Page 72 of Change My Mind
With a final rock of my hips, I came against Addie’s leg. I buried my moans against her skin as she held me through it. After what felt like an eternity of aftershocks, I became aware of the room again.
The thumping base of the music. The final, final moments of golden sunlight streaming through the window. The solidity of Addie’s thigh. The feel of velvet under my palms and her hands running up and down my back, a tease against my oversensitised skin.
I lifted my head and locked eyes with her, a smile on her face.
“I thought you said you couldn’t do that,” she teased, her voice dripping with sex.
I laughed, the sound more of a gruff noise than an actual laugh. “Couldn’t, shouldn’t, same thing.”
“Think of it as payback for the club.” Her fingers had once again found their way to the hair at the nape of my neck, scratching gently.
“And much like the club, I regret nothing. But I am going to have to go attempt to clean this mess up.” I took a step back, immediately missing the pressure of her body against mine already.
“I’m going to get a drink, will you be wanting one?” she asked, her chest still rising and falling quickly.
I wondered if she knew just how broken her voice sounded.
She cleared her throat.
So that would be a yes.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll have what you’re having.”
Addie nodded and then patted my chest twice, her fingers managing to slip under my shirt for a brief moment. I just about managed to stop myself from moaning at the touch.
“You got it.”
Forty-Five
ELI
Iwoke up with a dull headache and a determination to make something more special for Addie’s breakfast today than peanut butter laden sourdough.
I was making my signature pancakes when I heard Addie’s bedroom door open.
“What is all this?” Her voice cut through the relative silence of the kitchen.
I turned around at the hob to look at her, standing in the threshold of the room.
“It’s hangover pancakes,” I answered, gesturing to the bowl of batter on the island.
“Is it safe to cook pancakes with no shirt on?” she asked as she walked towards me, her hair in a high ponytail. She wasn’t wearing a graphic T-shirt with her sleep shorts, but the T-shirt she was wearing was so much worse.
It was mine.
I must have given it to her by mistake when I’d folded all the washing yesterday.
I regretted not putting a top of my own on because there was no way the blush that was spreading across my chest at the sight wasn’t going to be noticed.
Then I remembered that she had asked me a question.
“I am a professional,” I joked.
She leaned against the island, crossing her legs at the ankle. She pushed her glasses up her nose.
“You know, I don’t think I have ever seen you make more than toast in this kitchen.”
I scoffed. “There is no way that can be true.”
