he was right.
“I do,” she said, her insides tensing up, on the verge of something. On the verge of giving in to this entirely, or pulling back completely, she didn’t know. She really couldn’t pinpoint it.
“Well, that was really nice of you,” she said.
“I have ulterior motives,” he said, winking and heading into her kitchen. He moved around in there like he had every right to. Like it was normal. Like she had asked him to, or like he had done it a hundred times.
When she followed after him, she saw that he had put two cake slices onto two small plates, then closed the cake itself back in the box. “I don’t sing,” he said, handing her the first piece. “But happy birthday.”
“If you don’t sing I... I don’t know,” she said.
She was holding onto the plate too tight. But she couldn’t quite make herself ease up. She didn’t know what was wrong with her.
Her fingers were bent back slightly at the first knuckle, straining against the bottom lip of the porcelain. “You really don’t want me to sing,” he said, “trust me.” He took a bite of his cake, then set it back down on the counter.
He started to walk toward her, and she backed up slightly, the counter hitting her right in her lower back.
He took her fork from her hand and moved it smoothly through the cake, holding it up for her.
It was silly. She wasn’t going to let him feed her. He had brought her cake, which already felt sort of ridiculously over-the-top in terms of taking care of her. She didn’t need to be taken care of. She took care of herself. She made sure she was okay.
But he brought the fork to the edge of her mouth and she opened for him. He slid the fork in and slowly, she felt an erotic echo move through her entire body. “Good?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, looking down. Because if she looked at him she was going to spontaneously combust. Over cake. And that would just be embarrassing.
“It’s fine,” he said. “But I bet you taste sweeter.”
He took the plate from her hands and set the cake on the counter behind her. And then he leaned in, pressing his mouth to hers, slowly, gently. He slid his tongue between the seam of her lips and the sound he made reverberated inside of her.
“Just like I thought,” he said against her lips. “Delicious.”
“West...”
“It’s been too long, Pansy. I’m starving for you, don’t you know that?”
“You brought me cake,” she said, the words shaky. “And then you took it away.”
“You can have it later,” he said, his voice husky. “I need you.”
The pleasure of those words shot through her, sharp and swift. He needed her.
It made her feel like maybe she hadn’t needed to hold on to that cake plate so tight. Like maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Like maybe everything would be okay. If he needed her.
Maybe the weakness she felt inside of her wasn’t so weak after all. But then he put his hands on her hips, and he kissed her again, taking it deeper and harder, and she started to shake.
Need.
That word kept rolling around inside of her head.
She didn’t like it.
It terrified her.
He could need this. In the moment.
That made sense.
And maybe if he could then so could she.
Maybe that’s all it was.
Maybe it had nothing to do with need in the big, wide sense, that might fill her whole world and her whole life.
Maybe it was just this moment in her kitchen with those big hands bracing her in place, and his mouth all hot and hard and searching over hers.
With his tongue slick and perfect as he tasted her deep and long. He angled his head and consumed her. And she let him. Just stood there and let desire riot through her. Let him take what he needed. Because somehow that felt easy. Easier than grabbing hold of his shoulders and clinging to him. Admitting that she needed him too.
He was going too slow, though. And eventually she got restless, rocking her hips against his and trying to urge him to go faster. To make his hands rough like he had done the last two times they were together. To take her up against the counter, with the lip biting into her body so that she had a counterbalance to the sweetness that he was pouring over her like honey. Like frosting. Like the best cake she could ever imagine.
But