Page 73 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

His lips slide on mine, nibbling. “I want you constantly, Lorikeet. More than I want food, water, air … any of it. Let me just have you. It's enough.”

Little buds, new flowers, begin blooming in my chest. I go to speak—tires rumble outside. We both freeze, eyes jabbing towards the window. “It's my mom,” I whisper in a panic.

Jordan releases me. I fix my hair; he adjusts his erection. We're standing a few feet apart in the kitchen looking as relaxed as we can when she throws the front door open. “Sorry!” she gasps, laughing with chagrin. “I forgot my purse! Can't drive around without my license and things!”

“Oh my god, no, you need your purse!” I agree, nodding enthusiastically. She smiles at me, but her eyes narrow, and I worry she noticed how red I am.

“I had to get more of this delicious coffee,” Jordan says, filling his mug.

“Have Lori make more if you need it,” Mom says, snagging her purse from the couch where she dropped it. “We've got plenty. Okay, now I really need to run. Bye again!”

I don't relax until her car is gone for a few minutes. Then I slump against the sink, toss my head, and laugh crazily at the ceiling. “That was close.”

“What would she have done if she caught us?” he asks.

“I don't know. She's not the fainting type. She'd probably wrestle me to the ground, body slam me, something like that.” Jordan stares at me with his forehead scrunched. Grinning, I shake my head. “Honestly, I have no clue what she'd do. She doesn't approve of me 'marrying' Dezmond, she's only going along with it because she thinks it's what I want.”

“If she cares about what you want, wouldn't she be happy to see us together?”

I stiffen at his boldness. Pushing off the sink, I pace the kitchen, eyes on the floor. “Maybe.”

“Are you scared to find out?”

I jerk my head up, staring back at him. Jordan's eyes pierce me like needles. “It's not the right time. She thinks I'm planning a wedding, remember? I don't want to confuse her until I …”

He takes a step towards me. “Until what?”

“Until we can be together,” I whisper. “Openly. No hiding. No one threatening us.”

Jordan's lips tense in a grim line. “Dezmond isn't a danger to me.”

“He's a danger to everyone,” I mumble. I don't explain myself, instead I look up, around Jordan, to the tiled wall of the kitchen. It's not on purpose, I simply can't resist my eyes drifting to the squares of sea glass sporadically decorating the room.

He angles his jaw, following my gaze. “Did you make those?” he asks.

“Yeah. That's my work.”

“They're stunning, Lorikeet.” Moving closer, he runs his fingers over the blue squares. There are six of them; I hold my breath as he touches each one. “This is what you were telling me about. The pieces you stopped making?” His frown is pure misery. “Where is the kiln?”

“In the backyard.”

“I think I'll take you up on that tour after all.”

He follows me through the backdoor onto the porch. My tank top was the right choice; June is here, the air is humid, bugs chirp in the trees. Jordan puts a hand on the wood rail, and it rocks on loose nails. I need to fix that. It's not a long fall, four feet at most, but if ice turns the entire porch into a hazard area, one wrong move will break the banister clean off.

Raking his eyes over my yard, Jordan considers the wild rose bushes that coil through the perimeter. They're particularly thick in the far-right corner of our property, their thorns, glossy leaves, velvet petals creeping to chest height. It makes a wall that hides the tiny shed.

He points right at it, and I think he must have incredible vision. “That it?”

“Yeah. Behind all the brush.”

“Those roses are amazing. Deena would have loved them.”

I smile slightly, but it slips away when he starts down the steps. “What are you doing?”

“Getting a closer look.”

“It's easier to see from up here,” I argue, chasing after him over the vibrant green grass. Jordan doesn't respond, his attention is solidly on the roses. My stomach wraps around itself as we approach. I haven't been this close in a long time. The air is heavy with florals; I taste them on my tongue, shivering at memories they bring forward. Memories I don't want.

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