Page 6 of Mercenary
“It’s my birthday.”
He makes a noise in his throat, like he’s clearing it. Then, to my utter confusion, he shuts the door. Leaning his forehead against the fiberglass panel, he closes his eyes. Looking troubled. Looking pained. Maybe he needs to get somewhere and realizes how stupid it’d be leaving in this?
“Most people bake birthday cake,” I explain, “but instead Mama would lovingly decorate each cupcake into a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. Making each one special. A culinary genius, that’s what she was. My creations are limited to chocolate hazelnut icing and vanilla and chocolate cake . . .”
My words die off as he straightens. Runs his fingers over his cropped head. Turns.
I take a nervous step back as he strides across the short distance to stand before me.
“Come here.”
What? “Um . . . why?” I murmur.
My eyes widen as he dips his finger into some chocolate icing. Then he wiggles it at me.
“Come here before I change my mind.”
I draw in closer until I stand in front of him. Gently, ever so gently, he runs his fingertip along my lower lip, coating it with icing. My body tenses beneath his light touch. I’m torn between feeling unsure about what his intentions are and needing to feel more of him.
When he finishes spreading the icing on my lip, he drops his hands and cocks his head. Like a sculptor examining his work. Detached. Expressionless. And as several uncomfortable heartbeats pass, I am beginning to think: displeased?
I dart my tongue out, ready to lick it off.
“Stop.”
I stare up at him, full of questions. Full of nervous excitement like my body understands what’s about to happen before my brain does.
“Mine,” he says, his tone whisky rich. Lowering his head, he licks my lips clean. The warmth of his tongue causes me to quiver without moving. Like the tremors of an earthquake have gone off inside me, unknown to the rest of the world yet devastating to me.
His hand cups my chin, raising me up to him.
“Kiss me,” I murmur.
He lowers his head, presses his lips to mine, then kisses me hard. His tongue entwines with mine. Rolling and dancing, aggressive and sweet. His breath becoming my own.
My first kiss. With an experienced man who knows how to make a woman’s toes curl.
He groans into my mouth. Then his body tenses and he pulls away.
I open my eyes—when had I shut them?—and meet his steady gaze. What I see there shatters me. Lust. Passion. Pain.
He turns away and strides to the door. “Three days?” he demands.
“Three days . . . what?” I respond in confusion, touching my bottom lip with my fingers. Still feeling him there.
“You’re leaving?”
Is that why he stopped? “Yes.”
“Good. A baby like you has no business being in a place like this.” He strides toward the door, not noticing how the harshness of his words hit home.
I dig deep, refusing to get angry. I’m not letting him ruin my first kiss by pretending it was insignificant and meant nothing. Not when I know deep down, he felt it too. I felt his groan on my lips. I saw the raw lust in his eyes. Maybe kissing just isn’t enough to satisfy a guy like him. Maybe sex—fucking . . . orgasms—is his thing?
And the truth is, I’ve a mixed bag of emotions about not finding out.
He’s stepped down onto the cinder block and I take up his place in the doorjamb. The rain pours down in buckets, drenching him in seconds.
“Do I tell Kylie you stopped by?” I ask, my voice raised. The echo of rain off the tin roof is loud enough to drown me out. It was just a kiss, right? Just my first, just another check on my Must-Do list. Mission accomplished. I should feel happy my goal was achieved with such unforgettable . . . passion.
