Running Home to You (The Running Series) (15 page)

I return home and start organizing all the ingredients on the counter.  Evan emerges from his office and inspects the goods.  “Is all of this just for some chocolate chunk cookies?” he asks.

“No, baby.  I’m going to do a little taste testing, too.”

I open a few drawers, searching for the rest of the tools I need to get started, and I’m interrupted by a man who appears to have an insatiable appetite – for me.  Evan stands behind me, sweeps the hair from my shoulder, and begins to lick and suck on my neck.  “I’d like to do a little taste testing, myself,” he whispers in my ear.  Unable to continue, I close my eyes and place my hands on the counter for support.  The things this man can do to me with the slightest touch make me weak in the knees.

Just as I’m about to turn around and reciprocate, he stops and backs off.  “Don’t let me interrupt your process, Juliette.”  He lifts my chin, places a loving kiss on my waiting lips, and steps away.  “I’ll be upstairs in the gym.  Call me when you’re ready,” he teases as he walks away.

As he turns the corner, I mutter under my breath, “I’m always ready for you, chief.”

As he heads up the stairs to the gym he calls down, “I know.”  Damn.  I didn’t think he could hear me.

I immediately get started on Evan’s chocolate chunk cookies.  It’s a recipe I know by heart.  No instructions needed.  I carefully measure out the ingredients, add a hidden treat, macadamia nuts, and scoop out man-sized dollops onto the cookie tray. I place the trays into the oven to bake, and start on my next creation.

I know Evan is upstairs working out in his personal home gym.  I can hear him cranking up his playlist, blaring Guns N’Roses through his sound system.  Images of him reclined on his weight bench, his chiseled chest heaving as he strains to slowly raise the bar and bring it back down again, come rushing into my mind.  Or perhaps he’s on his rowing machine, flexing his hard-as-rock biceps over and over again, working up a sweat that clings to his body, glistening on his bare chest.  The urge to forego my baking experiment and sneak upstairs for a peek is almost too much to resist.

Trying to refocus my attention, I turn on my own music and select an upbeat mix of Jason Derulo, Katy Perry, and Maroon 5 so I can engage in another one of my favorite pastimes, bakedancing.  It’s like all my cares are momentarily forgotten.  I don’t have to be careful, organized, neat or tidy.  I get to be silly, creative, loud, and messy.  It’s a part of me that I don’t let out often enough.  My normally beautiful and orderly kitchen is currently a jumble of flour, sugar, honey, butter, chocolate, and about a dozen other ingredients, haphazardly covering every surface.  But I don’t care, I’m in the zone.

Time passes quickly and before I know it, I’ve successfully completed a batch of cookie crackers flavored with honey and cinnamon.  Now it’s time to start on the chocolate ganache.  As my music echoes through the room, I sashay across the kitchen to retrieve some heavy cream from the refrigerator, and then I measure, pour, and heat it over a low flame.  Just as it’s about to boil, I pour it over a bowl of chocolate and wait for the chocolate to soften and melt. 

The music changes and I find myself dancing mindlessly to Ylvis singing about a fox.  I grab a whisk and get busy turning my concoction into a chocolate delight.  My dance moves interfere with my whisking, and I end up making a creamy chocolate mess all over the counter, myself, and my favorite apron.  I look down at my sexy little red apron that says, “I like big buns,” and see it’s been splattered with chocolate drips. 

Just as I’m about to remove the apron, I feel a strong set of arms around my waist, making me jump.  “Interesting choice of music,” Evan whispers in my ear, nuzzling my hair, and inhaling deeply.  “You smell good.”  His warm breath tickles my neck, causing goose bumps to break out all over my body.

I turn around to return the affection, and I get an eyeful of the tastiest treat I could imagine – Evan standing before me, barefoot, bare-chested, wearing just a pair of basketball shorts that hang low on his waist, revealing that sexy v-cut of his waist.  He stands there, gazing down, appraising me thoughtfully.  “What do we have here?” he asks with a glimmer in his eye.

