Page 12 of Bringing Home the Bacon
You know what? Fuck it.
I’m allowed to have a little fun.
“Alright,” I say. “But let’s put this driver out of his misery and actually find a private place to land. Where should we go, your place or mine?”
“Yours!” she says with a little too much emphasis.
The seed of doubt bouncing around in my body firmly plants itself in my stomach. It’s something I can’t ignore. Not after what I went through with my family.
“That’s fine. We can definitely go to my place, but, um, is something wrong with your place?”
“No,” she says. “Nothing wrong per se. The, uh… my penthouse is being renovated right now, so I’m not really hosting guests at the moment.”
“Cookie, you’re not already involved with someone, are you?” I ask firmly, no hint of humor this time.
“No, of course not. I would never do that!” Her face is soft, and her eyes are wide.
Call me crazy, but I believe her.
“Okay.” I sigh in relief. “Because I need to make something very clear before we go any further: I don’t cheat. I don’t help others cheat. And there’s nothing I hate more in this world than liars.” I cup her cheek with my hand, stare deep into her bright blue eyes, and plead with her, “Please don’t lie to me.”
A silent moment passes that feels like an eternity.
Then she swallows, places a small hand on my cheek, and says, “There’s no one else. And I promise, I won’t lie to you.”
My face slowly splits in a grin. “Excellent.” I knock on the privacy partition and say, “Driver? Seventy-fifth and West End, please.”
Chapter 5
Colleen
The second the door slams behind us in Bacon’s apartment, we’re “off to the races” as Gran would say. Ugh. I really need to stop thinking about my grandmother so much. Especially when I’m in the throes of passion with the hottest man I’ve ever encountered in real life.
We’re currently a tangle of limbs and hands and tongues. And we can’t get each other’s clothes off fast enough.
“I’ve never seen—or felt—a bra like this,” he pants between kisses. “Is it… wool?”
“Merino wool, yes,” I huff as I once again shuck his pants to the floor. This time, we have plenty of room and plenty of privacy, so he kicks the pants aside, and I slide my skirt down my legs as well.
“Did someone handknit this for you?” he asks.
I hesitate for a split second, but I promised the man I wouldn’t lie to him, and I meant it. I can’t help the lies I’ve already told. But from here on in, I will be as truthful as humanly possible with him.
“Yeah. My grandma.”
Both of us are down to our underwear now. Him in his tight gray boxer briefs that leave very little to the imagination—thank god. And me in a Strawberry Shortcake-themed thong paired with one of the many woolen bras my grandmother has knit for me over the years. She calls them “Baabara’s Boulder Holders.”
For the record, Baabara Streisand Bedd is my gran’s beloved sheep. Some might argue she’s the sixth and most rambunctious Bedd child. But her fibers are plentiful and hearty. I’ve tried all the underwire and padded cups in the world, and none of them cradle my double Ds as well as that sheep’s wool does.
Still, I really wish I’d chosen my undergarments more wisely this morning. In my defense, I thought I was only going to see a cooking show with a group of elementary teachers today. I had no idea this would also be the day I’d embark on my personal sex revolution. Had I known that, I may have worn something more attractive.
I wrap my leg around his muscular thigh. He squeezes my nearly bare ass with both hands, but he’s still focused on the damn bra.
“It’s so… unique.” He gathers my still-covered breasts in his large hands. “And an odd choice for the summer. Don’t most women wear bras that are silky? Or cottony?” He pauses. “Is cottony a word?”
“Cottony is a word, yes. It sounds wrong, but it’s actually right. While we’re on the subject of bras, why don’t you take mine off, stud?”
He stays on the subject at hand, continuing to explore my bra with his thumbs. My nipples harden under his touch. Not that he can feel them through this thick-ass wool. “Isn’t it itchy?” he asks.
