Page 88 of This Thing Between Us

Having finally placed the bread down on the trivet, she turned to me. “Hello.”

I walked right up to her, placed my hand on the column of her warm neck and kissed her in response.

Immediately, her body molded to mine, and she pulled off her oven mitts so that her hands could begin their exploration.

I broke the kiss, placing my forehead to hers. “I missed you.” My hands roamed across her back, pulling her closer to me.

“I missed you too.” A sad look crossed her face ever so briefly before she leaned back in. But I stopped her this time, putting my hands on her upper arms to give us a little space.

“What happened?” I searched her eyes looking for an answer.

She shook her head in mild defeat. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

I knew that tone. It was one of the songs from the playlist of our youth. “You’re baking and you’re unhappy. Did something happen with your mother?”

Worry tightened her mouth into a line. “How’d you guess?”

I shuffled us over to the couch where we could be more comfortable. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Back in high school, Whitney would speak in the same tone and get the same look on her face when something happened with her mother. It put her in a funk, made her feel like she was drowning in her family’s issues.

I served as her sounding board and my parents’ kitchen served as her creative outlet. A free form of therapy.

I listened patiently as she relayed the events from that afternoon. From the cold bench to the cold conversation. To her not knowing what to do next.

As tears started streaming down her face, I pulled her in tight, breathing in her vanilla scent. “I’m proud of you for talking to her. I know that couldn’t have been easy and you could have just as easily walked the other way or pretended not to see her.”

Whitney tried to catch her breath, heaving a little bit from exhaustion.

It was then that I realized that although I spurred Whitney to leave home, her mom was another good reason for her to keep far, far away.

Caring for a loved one who doesn’t care about you or themselves could be the ultimate drain.

“Shit,” Whitney swore. “I almost forgot. I never got a hold of Katie to reschedule our meeting.” She unlocked her phone. “Damn, no notifications.” Setting down the device she muttered, “I need to call her back in the morning.”

I pushed a loose strand of hair behind Whitney’s ear, getting closer to her on the couch. Without warning her arms wrapped around me. I pulled her in tight, answering her call.

Our kisses started feverish and quickly escalated to scorching.

I played with the bottom of her shirt. “You are wearing too many clothes.” She nodded as she licked the sensitive spot behind my ear. I grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her, desperate to feel her skin.

“We have to be quiet. Your sister is upstairs.”

Whitney nodded, her eyes heavy with lust. “We will be. Besides, she sleeps like the dead.”

When I flung the thin material onto the ground I paused, taking in the sight before me. Black lace met my stare, with Whitney’s plump breasts straining to get out of the bra.

My eyes migrated a few inches north to meet hers. “You’re beautiful.”

I lunged for her, resuming our exploration of each other’s bodies. Whitney wanted distraction, I could sure as hell distract her.

Her nimble fingers found the top of my pants, quickly unfastening my belt.

“Stand up and take them off,” Whitney demanded, her deft hands moving to her own pants to do the same.

I looked up the stairs, hoping Whitney was right that Savannah was a deep sleeper because I sure as hell wasn’t patient enough to take this elsewhere.

The snapping of Whitney’s bra brought my full attention back to her. I stood mesmerized as I watched her slowly remove the straps from her shoulders, releasing her heavy breasts.

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