Just This Once, page 14
Whip maneuvered me under him, pinning me down with his hips. “You’re a brat.”
I rolled my lips together, defiance flashing in my eyes. When he motioned to tickle me again, I held up my hands. “I love your dick!”
With a satisfied smile, Whip sat back on his heels. He cupped a hand by his ear. “I’m sorry. What was that? I didn’t catch that last part.”
I propped myself up on my elbows but didn’t move away. My hips pressed against him, and my thighs draped over his. We were both breathless and laughing. “I said, ‘I love your dick.’ Happy?”
Whip’s grin was wide and white. “Very.” He pulled my hips impossibly closer as his hands slipped up my top and settled on my ribs. “I think everything about you is perfect.”
His eyes roamed over me. Tingling flooded my system. How many times had I been told by Craig that I didn’t quite measure up? How many times did I nearly break to be the best student, the best teacher, the best everything just to feel good enough?
After a lifetime of not belonging, Whip had an effortless way of making me feel seen. It was unnerving. Addicting. He was the kind of man I was certain could destroy me, but there was something about him that I couldn’t stay away from.
The rational, overachieving part of my brain couldn’t out-logic the hope that bloomed inside me whenever we locked eyes. I was always the woman who got shit done—the good girl who followed the rules. But for once I wanted to break every rule I’d ever put into place. The only good girl I wanted to be was his.
Emotions rolled through me, but I tried to play it off as casually as I could. “Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
A wicked grin spread across Whip’s face. “I can do that.”
I planted my hands on his shoulders. “We can’t tell anyone—and I mean, no one.”
Dark desire swirled in his eyes. “I’m good with that. Besides, a public spectacle isn’t really my thing.”
I cocked an eyebrow, hoping to hammer home my point. “So you agree, then? Friends?”
“I’d say friends is a stretch after what I just did to you but . . . yeah. Something like that.” His words washed over me, sending tingles from my toes to my scalp. Then he growled as he hiked my hip higher and pinned me to the bed of his truck with a kiss.
NINETEEN
WHIP
I didn’t deserve a woman like Emily Ward. That was a fact. But when she looked up at me with a mixture of hope and desire in her eyes, I was a fucking goner.
It didn’t matter that she was the sexiest woman I’d ever known. She was rigid and stubborn, but I was the lucky son of a bitch who got to see her unravel. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever witnessed.
After we’d fucked—again—in the back of my truck, I tucked her into my side as we watched the rain clouds start to dissipate. I wasn’t typically a cuddler, and it was unnerving how perfectly she fit into the nook of my arm.
I glanced at the clock in the garage, and Emily noticed where my attention landed. I looked down at her. “It’s getting late.”
The dreamy, half-asleep look on her face snapped to a hard frown as she stiffened. “Oh. Right. I guess I should go.” She barely looked up at me as she shifted from my embrace. “I need to get my car.”
I squeezed her shoulder, willing her to relax. “It’s late. Abel will have closed the brewery already. Your car will be fine in the parking lot until morning.”
She toyed with her lip and met my eyes. “It’s just . . . if someone sees it, they might tell my dad. He’ll worry and likely send out the cavalry.”
I considered her logic for a moment. In Outtatowner, gossip spread faster than butter on hot toast. Still, I wasn’t ready for our night to be over. Emily was someone who appreciated directness, so I figured it was time to quit fucking around.
I frowned down at her. “I want you to stay.”
“Oh.” The tiny smile at the corner of her mouth gave her away. “Okay, sure.”
With a nod, I carefully stood and hopped from the truck bed. I stretched my back, and despite the padding of the blanket, I could tell my back and knees were going to feel like shit in the morning.
I held out a hand for Emily. She slipped hers in mine and gracefully hopped out of the back of the truck. “What’s wrong, old man? Can’t keep up?”
My face twisted. “Old man? I’m not that old.” Her brows crept up her forehead as she stared at me. I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. I am not old.”
