Page 61 of Wicked & Wildflower

“I can understand it. Can’t really speak it, though,” he says with his head in the freezer.

“What do you think you’re doing?” My mother flicks his ear as she bumps him out of the way with a hip and begins filling the space with everything she brought over.

“Ah,” my brother hisses, holding his ear dramatically. “I trained for two hours this morning. I need a snack.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “You can wait until dinner like everyone else.”

“Everyone elseisn’t a professional athlete.”

My mother shoos him from the kitchen, waving her hands in his face as he skips around the island away from her. The stern look on her face slips as she chases Leo around the kitchen, fighting a smile. He skips backward, eyes zoning in on Dahlia’s donuts on the counter. “Oh shit, what are those?”

“Fuck no. Those are min—” I reach out to grab the plate, but not before he swipes a donut and spins, barreling out of the kitchen doorway and back into the living room. He places the pastry between his teeth and gives me a salute then flips his middle finger at me before turning the corner. “He’s insufferable,” I mutter.

“You’re the one who brought him home,” Mom agrees.

“I heard that!”

We both laugh at that. I catch Dahlia’s face light up too, but she looks between us like the concept is foreign to her, standing around a kitchen on a holiday, making jokes and messing with each other. I again wonder what it must’ve looked like to grow up in that house.

“Alright.” Mom claps her hands. “Everyone not cooking can clear out. We’ve got work to do.” She points at my dad. “Potato peeling.” She looks at Dal. “Are you still making the pies?”

She smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, you can stay.” She lifts her head to me and makes that same shooing motion with her hand. “Out. We need the space. And send in my little helper!” She shouts loud enough that Lou will hear her anyway.

“What if I want to help too?”

Mom pauses, muttering something like “Dios mío” before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Never in your life have you offered to help with Thanksgiving dinner.” Her eyes filter to the other end of the kitchen, where Dahlia reaches on her toes and digs through a cupboard, pretending like she’s not listening and hiding the smile that tells me she is.

My mom looks back at me and raises a brow, I wink at her as I round the counter and close in on Dahlia. She’s trying to grab a mixing bowl from the top shelf but can’t quite reach it. I press in behind her, lifting an arm to grab what she’s looking for. She sighs, falling back on her heels, which puts her body flush against mine.

I bite back a sound at the feel of her ass pressing against my dick, and in an attempt to hold my breath, I lose my own balance. Stumbling forward, I accidentally push us both into the counter, and all of me lines up with all of her. Soft curves brush against my all-too-sensitive cock. I know her body too well to be this close to it and not garner a reaction. Not only have I touched it, felt it, been inside of it, but seeing her touch herself on FaceTime those weeks ago?

Fuck.

I lost my fucking mind watching her come undone at my command, at the soft, quiet whimpers of my name from her lips and the way she looked spread, bared, and naked in front of thatmirror. You could’ve convinced me I’d died and gone to heaven, and I’d be none the wiser. There is no way I can feel the press of her tight ass against me now, knowing it’s the same body I’m so fucking desperate for, and not get hard.

With my fucking parents in the kitchen, no less.

A small gasp escapes her lips as I brace my hand on the counter next to her and set the bowl she needed down.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“No worries,” she whispers.

Fully aware I should pull off her, I can’t seem to do so. I lean away but keep her caged between my arms. She spins so her back is to the counter. Her eyes lift to meet mine, and I realize I still haven’t been able to match the color of those eyes to any shade I’ve seen in real life.

Incomparable. Just like her.

“So, what are we making?” I ask.

I watch her delicate throat bob as she swallows, and I can tell she’s as flustered by our proximity as I am. I think that’s what makes it impossible to pull away. She’s so hard to read. I can never figure out what’s running through her mind, except in these moments. When my skin touches her, she seems to melt beneath it. It opens up some kind of door that’s typically shut tight, allows me a sliver of the woman inside—the woman who wants me as much as I want her.

“Pie,” she says quietly.

“What kind of pie?”

She pulls her lip between her teeth, eyes fluttering around the room, looking anywhere but at me. “Boston Cream. And pumpkin.”

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