Page 31 of Spicy or Sweet

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“I wantyou, Noelle. Spicyorsweet.”

Her pupils flare, and I feel the giddy nervous rush I haven’t felt since long before I met Philippe as Noelle slips her handsaround my body to undo the knot holding my apron together. She tosses it to the side before looking back over her shoulder at the door.

“The polite thing to do would be to take you upstairs to my apartment,” she muses, turning back to me with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “but I’m feeling about as polite as I am patient right about now, so…”

She grips my hips and lifts me with seemingly zero effort until I’m perched on the edge of the island. I squeak in surprise, but it melts into a whimper as she spreads my legs and steps between them, running her palms over my thighs, and brushing my neck with her nose.

Noelle peppers kisses across my collarbone, her hands roaming over my body. She presses her hand against my ribcage and looks up at me. “Your heart’s going a mile a minute. You okay?”

I nod, but my head doesn’t feel like my own. “Yeah, I—” My voice is so scratchy, I pause to clear my throat. “Sorry. I haven’t done this in a while. Been with a woman—or anyone.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says softly. Her fingers are gentle as she toys with my locket. “How long’s a while?”

“I haven’t been with anyone since my divorce a few years ago, but I haven’t been with a woman in… God, like twenty-something years.”

Noelle smiles, the sight of it making my stomach flutter.

“Well, the good news is that things haven’t changed all that much in twenty years.” She moves her fingers over my skin, cupping my breast and pressing her thumb against my nipple. Even through my shirt and my bra, it feels incredible. “It still feels good here,”—she drags a single finger over the denim between my legs, and I almost jump out of my skin—“and here.”

A curse spills from me as she moves both hands under my shirt. Her cool fingers dance against my flaming skin, and I jump, accidentally kneeing her. Fuck, I’m getting this all wrong.

“Shit, sorry, I?—”

“Shay,” she says, and it sounds almost like a gentle scold. She pulls my T-shirt up over my head and discards it somewhere off to the side. “Relax, and let me make this good for you, sweetheart,” she murmurs.

And I wouldn’t say no to that even if I could.

16

SHAY

Noelle takes a step back, like she’s trying to take in the full picture of me. She’s still close enough to touch me, though, and she reaches out, running her finger over the tattoo that covers my ribs.

“This is pretty,” she says, tracing the edges of the little mouse holding a bunch of forget-me-nots. “For Georgie?”

It’s such a small thing. “Georgie,” not “your sister.” Her identity is so often stripped away, even years after her death, and it feels nice to have Noelle acknowledge her.

“Yeah. Our dad called us his three little mice growing up, and these were her favorite flowers. Nico has the same tattoo on his arm.”

Noelle leans in and presses her lips against the flowers. “It’s a beautiful way to honor her.”

Most people get awkward and dance around the subject of my dead sister, but Noelle moves on seamlessly, dragging her lips over my skin, kissing every freckle, every stretch mark. She unbuttons my jeans, pushing the band down, and kisses the indents left behind.

It’s soft and tender—relaxing. Every brush across my skin leaves behind warmth, like a sunbeam shining on me. I’m sofocused on the trajectory of her mouth that I don’t notice her wiggling my jeans down my hips, my body lifting automatically to help her, until I feel the cool granite against my bare thighs.

I hiss, and Noelle looks up at me with a wicked smile. Up at me because, without me noticing, she kneeled between my legs. I wouldn’t be tall enough to reach in her position, but she certainly is. She slowly takes off my boots, then pulls my jeans off, my socks. She makes her way up my legs, one kiss after another, alternating left and right.

When she reaches my thighs, she runs her nose along the inside of my right thigh with a sigh. She presses a kiss to the top, her fingers digging into my skin, like she’s branding memine.

She says something, but my mind is hazy and her words are muffled because her mouth is pressed against my thigh.

“Huh?”

“Can I take these off? Please,” she begs, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of my basic black underwear. I should’ve chosen something sexier this morning; they don’t even match my pale pink lacy bra. But how could I have known that this is how the day would go?

I nod, but Noelle shakes her head.

“I want to hear you say it.”