Her chuckle danced over my shoulder as I headed toward the main house. It was the prettiest sound in the world, even if it was making fun of me.
Emily trotted to keep up. “Well, how old are you, anyway?”
“Does it matter?” I looked down at her, fishing my keys out of my pocket.
She shrugged. “I guess not. Just curious.”
I put the key into the lock and paused. “I’m fifty-two.” The shock flashed across her face, and I couldn’t hold in my laughter. “I just turned thirty-one.”
Emily let out a relieved exhale. “Oh. Cool. Great. I’m twenty-five.”
“Relieved you’re not banging an old man?” I teased as the door opened with a soft thud, and then I stepped aside for her to walk in.
Without missing a beat, Emily breezed past me. “You are an old man.”
I slapped her ass as she crossed the threshold and was rewarded with a giggling yelp. Once inside, I flipped on a few lights. Warm light flooded my home. Emily took a few steps in, looking around as she went deeper inside.
The living room unfolded in warm hues and sturdy wooden accents that reflected my home’s Craftsman style. Emily brushed her fingertips along the arm of a leather chair before walking toward the fireplace. It was masculine and simple, but it was home. I tried to read her expression as she turned in a circle, taking in my sanctuary.
“This is beautiful, Whip.” She smiled in front of the handcrafted wooden bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. “Did you read all these?”
I enjoyed watching Emily take in my space as if it were the first time she was there––which, given her hasty exit the first time, I guess made sense. Humbled to have her appreciate my home, I tucked my hands into my jeans. “Not yet.”
“This view.” Emily turned toward the picture window that framed views of the wooded landscape barely visible in the darkness. She turned and grinned. “I did not expect this.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What did you expect? Milk crate end tables and a mattress on the floor?”
She giggled. “I mean . . . kind of.” She waved a hand in front of her. “That would be very on brand for a firefighter.”
I grinned and closed the gap between us in two strides. “Well, maybe I’m not like every firefighter you know.”
She tipped her chin to look at me. “And I guess I’m not like every librarian you know.”
My eyes flashed with humor. “See. I knew there was a librarian hidden in there somewhere.” I flicked the end of her upturned nose and smiled.
When her stomach audibly grumbled, I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen.
There, the craftsmanship continued with custom oak cabinets and a meticulously tiled backsplash. The farmhouse sink, with its gleaming white porcelain, overlooked a garden where I had planted a variety of vegetables. Blueberry fields stretched beyond my property line and faded into the horizon.
A pendant light cast a warm ambiance and illuminated a handcrafted dining table surrounded by Craftsman-style chairs, each bearing the hallmarks of a woodworker in training. None of them matched, as I was testing out different styles when I made them, and they were far from perfect, but they were mine.
Emily surprised me by hopping up onto the counter. I moved to position myself between her knees. Her fingertips laced as her arms draped over my shoulders. “Make yourself at home,” I teased.
“I like your place.” She grinned. “It’s so . . . you.”
I nosed the column of her neck and inhaled her subtly sweet and feminine scent. “Thanks.”
“Did you build it?”
She hummed when I gently kissed her heated skin. “No, but I’ve enjoyed remodeling it. Making it mine.” I scraped my teeth against her collarbone, earning a delighted shiver. “I like making things mine.”
Her breathy laugh shot heat straight to my groin. “I can see that.”
I reared back to search her eyes, possessiveness surging through me. “Are you mine, Prim?”
Bratty defiance glimmered in her sea-blue eyes as her eyebrow arched. “For now.”
My palms ran up her thighs and squeezed. “For now.” I hated the sound of it but appreciated a good challenge. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
I turned from her, already missing the warmth of her skin, and examined what I had in the fridge. Without looking at her, I scanned for ingredients. “I know it’s late but how does shrimp scampi sound?”
“Ha!” she barked. “I was expecting peanut butter and jelly or something. Scampi sounds incredible. It’s not too much work?”
I pulled a few items from the fridge and dumped them on the large kitchen island. For you? Of course not. I leveled her with my gaze. “It’s not too much work.”
