Page 79 of Wicked & Wildflower

Once I’m sure everyone has had their fill, I take the remaining cake inside the kitchen so I can put it away. I promised our coworkers at the office I’d bring all the leftovers to work on Monday.

I’m separating each flavor of cake into separate Tupperware containers when I hear footsteps enter the kitchen behind me. “Fuck,” Everett hisses. “That carne asada was so good. I told myself I wouldn’t like it, because that fucker will never let me hear the end of it now.” He saddles up next to me at the counter, smirking at me in his wicked way.

“You a big fan of Emilio’s meat, Ramos?” I smile.

He shoots me an incredulous look. “He’s not my type.”

“Hmm,” I hum, knocking him with my shoulder. “What is your type?”

His voice is rough against my ear as he leans down, pressing the heat of his body into my back and whispering, “Lately, pretty blondes with smart-ass mouths.”

“Oh,” I say casually, pretending like the feel of him doesn’t set every molecule in my body on fire. “So, Leo.”

He presses closer, harder. Bracing his hands on either side of the counter, boxing me in front of him so I’m unable to escape, his next move is bolder than we allow ourselves to be with each other. He’s brazen as his teeth nip lightly at the base of my ear. “You’re just filthy, aren’t you, Wildflower?”

Fuck.

I drop the knife I was using to cut the cake, and Everett laughs as it clatters against the counter, giving me away. Trembles rock through the entirety of my being at that sound, following it as it cascades down my skin and pools in my core.

My composure around him is hanging by a fucking thread.

“What is your type?” I find myself asking, the words coming out just above a whisper. “When it comes to…men.” I’m not even sure why I ask, the feel of his body and the sound of his voice rendering me incapable of logical thought. I realize it’s something I’ve been curious about.

“I pride myself on not having one. I like who I like,” he whispers sensually, as if he’s playing some sort of game. “Though, I do tend to be drawn to pretty boys. Why? What’s your type?”

“Tall. Rugged. Handsome.” I don’t bother lying. I notice his grip on the counter tighten. “I like tattoos. Beards. Wicked smiles and dirty mouths.”

He lets out a soft groan, the feel of it vibrating against my neck and setting my skin on fire. “I like lots of beards too.”

“Shoot.” I let out a breathless laugh. “I guess I don’t do it for you, then.”

He chuckles against my jaw, and I feel one of his hands at my waist. “Baby, you have no fucking clue what you do to me.”

Moving way too fucking slowly beneath the hem of my shirt, calloused knuckles drag along my bare skin. My legs feel weak, and my breath hitches as his hand continues to climb. I’m ready to beg him to move faster, to give me more.

More touch, more sound, more sensation.

Just. More. Always more from him.

It’s not possible for me to hold back the moan that rips from my throat as Everett’s hand slides beneath my bra, my nipple hardening against his palm. I arch into him, writhing against his front, feeling the hardness of his arousal pressing into my ass.He groans at the friction, lips latching onto my jaw as he begins to kiss his way down my neck, mouth gliding along my shoulder and teeth nipping at my scorching skin.

“God, Dal, you taste so fucking good. So sweet. I need to taste you everywhere.”

I whimper at his words, grinding against him harder. He pins my hips with his free hand, pinching my nipple with the other. Rolling against me in the same delicious rhythm he fucked me with all those months ago, I feel his cock press into me.

I can’t believe we’re doing this here, right now. I don’t know how we got to this point, but I do know I don’t want to stop. I’m trying to consider how I can get him upstairs and out of his clothes before anyone notices us. “Everett,” I cry out as he rolls his hips again.

“Tell me what you need, baby.” His teeth sink into my flesh.

“Shit,” I hiss. “I need…” I just need him. “I need—”

Tufts of laughter filter in from outside the kitchen.

I gasp, pressing away from Everett, but he holds me steady. So smoothly, he spins us around so we’re facing away from the counter and in the direction the voices came from. Positioning me directly in front of him, he holds one arm at my waist and tucks a wild strand of hair behind my ear just as Tana walks in with Jeremy and Marshall—the dads of a friend from Lou’s class—in tow.

Stumbling as they enter, Tana’s eyes widen as she takes us in. I’m sure my skin is flushed, and I can feel the neckline of my t-shirt askew. I realize Everett is holding me in front of him to block his hard-on, though I don’t think the notion is hiding anything at all.

“Sorry,” she drawls, eyes narrowing. “We wanted to let you know we were about to take off…”

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