Page 57 of Kellan & Emmett
“Wash your hands,” he ordered, though the corner of his mouth curved like he was glad to see me.
I did, rolling up beside him at the cutting board. We fell into step without even thinking—me trimming beans, him slicing peaches, our elbows bumping now and then. At one point, he swatted flour off my arm with a laugh, leaving a white streak across my skin.
“You missed a spot,” I told him, and before he could answer, I stepped in to tie the apron strings at his waist. My knuckles grazed his hip, and heat skittered through me. His eyes flickedup at mine, green sparking like they always did when I got too close.
The kitchen filled with the easy sound of knives on cutting boards, pots simmering low, his hand brushing mine every time we reached for the same bowl. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was better—domestic, steady, like we’d been doing this for years.[30]
By the time the table was set and the food laid out, the dining room buzzed with voices. The Petersons sat side by side, sun hats perched on the chair backs. The honeymooners leaned close together, hands linked even while they reached for iced tea. The mystery writer—quiet, sharp-eyed—ate with slow, appreciative bites, as if cataloguing every flavor for later.
Emmett moved among them easy, the perfect host, topping off glasses, laughing at Mr. Peterson’s story about getting lost in town. I carried in the peach cobbler, set it on the table, and felt something in my chest loosen at the way the room glowed. This was his world, but he let me move in it like I belonged.
Mrs. Peterson’s voice cut through the chatter, blunt as ever. “So,” she said, fork hovering, “are you two partners?”
The clink of silverware on plates. Emmett froze mid-step, pitcher in hand, and flicked a glance my way. In that heartbeat, a hundred old silences pressed between us. All the things we hadn’t said. All the years we hadn’t dared.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. Strong, sure, even as my pulse kicked. My own voice startled me.
For a second, I thought I’d overstepped. But then Emmett’s smile broke wide open, brighter than I’d ever seen it, unguarded and fierce. It hit me square in the chest, left me breathless. And I knew—I’d done something right. Something brave.
The moment passed, chatter rising again, cobbler being served, questions shifting back to town gossip. But Emmett’s hand brushed mine under the table, quick, grounding, and I felt the weight of his gratitude without him saying a word.[31]
Later, when the guests had retreated to their rooms, we stood side by side at the sink. Warm water, suds up to our wrists, plates clinking soft. Emmett hummed under his breath, tuneless, content. My shoulder leaned into his now and then, my fingers brushed his as I passed him a dish. Small touches, stupid little things—but they felt like everything.
And under it all, the ache pressed in: two weeks. That was all we had left before camp ended, before I was supposed to leave.[32]
By the time the last pan clattered onto the drying rack and the kitchen lights dimmed, Emmett gave a satisfied little sigh. “Another day survived.”
I smirked, wiping my damp hands on a towel. “Not quite.”
His brow quirked, suspicious. I held up the can of whipped cream I’d tucked behind my back.
He barked a laugh. “Kelly—”
“Strip,” I cut in, grinning as heat pooled low in my belly. “Lie down.”
For a second he looked like he might argue. Then that wicked smile spread slow across his mouth. He peeled off his shirt, toed out of his jeans, and stretched back across the bed, bare and gorgeous, hands behind his head like he was curious what kind of trouble I was about to start.
My heart thudded. I climbed onto the mattress, popped the cap, and pressed a swirl of cream to the center of his chest. “Sweet enough for you?”
He arched a brow. “Depends on the taste tester.”
I bent low, licked the cream from his skin, lingered with a slow suck over his nipple. His groan rumbled deep, his hand finding my hair, not to guide—just to touch. I trailed more across his belly, down the cut of his hip, a stripe along his thigh. I chased every mark with my mouth, kissing, nibbling, teasing.
“Christ, Kelly,” he rasped, his chest rising hard and fast. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Not yet.” My voice broke rough as I shifted lower, settling between his thighs. His cock stood heavy and flushed, and nerves sparked sharp in me—but want burned hotter. I bent, tongue dragging along his length, the taste of him cutting through sugar, sharp and intoxicating.
He groaned, fisting the sheets. “Easy—don’t—”
But I didn’t stop. Awkward at first, teeth grazing, my jaw straining—but I adjusted, found rhythm. His taste filled my mouth, better than cream, better than anything. Every sound he made drove me harder. He warned, desperate, “Gonna—” but I stayed down, swallowing his shout, drinking him like I’d been starving twenty years.
When I pulled back, panting, his gaze was molten. Then his eyes flicked to the hard ridge in my sweats, damp already.
“Kelly,” he said, low and fierce. “Come on me. Now.”
I shoved the sweats down, no shame left in me, just raw need. My hand pumped quick, hips jerking as the heat built sharp and fast. When it broke, I spilled across his chest, his stomach, even the dark strands of his hair. Messy. Undone. All of me on him.
For a beat, I froze—shame flickering. But he only reached up, smearing some across his fingers, tugging me down for a kiss that tasted of salt and cream and us.
