of my cock. I pump my hand once, then twice—slowly at first. I will myself to stop, but I can’t.
I continue to stroke myself faster and faster, my breath becoming more rapid as I picture Quinn’s sweet mouth wrapped around me. That thought has me coming undone in a matter of seconds. I grunt as I spill myself on the tile before hanging my head in shame.
I’m a sick fuck.
I quickly dry off and get dressed before making my way back to the living room. I grab my tumbler off the table and pour myself another glass of whiskey as I watch her.
I hate the way she moves around my kitchen with ease.
I hate even more how much I enjoy watching her in my personal space.
She hums a little tune to herself as she flips the salmon over in the pan. It smells fantastic. God knows, my kitchen hasn’t seen anything more than frozen pizza and toast and eggs over the last two years. I glance around and notice the kitchen table has been cleared off. My stack of mail and random odds and ends have been replaced with a big bowl of salad, some crackers and cheese, and proper place settings. I didn’t even know I still had dishes.
“Oh, hey, just in time. I was about to plate this up.” She spins around to greet me with the pan and a spatula. She walks over and slowly lays a plank of salmon on each plate along with some roasted potatoes and asparagus.
“This looks great, thank you.” We both take a seat and start to eat. It’s silent for a moment, but it’s quickly broken by Quinn’s nervous chatter.
“So, what do you like to do on weekends?” She takes a delicate bite of the salmon and I see her eyes light up.
“Whatever I need to get done around here, I suppose.” I hate that I can’t seem to talk to her, but I’m too distracted by the little moans she makes with each bite. I realize I should say something nice about the food, so I go with, “This is good.” God, I sound like a Neanderthal.
The silence is back and hangs between us as we finish up our food. Don’t ask me why, but the fact that she’s an amazing cook makes me dislike her even more. Does she have to be perfect?
“Fishing.”
“Hmm?” She raises her brows at me.
“I like to fish on the weekends.” I stand and gather our plates before turning to the sink. She stands too and begins to put things away and clean up. “I got it,” I say as I take the rest of the dirty dishes from her and place them in the sink.
“Oh, that sounds interesting. I’ve never been fishing before. I assume you go in Grand Lake?”
I don’t tell her this, but hell no. That’s where all the tourist and nosy-ass locals go. “I fly fish, so I hit up the river back there,” I say, thumbing at the ravine behind my cabin.
She’s standing with her back to the counter, glancing sideways at the sink full of dishes. “Are you going to rinse those and put them in the dishwasher?” Before I can reply, she flicks on the faucet and proceeds to do just that. “Why don’t you make us some coffee for the muffins?” she says. “This will just take a minute. My mom always said, ‘If you don’t do the dishes right away, you’ll just end up with a bigger mess later.’”
Goddammit, I just want this woman to leave my house so I can be a miserable bastard in peace. But at the same time, I don’t want her to leave.
I fill up the coffee maker and turn it on before grabbing two plates for the muffins.
“This is my mom’s famous muffin recipe.” She finishes up putting the dishes in the dishwasher before turning around to face me. “The trick is, you want the muffins to be moist with just a touch of sweetness—not overly so—and you have to use fresh blueberries so they kind of burst when you eat them. It’s like an explosion of flavor in your mouth.”
Jesus Christ, this woman is going to kill me. Does she realize what she’s saying? Is she torturing me on purpose? It takes everything I have not to tell her that I’d like nothing more than to her eat her sweet, moist muffin before giving her an explosion of flavor so deep in her mouth it’ll run down her throat.
Five
Quinn
Being this close to Sawyer Archer has my head spinning. I try my best to play it cool, but I can hear myself nervously chattering on about God-knows-what. I’m thoroughly shocked he actually let me inside, let alone cook for him.
When he heads to the shower, I glance around the living room as I set the table and let the salmon finish cooking. I don’t see a lot of personal touches or knickknacks. There are two small picture frames on the mantle and I step closer to see them. One is a picture of a couple, and looks to have been taken probably 30 years ago, and the other is a picture of a large group of people. Looks like a family photo, with several couples and small children all posed on a farm.
I hear the shower shut off, so I make my way back to the kitchen so he doesn’t feel like I’m snooping around his home. His part of the cabin is decorated in a similar fashion as the lower level, with a lot of darker woods and jewel tones with touches of hand-carved animals and custom wood pieces. I make a mental note to ask him who makes the furniture. My back is toward him when I hear him ask me if I want something to drink, which I gladly accept, hoping it calms my nerves.
As nervous as I am with him standing so close to me, I almost find comfort in his presence. I can smell the shampoo from his still-wet hair as he hands me a glass of whiskey.