Never Have I Ever (3 page)

No more midnight sci-fi movies for you.

But seriously, something was up. Something more than his cock. Taylor grimaced as he zipped his jeans over his already half-hard erection. The cold shower he’d just taken hadn’t done much to dispel his arousal. All he had to do was think of that smoking-hot car ride up the mountain to get all bothered again. If he was a superstitious man, he might think that the hedonistic memories contained in these mountains were affecting Ana as well.

He threw on a plain white T-shirt and left the big bedroom he’d been using at this cottage since he was sixteen and Eli’s family had unofficially adopted him, following his estrangement with his own father. Though it was barely seven, the winter night had begun to creep across the sky, filling the spacious vacation home with shadows and the warm orange of the setting sun.

To be fair, Ana’s out-of-character behavior wasn’t sudden. She’d been acting a little oddly for the past couple of weeks, but he’d chalked it up to holiday stress. When they’d returned from spending Christmas with her loud, huge family and she’d informed him she wanted them to go away, just the two of them, before her vacation ended next week, this place was the only location he could come up with on short notice. All it took was one phone call to Eli for permission.

The permission had been granted immediately, and Taylor had gone hunting in the junk drawer in his and Ana’s sunny little kitchen. The key to the cottage’s front door had been buried all the way in the back, tarnished, forlorn and forgotten, not even on a keychain. It was the same key he’d used throughout his teens and young adulthood to come and go from this home whenever he’d pleased. Until he’d stopped needing to come here anymore.

He hadn’t cut this place out of his life the way he had his father and the majority of the pack. Still, it had been years since he’d been here, and he had to admit, part of the visit was pure curiosity as a test of his willpower. Would this once-decadent den of pleasure stir him? Had he mastered his ability to abstain from his hedonistic leanings?

A week ago, smug in his cozy suburban Buffalo home, he would have said yes. Going cold turkey over a decade ago hadn’t been easy, but his choice had either been that or a fate worse than death: a slow descent into madness and loneliness, until he either pulled the trigger on himself or his best friend was forced to do so, for the good of the rest of the pack.

In other words, no choice at all.

Yeah, but he’d come out on top. A faint smile curved his lips as he followed his nose and the slight ring of pots and pans to the kitchen. He passed through the luxuriously appointed living room. The open floor plan and excellent utilization of the square footage of this house had always appealed to his architect’s eye. The décor had changed since the last time he’d been here, but that was no surprise, given his best friend’s quicksilver moods. He stroked a hand over the back of the wide leather couch, perfect for fitting two—or perhaps more—people. One thing that hadn’t changed was the way everything was geared toward hedonistic pleasure.

Pleasure he’d partaken in, happily. He pressed his hand against the wall. Though he knew it was his imagination, he swore he could feel the drywall pulse with the debauchery of his youth. He drew his hand away quickly. Ana knew some of his checkered past. Sexual history was important, and he hadn’t lied or misled her about the number of partners he’d had in his misguided teens and twenties. Though she’d been obviously nonplussed, the fact that he’d significantly slowed down and even abstained for a couple of years for the greater part of his adulthood had seemed to redeem him in her eyes.

However, he hadn’t told her about the exact nature of what he’d done with those partners. His slightly nostalgic smile fell away as he entered the kitchen. He didn’t know how to begin to tell her everything.

He stopped as he caught sight of Ana standing at the stove in the gourmet kitchen which, knowing Eli, had probably never seen a real cook.

About seven years ago, Taylor had briefly dated an antique store owner. He remembered seeing a small cameo in her shop with the profile of a woman garbed in lace and pearls.

When he’d done a favor for his assistant and picked up her son from kindergarten a couple of years ago, he’d watched Ana wrangling a bunch of little people, and he’d wondered if she’d somehow stepped off that cameo and switched out her flowing dress for a pair of slacks and a button down. Talking to her that first time, he’d even felt the same way he had when his big hands had clumsily picked up that old necklace. Like he was in the presence of something delicate and lovely, something he could easily break if he mismanaged it.