Looking down at my apron, I take a swipe of the chocolate dripping down my apron and slip my finger into Evan’s mouth.  “This is my chocolate ganache.  How’s it taste?”

“Mmm,” he moans as he licks every bit of chocolate off me with his warm tongue.

“Mind if I try something?” I ask.  Evan nods his assent and I take a spoonful of warm chocolate ganache from the bowl, drip a small amount onto his beautiful chest and watch as it slowly glides down his body.  It stops just above his navel and when it does, I quickly lean down and begin to remove the chocolate, bit by bit, slowly licking, sucking, and enjoying every single drop.  “Sweet and salty,” I purr.

“You’ve done it now, Running Girl,” Evan warns in a deep, raspy voice, his eyes dark and dangerous.  As I listen to his words and the meaning behind them, I can feel the wetness between my legs that had been created just by the thought of what was about to come next.

With one fell swoop, Evan clears the counter, sending everything in his way crashing to the floor.  He grins and pulls me close to him with my back against the counter as clouds of flour rise up, dusting both of us in the process.  He grabs me by the waist and hoists me onto the counter in one swift motion.  He nudges my legs apart just enough so he can stand between them, pulls me to the edge, and kisses me, his tongue penetrating my mouth, its softness exploring me deeply, almost violently.  “Do you have any idea how fucking hard I am right now?” he growls.

I reach down for him, his shorts covered in flour, the fullness of him creating a huge tent in his shorts.  He groans hungrily, my favorite sound in the world.  A tingle begins to pulse between my legs, reminding me of how deeply this man affects me.

Evan slides his hand beneath the hem of my shirt and gently pulls on it, lifting it up and over my head, and then tosses it to the floor to join the sugar and flour.  His hands race across my naked back and land on my bra.  With one hand, he unsnaps it, peels it from me, and drops it to the floor beside my shirt.  As he does, I reach back to untie my apron hanging from my waist.  “No, leave it,” he demands.

I slide my hands in the waistband of his shorts and tug, freeing him from the restraints of the fabric.  Evan steps out of his shorts and kicks them across the room, standing before me wearing nothing but a wicked smile, naked, floury, and perfect in every way.  With Evan’s help, I shimmy out of my shorts, and they are relegated to a nearby spot on the floor with the rest of our now dusty clothing.

Evan leans in to kiss me as I wrap my legs around his waist.  He breaks us apart and lays me back across the counter, sending eggs and honey flying and creating a sweet, sticky mess.  He looks down at my now naked breasts, swipes a finger in the spilled honey, and holds his hand directly above me.  One by one, he drips thick, cold honey onto my tight peaks, watching as I struggle to remain still.  He leans down to taste, his teeth toying with me, inflicting that brutal balance between ecstasy and anguish. If he continues to focus his attention here, I think I may explode from this alone.

Just as I think I cannot stop the waves of pleasure that are rippling just beneath the surface, Evan stops his slow torture, releases me, and trails soft, sweet kisses down my body.  His fingers delicately explore my hips, my thighs, then higher.  He falls to his knees before me, hidden beneath the only fabric left between us – my apron.  Unable to see his beautiful face or touch his thick, messy hair, I allow my hands to explore the soft skin of my stomach and up to grasp my breasts as my body arches in response to his touch.

The moment I feel his tongue on me, my entire body tenses, sending sparks of pure ecstasy through my veins.  Just as I begin to relax and permit him to take me on this pleasurable ride, he slips one, then two fingers inside.  I hold my breath and bite my lip as he strokes me gently with his thumb and pushes powerfully into me with his fingers.  Tongues, lips, fingers, all worshipping at my feet.  His long fingers press inside me, twisting, curving, and finding that secret spot while my orgasm builds steadily and forcefully.  Teetering on the edge, I feel as if I could shatter in an instant.  I cannot stop the groans of pure delight that slip from my lips as I climb higher and higher.

Without warning and against my desperate pleas, Evan disentangles himself from me, rises, and looks down at me now squirming on the table, left bereft of his touch and pleasure. I wrap my legs tightly around him, desperate to feel his flesh against my own, and drape my arms around his neck.  Evan cradles me and lifts me from the counter, backing up infinitesimally until he is stopped by the stove behind him.

