Page 85 of Cream and Punishment
Instead of the blossoming pain, I heard two grunts from behind me. I glanced back, just in time to see Booker fall to his knees, two new paint splatters adorning his dress right over his gut. Except these splotches weren’t bright pink like the others. Nope. They were bright blue, just like the paint I sported on my hip and ribs.
I didn’t have much time to compute what had happened before I crashed into a tree.
The air left my lungs in a whoosh, though it didn’t hurt as badly as I’d expected. And why was I spinning? How had I even hit the tree? I could’ve sworn I’d been to the side of it for this exact reason.
I finally came to a stop, the world around me still spinning as a masked figure came into focus in front of me. His dress boasted five pink pops of color, his bronze skin and broad shoulders incredibly familiar.
“Max?” I wheezed, leaning my back against the tree we hid behind. Apparently I hadn’t hit the tree after all, but a certain FBI agent I had a knack for literally running into, who’d used my momentum to spin me behind a tree for cover. “Did you shoot Booker?”
“Oh, is that who that was?” he asked, not the least bit concerned. “It’s so hard to tell with these masks and dresses. Honest mistake.”
He completely shielded me with his body while watching his own territory with his gun at the ready. Our chests brushed with each of my heaving breaths. His heat added to the sticky late-May temperature until it became nearly unbearable. And yet, I didn’t want to move.
It took a few breaths before it finally dawned on me that there had to be a reason he was in no man’s land, too. Sure enough, pinned between his hand and his gun sat our flag in all its pink and white bedazzled glory.
I clutched their flag tighter, inching toward the side. “Well, this is awkward.”
He chuckled and looked away from his territory to meet my eyes. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to hand over our flag, huh?”
“With dessert on the line? Not a chance.”
I gulped. We stood so close. Flashes of memory from our kiss played behind my eyes, searing themselves into my brain. It seemed almost fitting, stealing a moment just for us amidst the mayhem. That was every stolen moment we had. A broken couch. A whirring laundry room. A broken elevator and a fur suit. No matter the circumstances around us, Max was my harbor in the storm, the sunshine breaking through the thunderstorm of my always-racing thoughts. My safety. He created a haven where there was none. Accepted me exactly as I was, no judgment passed. Whether we ever became more than friends, the fact remained.
And I realized with alarming clarity just how badly I’d fallen for him. How completely gone for him I was.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he warned, his voice husky as he leaned against the tree to cage me in more completely, “I’m going to lose what self-control I still have.”
Goosebumps pimpled over my skin. “Would that really be so bad?”
“I want to do this right, Chef—dousright.” He tipped my helmeted head up with a curled finger under my chin. “I want good soil for us.”
My brow furrowed. “What?”
He laughed as popping shots neared on both sides of no man’s land. “I’ll explain it tomorrow. For now, how about the first one to reach their side wins? Fair and square.”
I stood about as much chance of beating him at a foot race as I did of turning into a poodle, but it beat getting shot again. “No tricks?”
He shook his head. “No tricks.”
“If you’re lying, I’m lacing the next dessert I make with a bunch of raisins.”
“Whoa, now.” He stepped to the side, finally allowing me an unobstructed path to our territory. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
I shrugged, shaking out my quivering muscles. “Better not be lying, then.”
He laughed. “On three?”
I nodded, gripping their flag tighter and tensing my muscles in preparation.
“One. Two.Three!”
I rocketed toward my territory, excess skirt fabric bunched in my gun hand as I weaved between trees and hurtled over logs. Survival may be a good motivator, but it turned out wanting to impress your forbidden love was an even bigger one.
Shots popped off in the distance, but I barely noticed. I zeroed in on the beginning of our territory with a tunnel vision. I barreled past trees and moss and underbrush that were nothing more than blurs. Sweat coated my arms under the sleeves of my dress. My lungs gulped greedily for air. My legs burned, threatening to give out as blood coursed through each injured limb.
I finally slid past the latitude of Kris’ minivan, letting out a whoop. I probably still lost, but that was the fastest I’d ever run. I could almost—almost—understand the rush athletes felt when they PR-ed and why they put themselves through such torture in the first place.
Cheers accompanied my own as I spun to see where Max was. He, seconds after me and now coated in pink paint, slid past the SUV line like it was home base. Hattie and Annie stood nearby, likely the source of Max’s new colors. Booker leaned against a tree and clapped, dipping his head in acknowledgement of our victory.
