Page 38 of Townshipped
But Em doesn’t kiss like a grandma or a member of the camelid species. She kisses like a woman. I was right, her lips were soft. And the fire in her spirit came through as she leaned into me and responded to my movements, giving in, coaxing me, letting out soft sounds from the back of her throat, running her fingers through my hair and across my neck, caressing my biceps with her palm.
I’ll never forget that kiss. It can’t happen again until we know her history. Maybe if enough time passes and we aren’t any closer to knowing, I might consider it.
No. I can’t.
I let my desire override my reason once. But, for her sake, I can’t let that happen again.
I walk downstairs, fully dressed for the day. Shirtless is not an option. As soon as I think that, and walk toward my coffeemaker, I feel the whole experience as if I’m reliving it. She stood right there, holding her mug and telling me with her eyes how much she wanted me.
“Good morning,” Em says from behind me. “Pondering the meaning of coffee?”
“Uh. No. Just about to put on a pot.”
“Great. What can I do? Have you fed the goats?”
She’s acting surprisingly unfazed for a woman who kissed me senseless last night. Maybe having a lifespan that is mentally one week old helps with the releasing of life-altering events. Or maybe that kiss wasn’t as earth shattering for her as it was for me.
“I haven’t fed yet. Let’s have coffee and then we can go out.”
“I get to help?” She gives me a coy smile.
“You do if you want.”
“I want.” She lifts her eyebrows, and her eyes widen almost imperceptibly while she grins like a Cheshire.
Okay. There’s no mistaking the undertone in the way she’s looking at me when she saysI want. If there were a question as to her subliminal meaning, the way she adds a small dart of her tongue across her lower lip settles it.
“Play fair,” I tell her with a light scold in my voice.
“Whatever do you mean, Aiden?”
She tosses her red hair over her shoulder as if she knows how the swish of her copper waves undoes me. Internally I’m leveled. A road roller may as well have just driven through my kitchen, mowed me down, and left me a human pancake. Call Aunt Jemima. Get out the butter. I’m flattened.
Okay. Em’s playing. I’ll play. I’m an older brother. I have a lifetime of experience at cat and mouse. And guess who never took the role of the mouse in those games. That’s right.
I walk over to where she’s pulling down mugs. Yes. Mugs. The same mug cabinet. She’s returning to the scene of the crime.
I cage my arms around her from behind, leaning into her so my chest rests against her back. Then I angle my face over her shoulder so that my breath skates across her cheek when I speak.
“I can get my own mug, Em. Thanks for offering.”
She shivers. I feel it. Mouse, meet cat.
“Could you pull out the creamer?” I say against her soft skin in the slowest, deepest tone I can muster. Em grips the counter and exhales audibly.
This game isn’t only affecting Em. Maybe I’m the mouse after all. No. I’m still the cat. Or a hybrid. I’m a couse. A m-cat. A muskrat.
“Are you okay?” Em asks brightly.
She pivots so she’s facing me and looking up with those transparent peridot eyes. They sparkle like a gem held up to the light. We’re close enough that she brushes against me as she turns. I’m on fire from the contact.
“I’m a muskrat!” I shout as I back away.
What. In. The. World? I’ve completely lost my mind.
Em grins knowingly.
I work on gathering my composure while I walk around her to pull down the coffee grounds. Then I fill the basket without another word.