Emily hopped off the counter and joined me by the island, picking through the ingredients. “Okay, how can I help? I’m not much of a cook, but I can follow directions.”
“Stop.” I placed my hands on hers. “Just let me cook for you.”
Her eyes softened and went wide. It didn’t take much to see that Prim was always busy—hustling to be useful and at the top of her game. For once, I just wanted her to relax.
I gripped her hips and hauled her up onto the island. I pointed a finger. “Sit.”
She threw up a jaunty salute. “Yes, sir.”
I smirked and crowded her space. “Careful. I might like that a little too much.” Opening the drawer beside her legs, I lifted out a pair of tongs and clapped them in her direction. “Just talk to me.”
Emily toyed with her lip as her eyes moved over the simple ingredients on the counter—shrimp, butter, garlic, lemon, parsley. Her hands itched to mess with them. “Talk to you . . .”
Clearly it was a challenge for her to sit still. Shaking my head, I pulled some orzo from the cabinet and smiled as I filled a large pot with water. “Tell me about work. How’s Michael been?”
She relaxed with a sigh. “Michael has been good. No more incidents. Work is . . .” A furrow deepened between her eyes. “It’s okay.”
I paused and turned down the heat on my skillet. “Just okay?”
“I kind of got into a little trouble,” she admitted.
I hummed as I added butter to the skillet and let it melt, then moved to salt and pepper the shrimp. Keeping my attention on the food rather than her seemed to help her feel more at ease.
“I did a thing,” she continued. I raised my gaze to let her know I was listening. “There is this kid in my class, Robbie. He’s a great kid—creative and kind, but a little bit of an outcast. Middle school is tough.”
I turned the heat down on my skillet and inverted my plate so all the shrimp hit the pan at the same time. “What’s his last name?”
“Lambert.”
I frowned down at the shrimp and started flipping them.
“You know the family?” she asked. “The dad is—”
“An asshole with a chip on his shoulder,” I supplied.
Emily chuckled. “Yep.”
I focused my attention on her. “Did he do something to you?”
Her smile softened. “No, nothing like that. I just noticed that Robbie was coming to school with shoes that were falling apart. So I got him a new pair.”
A pain poked me in the chest. “That was kind of you.”
“Yeah, well, no good deed goes unpunished, apparently. His dad forced him to return them to me, and then he stormed into the office threatening my principal. I was accused of ‘special treatment’ and basically got a slap on the wrist for it.”
I added garlic and let the shrimp sizzle. “That doesn’t sound too bad then. It’s a shame that the kid has to suffer because his dad won’t accept someone else’s help, though.”
“Exactly! I just hate that this year isn’t going as I expected, you know? I really want Principal Cartwright to see that I’d be perfect for a full-time position.”
I carefully plucked each shrimp from the hot skillet and set them on a clean plate while I worked on the sauce. Adding lemon juice and chicken stock, I scraped a wooden spoon across the skillet.
Emily inhaled. “Oh my god, that smells good. Where did you learn how to cook?”
Pride swelled in my chest. Somewhere along the line I enjoyed Emily’s praise just as much as I enjoyed poking at her. “Picked it up at the fire station. We all take turns making meals, and there are bragging rights involved.” A thought sparked as I moved to drain the cooked pasta. “So you got in trouble because Robbie was the only one who needed the shoes?”
Emily considered. “I mean, there are other kids in the school who need things like shoes or clothes, but essentially because Robbie was the only one who got this so-called special treatment, I got reprimanded for showing favoritism or some bullshit.”
“Got it.” I bit back a grin as a plan bloomed in my mind. “Why don’t you let me take care of it?”
She looked at me with an expression of skepticism mixed with disbelief. “What do you mean?”
I added the drained pasta to the broth mixture in the skillet, then tossed in lemon zest, a bit more butter, and the shrimp. I tossed the dish together before grabbing two pasta bowls from the cabinet. Mischief danced in my eyes as my plan solidified. “I don’t want you to worry about anything other than eating.”
