I’ll never forget what Grandma said. Texture’s not bad. Could use more sugar, though.
If I’d used any more sugar, she’d have died of diabetic shock. That was when I knew she was just being critical because she could, since there was no way she could say what she did about the texture. She got a perverse pleasure out of watching me wilt under her criticism, probably because she knows I’m never going to be the kind of Southern lady who can make her proud.
So after that, I stopped trying so hard. I did enough to not upset her, mainly because I need to buy my parents’ home from her, but no more.
“Sweet and fruity is important, but… I can’t imagine that a fresh peach pie wouldn’t taste better,” Devlin says.
“It doesn’t. And I’ll prove it to you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Devlin
Becca’s got me a little worried. She looked bitter when she talked about people not noticing, even though she tried so hard to smile that her lips twitched like she was having a nervous tic.
To be honest, I don’t care that much about dessert as long as I get enough meat. My preferred junk food is a large ice cream sundae. But I keep that to myself, since Becca looks upset enough that she might add a tablespoonful of bleach to the pie.
Since she’s busy placing peach chunks into the crust, I rinse and chop up the lettuce, celery and carrots. And every time I reach over to grab veggies, I make sure to “accidentally” brush by her. Not anything overt. Just a bare arm against hers, making sure to flex a little as contact is made. Or my chest against her back when I reach for a bowl in the cabinet—I had to open a lot of cabinets to find that thing. Or my breath against her hair.
Every time, she goes still for a second and holds her breath. She’s definitely feeling it—and so am I. My blood is rushing faster, my temperature rising. Definitely some pheromone stuff going on in this kitchen.
Becca puts the pie in the oven and sets the timer. I take the opportunity to push the soft hair aside and press a kiss to her neck. Feel her shiver under my lips.
“Devlin…” She sighs.
“Mmm-hmm.” She smells so good this close, so much more mouth-watering than the scent of the baking pie. I lick the soft curve, and her pulse skitters. She braces her hands against the edge of the counter, like her knees are too shaky to support her.
Shit, this is hot. I put my palm against her belly because I don’t want her falling and hurting herself. I sprinkle kisses on her nape and shoulders, my heart pounding louder and faster. My dick’s impossibly hard and throbbing. I fit it tightly against her firm ass, need swelling. I start to suck on the spot on the side of her neck, and she suddenly jolts away, smacking a hand on her neck protectively.
“No, you don’t!” she says, turning to face me as she backs away like I’m a rabid dog about to pounce.
“What?” What the hell made her react like this? Okay, so I wanted to pounce, but it wouldn’t be like a rabid dog. I’d pounce smoothly, like a Casanova cat. And she was enjoying the hell out of what I was doing to her. I didn’t imagine the little sounds she was making in her throat.
“You can’t leave another hickey there.”
“Huh?”
“We aren’t in high school. You can’t leave marks on me like, like…some dog pissing on a pole.”
“Well, there’s an image to break the mood…”
She wags a finger in my face, the other hand on her hip. “You have no idea how awkward it was when I had breakfast with Max after you did that in New York. I put a scarf around my neck, but I can’t do that here. It’s too hot, and everyone would wonder.”
I just stare, trying to process what her issue is. Nobody’s ever told me this was a problem. Actually, I didn’t even realize I’d left a mark. I might’ve noticed if Becca had stuck around, but she snuck out, so she can’t complain about it. “You could cover the spot with your hair…”
“Hair blows around. People might still see.” When I continue to stare like she’s lost her mind, she adds, “You wouldn’t like it if I did it to you.”
“Actually, it wouldn’t bother me,” I say, then bend forward and tilt my head so she has easy access to my neck. “You can even bite a little—just don’t break the skin.”
“That so isn’t the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“Never mind. Are you done with the salad?” she says, sounding more exasperated than the situation warrants.
“No, but I can chop the stuff up for you if you want.”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”