Revealing Annie - Freya Barker Page 0,30

mouth with mine.

My play had been to ease into the physical stuff, get her used to some casual touching, maybe steal a peck or two before shoving my tongue down her throat, but something about this woman throws me off my game. From zero to sixty in no time flat.

Her taste turns me on, but it’s the way she instantly responds, molding her tight little body against me as she winds her arms around my neck, that has me fighting the urge to strip her naked where we stand. In my front hall that is, where at any time we could be interrupted by a fourteen-year-old bundle of primed hormones.

I release her lips, only to go back in for a final taste before pulling away.

“Wow,” she breathes when I take a step back.

“Yeah. Sucks I can’t do what comes natural right now,” I admit, adjusting my rigid cock in my jeans, an action she follows with hungry eyes. Fuck me. Dinner with my son in attendance suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

“Oh shit,” she whispers, her eyes flying over my shoulder. “Forgot about Bryce.”

“Babe, I about forgot my name for a second there.” She flashes me a quick grin. “He’s in the basement. Got him set up with a game system, a couch, and a TV. His reward for helping with dinner prep.”

I take her hand and lead her through the house to the kitchen, Daisy following on our heels.

“Drink?”

“Water is good.” She wanders over to the stove and lifts the lid of the pan. “What are these? Pot stickers?”

“Got it in one.” I put some ice in a glass and fill it with water. “You can leave the lid off. Bryce helped me make them. We’re having it with sticky ribs and coleslaw.”

“Oh, my God. You put me to shame. Just so you know, I’m never cooking for you,” she teases.

“Doesn’t bother me,” I tell her, handing her the glass and digging a beer from the fridge for myself. “As long as you provide dessert.” I look around me. “You did bring dessert, didn’t you?”

She slaps a hand against her forehead.

“Yes, I did. I left it in the back seat of my car. Hang on, I’ll—”

I just manage to catch her as she suddenly tries to dart past me.

“Give me your keys, I’ll grab it. You keep an eye on my pot stickers.”

She hands them to me and I head outside. There’s a nice breeze coming off the Animas River as I unlock the car. There’s a good-sized baking pan sitting on the back seat, covered in tinfoil. I take it out and can’t resist lifting the foil and taking a deep whiff. Peaches. Damn.

As I turn to go back inside, I see a flash of something, or someone, ducking behind the brush on the edge of the river. I wait for a second to see if whatever it was reappears, but nothing happens.

I walk inside just as Bryce’s heavy footfalls come up the basement stairs.

“Hey, Bryce,” Annie greets him, startling the boy, who seems to have his head down most of the time.

“Oh, hi.”

I set the pan on the counter and grin as he opens the fridge door. That didn’t take long for him to get used to.

“Annie brought dessert. Peach…what is it, a crumble?” She nods in response. “Here, kid, take a whiff of this.” I peel back the foil and Bryce takes a peek.

“Looks good,” he mumbles, suddenly looking at Annie with a puzzled expression on his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

The kid’s perceptive. I notice his scrutiny seems to make Annie uncomfortable.

“Yes, they are.”

Bryce looks over at me with question marks all over his face before he turns back to her.

“Mom would have a fit.” Annie’s face pales at his words.

“Hey, Bryce, maybe—” I try to defuse the obvious tension, but he’s not done.

“She watches you all the time.”

Puzzled, I turn to Annie whose eyes now look guilty.

“Wait, what? How does your mom know Annie?”

I’m not sure what the hell is going on, but whatever it is someone better tell me soon.

“Not Annie, it’s Annabel Fiore,” he answers.

Annie’s hand comes up to the base of her throat and she looks almost scared now.

Who the fuck is Annabel Fiore?

11

Annie

Crap.

From the confused look on Sumo’s face I can tell I was correct in thinking he has no clue as to my identity, but I made a huge mistake assuming his fourteen-year-old son would be equally clueless.

“Bryce is right,” I finally volunteer. No way to put