I heaped a portion of shrimp scampi into a bowl and lifted it for her. “Deal?”
Her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled the rich, buttery smell. Her eyes opened and she lifted a brow. “There’s a lot of garlic in that. Are you still going to want to kiss me after?”
I laughed and planted a smacking kiss on her lips. “Honey, I plan to do a whole lot more than just kiss you, and I’m eating it too. Besides, I have an extra toothbrush if that will make you feel better.”
Pink splotches bloomed on her neck and cheeks when I gave her a wink and clinked my fork against hers. Still sitting on my kitchen island, Emily devoured the shrimp scampi.
I watched her scoop portions of pasta and shrimp past her lips, the slick butter making them irresistible. We laughed and talked about everything and nothing in the warm glow of my kitchen.
I wondered if she felt the same shift I did—that somehow we’d gone from going at each other’s throats to going at each other’s clothing without missing a beat. I certainly wasn’t mad at it.
Absently, I rubbed the ache that formed in the center of my chest, knowing it would only get worse when she finally walked out.
TWENTY
EMILY
With a belly full of the most delicious shrimp scampi I’d ever had, I dipped into the bathroom attached to Whip’s primary bedroom. His room was masculine and held the scent of clean laundry mixed with his cologne.
Despite my teasing, I didn’t really expect to see milk crate end tables and a mattress on the floor, but I definitely did not anticipate seeing how effortlessly put together his home was. Admittedly, the first time I’d been in his home, I hadn’t really taken it in—we’d been too busy tearing our clothes off.
But now that I had the opportunity to really look around, it screamed masculine coziness. In the primary suite, the headboard of his bed was a work of art with its wood grains and elegant lines. It stood as the centerpiece beneath the vaulted ceiling lined with heavy wood beams. Muted tones and carefully chosen textiles created an atmosphere of quiet strength, while the rhythmic creak of a ceiling fan echoed the coastal breeze that filtered through the open windows.
I inwardly groaned at the thought of my own budget linens and haphazardly chosen duvet. It was fine but certainly not curated like Whip’s house appeared to be. While I brushed my teeth, I made a mental note to update my bedding on the off chance Whip and I spent some time at my apartment.
Looking around the gleaming, oversize bathroom vanity, I doubted that was necessary. Going to my place would also mean risking someone seeing his truck and finding out about us—something I was still unwilling to do.
This was supposed to be fun. Casual. I couldn’t let the sexy way his eyes darkened when he saw me derail my entire life.
You can do casual.
I stared at my reflection and fluffed my hair before adjusting my boobs in my top. All I needed to do was focus on having fun, and sex with Whip was a whole lot of fun.
I stopped at the doorway to the bathroom and looked into his room. He’d lit a few candles and pulled back the navy sheets on his bed. Whip was removing his watch and placing it on a tray on his dresser when he turned to me.
My heart stuttered.
Casual. Casual. Casual.
I swallowed hard and offered a sultry smile before closing the space between us.
I looked at the neat rows of empty desks in my classroom, and my eyes filled with tears. I had done it. The kids had lost all interest in school the last few weeks, but we’d limped along and made it to the end of the school year. While my students were in PE, I prepped for one final hour with them as my students.
My classroom was quiet—no scuffing shoes, no scrape of a chair against the linoleum, no raucous laughter interrupting my lesson. My first assignment as a teacher in Outtatowner was officially coming to a close.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Rachel’s voice startled me, and I dipped my head to hide the wave of emotions I was feeling.
I grunted to unclog my throat and swiped under my eyes. “Hey.” I offered her a watery smile, and she kicked off the doorjamb and walked toward me. Her arms wrapped around me and squeezed.
“It’s always a wonder how we make it through, wishing summer would come, and as soon as it does? I immediately miss them.” She squeezed my shoulder and sucked in a breath. “At least the smell is still with us.”