While our lips are locked in a passionate kiss, he carries me across the kitchen, carefully avoiding all slippery, slimy obstacles in his way.  Our bodies stick together, bound by the sticky honey and sweet chocolate that still linger on our skin.  Unable to go any further, completely blocked off by the hazardous remnants of our hunger, he places me back on my feet and sighs deeply. 

I drag myself down his body, stopping to kiss every sweet spot I can find.  When I reach his still hard erection, he releases a sexy moan that reverberates through every inch of my body.  I pull him down onto the floor with me and crawl over him as he leans back, lying flat on the cold kitchen floor.  I straddle him as I lower myself onto him, taking in every inch of his thickness as we both take in a deep, sucking breath.  His body quivers lightly under my touch.  This is my power over him, and it’s a wicked, triumphant feeling.

I arch my back and flex my hips, anxious to feel him pressing against every part of me.  Evan holds onto my hips as I grind into him.  With every thrust, we slide along the floor a little, but never stopping.  Impatiently, I move back and forth, creating the friction I need.  I find his hair and ravage it, pulling and twisting, keeping rhythm with our movements. 

As I continue to climb higher and higher, my apron is billowing, tickling Evan’s skin while the ties in the back gently glide along the flesh of my bottom.  I anchor myself to him, grabbing his hand in mine as we continue to drive, push, and move together, each filled with equal amounts of lust and fire.  Evan releases me and moves his hand between my legs, pressing his fingers against me as I ride against him, fast and hard. 

Evan joins me as we both chase our own release.  My cries are echoed in his moans of pure pleasure.  I grasp hold of his shoulders as a tidal wave crashes through me, my muscles tense and go rigid as shots rip through me, slicing me, filling me, and emptying me.  I throw my head back and release a loud, uncontrollable scream.  As my body becomes limp, Evan gently lays me back and positions himself above me.  Over and over, he drives into me, finding his own kind of amazing somewhere deep inside me.  I hold tight as he empties himself into me until the waves finally retreat, leaving both of us shaken and completely drained.

I look up at Evan, and I have to stifle a laugh.  He looks positively ridiculous covered in sticky sweat, with bits of flour coating his chestnut hair.  He rolls off me and plops himself onto the floor, cradling me in his arms and holding me close.  When the room stops spinning, I sit up a little in an effort to survey the chaos we’ve created.  I release a chuckle as I look around at the scattered ingredients, bowls, and utensils covering every surface of our kitchen.  “Holy crap.  Look at this mess.”

Evan looks down at me and teases, “It’s the most beautiful mess I’ve ever seen.  Let’s take a shower, baby.  We can deal with this later.”

Pot Calling the Kettle Black

T
he weeks fly by now that Ryker has joined our team.  My instincts were right – he is exactly what we need.  After the initial resentment, Reese finally came around and accepted his help.  The awkwardness between Reese and me is now long gone, gratefully. 

In fact, everyone seems to be impressed by Ryker, especially the girls.  He’s got that military vibe that says, “Don’t fuck with me or my friends,” but the approachable disposition that makes him likeable and makes you want to be one of the chosen few with the privilege of calling him friend.  I come in a little late this morning to find Emmy, Reese, and Natalie all crowded around Ryker as he proudly shows off his tattoos to the girls.

“This one,” he explains, “is a burning sun.  It represents life.  The one next to it is a tree without leaves.  It represents death.  Once cannot exist without the other.”  Emmy tears up a little, just enough that I can see her try to wipe her eyes without anyone else noticing.

“See this?”  He points to a thorn bush with a single rose blooming.  “Each one of the thorns represents the a month I spent deployed.  There’s exactly twelve.”

“Why the rose?” Natalie asks.

“It reminds me to try to find the beauty in every situation, no matter how bad things may seem,” he tells her.  “When I was in Afghanistan, I met a beautiful young woman.  She actually looked a lot like you, Jette.  She had the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.”