Page 92 of Fluke
I shrug. “I don’t know, but this one is pretty fucking good.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m a simple man, Pip.” I pause, waiting for her to respond. But she doesn’t. “You don’t believe me?”
“I can’t figure out if you’re … how serious you are.”
“Areyouserious?” I ask.She can’t be. I tell her the same thing repeatedly.
“About what?”
I press a kiss against her lips, pulling back before she can deepen it. She’s not going to sidetrack me, and I know my breaking point.Namely, her tongue.I release her before going into the bathroom and turning on the oversized shower.
“Am I serious about what?” she asks, coming into the bathroom too.
I peel off my shirt.
She stands quietly, watching me undress. It’s almost as if she feels cornered, which is not at all what I want. But I do need her to know I mean what I say. I’ll be damned if something goes awry because she assumed I wasn’t serious.
That’s bullshit.
“Pippa,” I say, her name a whole damn sentence.
“Jess.”
Her attitude makes me chuckle.
“Fine,” she says, tossing the clothes in her hand on the sink. “I hear you say all kinds of things. But there’s more to your dreams than me—even if I am your dream girl.” She rolls her eyes.
I shove my hand under the water and then adjust the temperature.
“What are the other elements of a perfect day?” she asks, peeling off her shirt.
Little minx. I turn my back to her. “Why does this matter?”
“It just does.”
I sigh as I drop my shorts onto the floor. “Fine. My perfect day would be sleeping in a little—but not too much because then I get a headache. No line at Muggersandthey get my coffee right. Come home, maybe we make breakfast. French toast and bacon with real maple syrup, so you don’t make me come back and answer that.”
I catch her reflection in the mirror. She grins, unsnapping her bra.
Nope.Not yet. I look away. “Clean up the kitchen because Mom’s palmetto bug warnings live inside my head rent-free.”
She laughs.
“Then … I don’t know, Pippa. What do you want to do? Watch a football game? Work on the house? Go shopping? I don’t care. I really don’t. I’d take you out to dinner, though, to build the tension so when I get you home, you’re all hot and wet for me. Then I can get all the way inside you before we go to bed.”
I keep my back to her, waiting for her to fire back another question. But when a full minute goes by and she says nothing, I turn around.
She’s naked, her hair piled on top of her head. She’s a fucking vision.
My mouth grows dry and I fight myself not to go to her. I don’t know what all of this was about, but it’s important to her. So we’ll do this until she’s satisfied.
Then she’llbesatisfied.
“You could replicate every day for the rest of your life, and you’d be happy?” she asks, her eyes sparkling. “Truly?”
“I mean, I might want some variation because French toast is good, but I also like blueberry muffins.”
