Page 11 of Common Grounds

For the first time in a long time, I regret the fact that I’m no longer a relationship kind of girl.

But when he slides a thigh between my legs and presses his chest to mine, his hand skimming my jaw on its way to weave his fingers into my hair, I don’t care. I can’t care about anything but the way his body feels against mine. The way his tongue teases mine. And, oh god, the delicious sting when he nips my bottom lip with his teeth.

He swallows my moan with another kiss, and I snake my arms over his broad back, taking my time feeling every inch of his lean frame through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He shudders.

And then he breaks the kiss.

I want to cry out in protest as I fully register the absence of his mouth on mine, but I don’t. My body and mind are buzzing, alive in the moonlit evening as we stand, still pressed together on a bridge over a creek. Our breath mingles in the minimal space between us, both heavy with unspent desire.

His eyes glint in the moonlight as they bounce back and forth between my own. Is he… checking on me? Making sure I’m okay with this?

Shit, that’s hot, too.

He must approve of the results of his search because he smiles. It’s a small smile, but it changes his features completely. Where his concern brought out his hard, masculine edges, his joy shows a softer exuberance. The shift in him is thrilling in a way I can’t quite describe.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, then his smile turns sheepish. “That was a weird question. I just want to spend more time with you, and I was thinking—”

“Yes,” I cut him off, though his rambling is endearing. He wants to spend more time with me, and I would not mind more of his mouth on mine. And I’ll never turn down food.

Trevor’s wide eyes suggest he wasn’t expecting me to say yes again, which—dammit—is even more cute than it was in the bar. He trails a feather light touch down my arm and over my palm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It’s my turn to shudder, even though the summer night air is still warm and sticky. He doesn’t break eye contact with me as he intertwines our fingers again. I can’t seem to catch a full breath.

“Good,” he says, and tugs on my hand for me to walk with him.

We walk for a few more blocks until we come to the area where the late-night food trucks usually congregate. It’s an empty cul-de-sac that’s brightly lit with both streetlights and hanging lanterns. There are several trucks lining the street and a few tables spread out in the middle of the dead-end. Some kind of industrial building used to be here, but it was abandoned a long time ago. The city eventually razed it, and the food trucks took over.

It’s a little early yet for the bar-hoppers to be ready to soak up their alcohol before heading home, so there are plenty of empty tables. I veer immediately toward the waffle truck, Trevor’s laugh rumbling deeply behind me as I lead the way with our intertwined hands.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, getting in line behind two women who look much younger than me. They’re sporting crop tops and miniskirts, and by the way they’re giggling, their evening is just getting started.

I glance at Trevor, worried these two might have caught his eye, but he’s smiling at me like he doesn’t even notice the hotties standing in front of us.

It’s interesting that I’m worried about it, and interesting that he’s not looking at them, but he answers me before I have a chance to process. I file it away for later.

“I never thought of waffles as a late-night food,” he says as he squeezes my hand. It’s such a natural movement. One that would suggest the comfort of years together rather than the newness a couple of hours.

I gape at him in mock offense. “You take that back,” I warn. “Waffles are an anytime food. Plus, it’s the only sweet truck here tonight.”

Trevor looks around, assessing the other options. “You’ve got a sweet tooth?” he asks as he turns back to me.

“You could say that.” I eye the menu as we talk, though I know I’m going to get the same thing I always do: chocolate waffles with whipped cream. “But feel free to get whatever you want. I’m only judging you a little bit.”

He squeezes my hand again as he leans in, his breath tickling the shell of my ear as he says, “Waffles are great.”

Awesome. Now I’m turned on by talking about waffles.

Luckily, I can’t melt into a puddle right here because it’s our turn to order, and now that I’ve been promised waffles, I will stop at nothing to get them. I place my order, and Trevor gets the cookies and cream waffles, which is also a solid choice. We wait for the food, then carry our giant waffles on flimsy paper plates to a table on the outskirts of the cul-de-sac.

As I’m lowering myself into my seat, I scoop some of the whipped cream onto my finger and lick it off. Trevor is too busy looking around for something to notice, which is probably for the best. I hadn’t meant it to be suggestive; I just really like whipped cream.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Utensils,” he says, distracted.

“Oh, no. Sit. I’ll show you.” I wave at the seat across from me. He eyes me warily as he lowers himself into it.

I carefully break the waffle in half and put one side on top of the other, smooshing the whipped cream in the middle like a sandwich. I take a bite, careful not to let too much whipped cream shoot out the sides, and I motion for Trevor to do the same.

His light brown eyes sparkle as he follows my lead, and he nods with approval as he chews. “It somehow tastes better this way,” he says.

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