Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,34

“It would only confuse things.”

“Right,” I said, and I should have been glad that she agreed so easily, but somehow I wasn’t. Had I been expecting, or hoping, that she would argue?

“I mean, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, with the wedding and the holidays and all,” she went on. “The last thing we need is to create an awkward situation. And our mothers are already driving us crazy. Why throw fuel on that fire, right?”

But the only fire I could feel was the one burning inside me. I set the plate down without drying it. “Cheyenne.”

“And like we said last night, what happened was just a momentary lapse in sanity,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard me. “Letting off steam. A one-time thing.” She reached for another plate, but I grabbed her wrist.

“Cheyenne.”

Her eyes met mine. Her lower lip trembled. “It won’t happen again.”

But it was too late—in an instant my mouth was on hers. If there were words of protest on her lips, I didn’t want to hear them. If making out with her in the kitchen was the worst idea I’d ever had, I didn’t want to know it. If I was going to be sorry on the other side of this kiss, I didn’t fucking care. I wanted this. I needed this.

I needed her.

I let go of her wrist and took her head in my hands as my tongue searched for hers. Her wet hands found their way up my chest, and she clutched my shirt, her fists curling inside the material. I moved my fingers into her hair and kneaded them against her scalp, loosening the bun so that pins clattered to the kitchen’s wood floor.

I changed the angle of my head, deepening the kiss, a sound of frustration tearing from somewhere in my chest. I ran my palms down her shoulder blades and lower back, pulling her in tighter against me. She looped her arms around my neck until her chest was crushed to mine, and I couldn’t resist sliding my hands lower, grabbing her ass.

Now our lower bodies were pressed together as well, my erection trapped between us, pushing against her pelvic bone. Without thinking, I turned her back to the counter and rocked my hips, grinding against her. My mouth moved down her throat, eliciting a tiny moan from her that ratcheted my blood pressure up even higher. She reached for my belt. I yanked up her dress. She jumped up onto the counter.

At the sound of the splintering crash, we both gasped.

“Oh, fuck.” I stared at the shattered plate on the floor and then looked at Cheyenne. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Shit!” she shrieked, sliding off the counter and dropping to her knees next to the shards. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I went down next to her, but all we could do was gaze mournfully at the broken wedding china. “It was my fault,” I said. “I’ll take the blame.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Cole.”

“I started it,” I argued.

“I wanted it.”

“I pushed you against the counter.”

“I jumped onto the counter.”

I shook my head at the mess. “Your mom is going to kill you.”

“She’ll get over it.” But her bottom lip was caught between her teeth as she gathered up the bigger pieces. “It’s just a plate.”

“I don’t think it was just a plate to her.”

“Well, it was supposed to be my plate eventually,” she said, dumping the pieces into the trash beneath the sink. “Although she’ll probably be so mad at me, she’ll decide Blair and Griffin should have the set.”

As if on cue, Darlene Dempsey appeared in the kitchen doorway in her robe, cold cream all over her face. I’d have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious. She glanced at the remains of the plate on the floor and put a hand over her heart. “Don’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. It just slipped out of my hands,” said Cheyenne. “I’ll replace it.”

“You can’t replace it. They don’t even make this pattern anymore.” She shook her head. “How could you be so careless, Cheyenne?”

“I’m sorry,” Cheyenne repeated. “It just . . . slipped.”

“It was my fault, Mrs. Dempsey,” I said. “I knocked it off the counter.”

Darlene folded her arms over her chest and regarded us both with narrowed eyes, as if we’d just gotten caught sneaking in after curfew. She tapped her slippered foot. “Well, which is it? Who broke the plate?”

“I did,” we both answered at once. Then we glared at each other and whispered, “I