Page 93 of Pucking Sweet

“What?”

“Orlando,” he says again. “Helping my mom move. That’s where I’ve been, in case you were wondering.”

I smile, feeling a little lighter. “I was, actually.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t get out of it,” he goes on, his tone apologetic. “She’s moving down from Canada. I promised I’d go back down tomorrow morning too. And I didn’t have your number, so I couldn’t tell you.”

I take a sip of my wine. “Is she retiring?”

“Nah, I think she’ll retire when she’s dead,” he replies, shifting his hold on the bags. “She likes the work too much, and she’s good at it. A hospital offered her a crazy good contract, and she was ready for a change, you know, after Dad’s death.”

“Fresh starts are always good,” I say. I should know, having taken two myself. I nod to the bags. “Those look heavy. Why don’t you go put them away and come back?”

“Actually, they’re for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, I uhh…I may have gone a bit overboard with this.”

“Well, now I’m curious.” I try to peek inside the closest bag.

“I wanted to get you stuff to make that granola again. But I didn’t know what recipe you use, and I wanted it to be a surprise, so I didn’t ask. I looked up seven recipes on the internet, all with really good reviews, and I got you the stuff for all seven. I figured, if it’s not in one of these bags, it doesn’t belong in granola,” he finishes with a shrug.

Okay, I think I might cry. “You want me to make you more granola at…” I check the time on my phone. “Ten-thirty at night?”

“No, I want you to teachmehow to make it,” he corrects.

Heart skipping, I swing the door open wider. “You wanna come in?”

“Yes.”

I step back, letting him in. He fills my entryway, closing the door behind himself. I wait as he slips out of his Rays-branded tennis shoes. Now two pairs of his shoes wait by my front door. I pad on bare feet backward into my kitchen, unable to take my eyes off him. The energy between us is charged. He follows me into the kitchen, only breaking his heated gaze away when he turns to heft the bags onto the counter. Heavens, he bought enough stuff to feed a small army…or a hockey team. He stays facing away from me, shoulders tense, like he’s trying to decide what to do next.

Please tell me he’s as nervous as I am.

I step back, my hip hitting the edge of the sink. My heart is racing. There’s so much we should say first, right? Ground rules we should establish. But all I can think about is him standing here, close enough to touch, and we’re not touching. Why aren’t we touching?

I set my glass of wine aside. “Colton…”

He doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Before we make granola…would you like to fuck me?”

That has him turning. He reaches back to grip the counter with both hands as if it’s the only thing keeping him from coming over here and ripping my clothes off. I let my gaze trail down his muscular body. I stop at his athletic shorts, where I can see the clear outline of his hard cock tucked against his leg. My eyes dart back up to his face.

Holding my gaze, he smiles. “Yes.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god.”

We crash into each other, our lips meeting in a fevered kiss as I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him. He reels me in, hands on my hips. “Fuck, I want you so bad,” he says against my mouth, all pretense of awkwardness forgotten now that I’m back in his arms. “Can’t breathe for wanting you. Can’t think. I could barely fucking drive here—only want to be where you are.”

I whimper against his mouth, desperate for him. I do the only thing I can think to do and jump. He catches me, his hands wrapping around my thighs. I laugh as he rushes out of my kitchen.

“Couch or bed?” he asks, his lips still searing mine with hungry kisses.

“Mmph, bed. Left,” I add, pointing over my shoulder toward the open door. I squeal as he carries me inside my bedroom, kissing me again before he drops me onto the bed.

“Get naked.”

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