He cocked his head and studied her. He’d never been attracted to frail-looking women before Ana, but she made the crick in his neck and the extra care when he touched her worth it. Her dark, pixie-cut hair curled around her flushed cheeks, a strand clinging to the corner of her incongruously full mouth. Those lips were his hot button—they tempted him to forget the fact that she was a quiet, sheltered, reserved woman who had probably never imagined half of the things he’d done.

That sounds like some wistfulness for the good old days…

No, he and Ana had a great sex life. The fact that they loved each other automatically made every encounter hot. Who cared if it was mostly done in the missionary position in their bedroom? There was a certain age when sexual acrobatics had to end. They were grownups and they were married.

So you won’t admit that car ride was the hottest thing you two have ever done?

He shook his head to clear that thought. The vague shame the answer brought made him uncomfortable.

She was his. He’d braved the dragons—Ana’s three moderately insane and very overprotective older brothers—and captured the princess. He wouldn’t let anything jeopardize that, not even his own abnormal cravings. Even if it meant he was doing a hell of a lot more working out lately to keep those cravings under wraps. The car ride had been hot, yes, but he’d still retained control of himself. He wouldn’t let it slip, no matter what.

He leaned against the doorframe. “Something smells good.”

She cast him a quick smile over her shoulder. Sometimes he felt like her laughing dark brown eyes could just swallow him whole. “Who’s complaining about my purchases now?”

“Not me.” He walked over to where she stood stirring a pot of red sauce on the stove. The aroma of garlic and tomato filled his nostrils and whet his appetite. Placing his hands on her waist, he brushed a kiss on her neck. A whole different kind of appetite sat up and took notice. She’d showered while he’d caught a nap, and he inhaled the scent of vanilla, the lotion she used after every bath. It had gotten so bad he couldn’t smell that scent anywhere and not get hard for her.

He pressed openmouthed kisses down her neck, making her giggle and lean back against him. He could almost span his hands around her waist, and he wanted nothing more than to smooth them up and cup her sensitive breasts. Unfortunately she was wearing The Apron, and he feared what would happen if he started something.

To be fair, he assumed she’d found this one in a drawer somewhere, since it didn’t exactly look like the one she wore at home. It was pink and frilly, though, and it was close enough to be The Apron to be dangerous to his mental health.

Every time she slipped it on, all he could think about was having her wear that, handcuffs and heels and nothing else. Then he’d have her come to the breakfast table where he sat and bend her over at the waist and feed every inch of his cock into those full, bee-stung lips…

He removed his hands from his wife and stepped away hastily. God, maybe he’d been too overconfident, thinking he would be able to win out over the memories this place carried.

“I’ll set the table,” he blurted out, eager to have his hands occupied with something that wasn’t Ana’s soft skin or perfect firm tits or round thighs…

His grandmother. Baseball stats. A snowdrift.

His jaw clenched. It was a lost cause. He should have done some pushups or something before coming downstairs.

“It’s already set,” she informed him, all cheerful and unaware of his seething—yeah, seething—lust. “Why don’t you help me bring the food to the table?”

Excellent, he’d take any excuse to keep his hands occupied. He hefted the larger pot of spaghetti and followed behind her, finding it difficult to avoid staring at her twitching little rump, the cheerful bow of her apron bouncing right on top of it.

He managed to avoid spilling the contents of the pot all over the fine lace tablecloth Ana had rustled up. When he glanced at her, she was tugging at something behind her. She met his gaze and grimaced. “I think I knotted this thing. Do you mind?” She turned and presented him with her back.

He drifted closer and reached down to unwork the knot she’d made of the apron ties. They were stubborn.

Cloth bands, securing Ana’s slender wrists to his metal bedframe…

He yelped. Flat-out yelped, like a fucking nancy boy, and dropped his hands. Blinking, he looked up to meet her puzzled gaze. “Are you okay?”

Taylor licked his lips. “Yeah.” His voice sounded too loud, even to his own ears. “Hang on.”

Stalking over to the butcher block on the granite counter, he grabbed a knife and came back to Ana. Her eyes widened, but he didn’t give her a chance to say anything as he slit through the ties with a well-placed jerk. “Taylor! You ruined this apron.”

He grunted.

“This wasn’t even mine. We can’t go around cutting stuff up when we’re a guest in someone’s home.”

“Trust me, Eli won’t care or notice.” Most likely, Eli had probably used the apron as a sexual prop or a way to humor some female he had up here. He doubted his friend even remembered that it existed.

She frowned at him as she draped the forlorn fabric on another chair and sat down on the one he pulled out for her. “I’d care.”

“You’re not a guy. Thank God.”

Ana shook her head. “Seriously, Taylor, I—” The lights in the deceptively old-fashioned chandelier flickered above their table. She jumped. “Is the power going out?”

He waited for a second, but the electricity stayed on. He shrugged and filled her plate, adding more than she’d probably take on her own. “I don’t think so.”

He fixed his own plate and grabbed a piece of garlic bread from the serving dish in the center of the table. Though he was starved, his wife had her rituals, so he waited, head bowed, as she murmured a quick prayer. He waited for her to pick up her fork before reaching for his.

“This tastes great,” he said between bites. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

As he stopped to take a sip from his wine, he realized that she was barely nibbling on her own food. Or rather, nibbling less than usual. Ana had a tendency to eat like a bird in any case, something that had puzzled him when he first met her. The women he’d grown up around had eaten heartily. Sometimes they’d even fought over the food on each other’s plates. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Actually, I was just wondering if we should go test the generator before it gets too dark. I mean, didn’t Eli say he hasn’t been up here in a while? Maybe it’s no longer working or…”

Taylor stifled a smile. Now this was his Ana—professional worrywart with a gold medal in being cautious. They had initially bonded over their similar childhood trauma—both of their mothers had died of cancer, leaving them in the custody of their dads. While his father was a cold-blooded bastard he hadn’t spoken to in almost twenty years, though, her father was a warm and loving man, and he and her older brothers adored Ana. He’d expected the lone girl and youngest child in a family of men to be a pampered princess, but Ana’s experiences had molded her into a caretaker. The jury was still out on what he’d been molded into. “When Eli’s not here, he has the money to make sure someone comes up and checks on everything. Trust me.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

She continued to poke at her pasta. With a sigh, he twirled strands of spaghetti around his fork, and then held it out to her. “Trust me,” he repeated softly.

She smiled, her eyes brightening with that look he’d come to crave, loving and full of trust. The fact that this woman depended on him and entrusted him with her heart both panicked and humbled him. She leaned forward and accepted the bite of pasta into her mouth. Those fuck-me lips closed over the tines of the fork, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Unable to help himself, he continued to feed her from his own plate, no longer hungry, simply enjoying fulfilling his ma—

He stiffened. His wife. His
wife’s
needs.

She stopped him by placing her hand on his wrist. “I’m stuffed. Here.” She held up her uneaten garlic bread and brought it to his mouth. He took a bite from it, then another, until the small piece was gone. Her laughter pealed out when he continued to playfully lick and lap at her fingers. The laughter subsided when he not-so-playfully caught her finger between his lips and sucked it hard.

Her chest rose and fell as he changed fingers, being careful to clean them of butter and garlic. As he released her pinky, he glanced up to meet her gaze. The lights flickered in the inky darkness of her eyes as she watched him without blinking. Hectic color had flooded her cheeks, and her breathing was definitely faster.

“Are you finished?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“Ready to turn in?”

A small smile curled her lips. “It’s early.”

Not so early, since turning in will mean I have you under me.
“Mmmm.”

“How about we watch TV for a while?” She stood up gracefully and began collecting their plates with economical motions.

If by watch TV, you mean fuck my brains out then
… “Sounds great,” he said loudly, and then stood and stopped her from picking up his plate. “Why don’t you go put something on? I think there’s a bunch of DVDs under the cabinet. Just pick a movie or something. I’ll clean up.”

Her eyes brightened. “Perfect.”

It didn’t take him long to clean up the kitchen now that his personal catnip had left the room. Though he wasn’t a very talented cook, he was great at tidying things. He put the dishes into the washer, made sure the counters were clean and even dried out the sink with a paper towel.