Until I'm Yours (12 page)

“They’re all beautiful.” Sofie swipes back to a picture of my parents, studying them before looking back to me with a soft smile. “You’re the only ginger in the whole litter.”

I grin, brushing a hand over my tightly cropped hair.

“Yep, me and Mama are the only redheads. Everyone else took strongly after my father.”

“You did, too.” She reaches over to run a finger across my cheekbone and then my chin. “Your strong bone structure and height are from your father.”

She traces my bottom lip with her thumb.

“Those dimples are all your mother, though.”

Am I supposed to ignore the fire in her touch? Every smile, every look, blows on the embers from this morning. I want to take this slow, to get to know her, to want her for the right reasons, but I’m not neutered.

I capture her hand, bringing her soft palm to my mouth, running my tongue across her lifeline, sliding my lips down to her wrist, suckling the pulse pounding through the scented skin there. She watches me possessing those extremities with my lips and tongue, her eyes going dark and hot with the same feeling I’ve been fighting since she stepped through that door looking like dessert.

I lean forward until there’s nothing but a breath between us. Our eyes are still connected, open. With my eyes on hers, I close the gap, tugging the fullness of her bottom lip between mine, nibbling at the softness until she opens for me with a whimper. My hands cup her face, holding her perfectly still so I can taste the sweetness that’s left me hungry all day. I lick into her mouth, running my tongue over the roof, teasing her into kissing me back. Her tongue brushing up against mine, seeking mine behind my lips, wanting mine, is driving me past restraint. I pull her deeper into me, groaning when her breasts press against my chest. Her lashes drop, breaking the contact between our eyes, but deepening the heat between our mouths, leaning into me harder and sweeter.

Hunger drives my hand down over her shoulder and across the naked, silky expanse of her back. Her skin is like silk and velvet, softer and smoother than anything I’ve touched before. She slides her fingers into my hair, caresses my neck, grips my biceps, all the while sucking my tongue down the tightness of her throat, imitating something my cock is throbbing for, but I can’t even let myself consider if I’m going to make it through this night without screwing Sofie on my sister’s dining room table.

I pull back, but she recaptures my mouth, the sweet suction stronger, her hands gripping tighter. I pull back again. If I don’t, this is over and we’ll be upstairs in my bed before dessert.

“Sof,” I whisper against her lips. “Wait.”

She drops her head until her forehead rests against mine, her breaths as heavy as mine. She lowers her long lashes, shadowing the delicate skin beneath her eyes.

“You must think I—”

“Want me?” I laugh against her lips, converting it into a kiss. Forcing myself to pull back. “I like how much you want me, but it’s not nearly as much as I want you.”

“I don’t know about that. I bet I could give you a run for your money.” She smiles, leaning forward to kiss the dimple in my cheek. “Was that dessert?”

It helps to think about something other than how hard I am in my pants.

“Um, dessert.” I sit back, clearing my throat, running a quick hand over my hair, gathering my thoughts. “Yeah, like I said. The day got away from me, so I didn’t get to make it, but I thought we could bake it together.”

“Me?” Sofie raises her brows, a smile stretching between her cheeks. “You want
me
to cook?”

“I have the recipe.”

“Oh, well then we’re home free.” She adds a laugh to her sarcasm, shaking her head. “I’m not much of a cook, Bishop.”

She gestures at the dress I’ll be dreaming about stripping off her tonight when I’m in my cold bed alone.

“And not really dressed to cook.”

“You can throw on something of mine.” I grin, pulling her to her feet. “It’ll be fun.”

“I think we have different definitions of fun.”

I risk pulling her close, setting my hands at her slim hips, breathing in her clean scent.

“I think we can meet somewhere in the middle.”

She rests her elbows against my chest, leaning into me, green eyes open and teasing.

“I really like meeting in the middle,” she says, her tone light but her voice husky.

“So do I, Sof.” I drop a quick kiss on her soft lips. “But first, dessert.”

I
held Trevor’s dick in my hands twice today before the sun was up, but baking a cobbler with him makes me nervous?

One of his T-shirts hangs almost to my knees, and my brown dress is laid out on his king-size bed. I glance around the room, taking in the shades of ebony and cream, punctuated with splashes of raspberry. I know it’s a guest room, surely decorated by his sister or some designer; I know that this isn’t his home, but I still find myself searching for clues to the man who, as open and genuine as he is, remains a mystery.

A desk takes up one corner of the room, its surface neat but peppered with stacks of papers and files. Pictures of his family are everywhere—on the desk, on the nightstand and shelves. It’s sweet how much they mean to him. I’ve never had that connection with my parents, and seeing how he loves his family only strengthens his appeal.

One picture in particular catches my attention. Trevor is hugging his mother from behind. They’re both looking into the camera laughing, the ocean behind them no more vivid than their smiles and ginger-colored hair.

“That was taken at my beach house on Tybee Island,” Trevor says from the doorway, startling me.

“Sorry.” I step away from the desk. “I wasn’t snooping. Just curious.”

He walks fully into the room, taking in the oversize Princeton T-shirt and my bare legs peeking out from beneath the hem.

“I guess that’s a little big, huh?” He pushes back the hair that has escaped from the knot I haphazardly pinned behind my ear.

“Just a little.” I tug at the shirt, conscious that though everything is covered, I’m wearing only panties underneath. I’ve posed nude for
Playboy
, but one man catching a peek at my business makes me self-conscious?

“Are you nervous?” He ducks his head, capturing my eyes and smiling.

“A little.” A breathy laugh slips past my lips. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Not really.” He glances between me and the large bed, his smile widening. “This is a dangerous place to be if I want to stick to my guns.”

“Now who’s nervous?” I tease, a smile I can’t stop on my face.

“Don’t mistake caution for nerves.” He leans down to leave a kiss I want to deepen on my lips. He pulls away, a knowing smile on his face. He knows damn well how wound up he has me, that if he wanted to have me on that bed right now, he could. This taking it slow thing is new to me, especially when I want someone as badly as I do Trevor.

Only I can’t remember wanting anyone like this. It’s not even that package of his, though I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him thick and hard in my hands. There’s more. Maybe the more he wants from me is the same more I want from him. It feels foreign, knowing that even if I had sex right now, it wouldn’t be enough. What I want from him goes deeper than that. I want to know why he’s so passionate about third world nations. He told me not to assume I know what he dreams about. What
does
he dream about? If he believes in following the fire, what burns so bright that his whole life shines, inspiring other people to find their own fire?

And could he inspire me?

It scares the living shit out of me.

“I’ve got the recipe.” He shows me his phone, an email containing the recipe for dessert.

“Black and blue cobbler?” I lick my lips. “That sounds very Southern. Very fattening. And very delicious.”

“Are you sure you’re a model?” He presses a warm hand to my back, ushering me out of his bedroom and into the hall. “’Cause you kinda eat like a horse.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me a horse tonight, Bishop.” I laugh as we take the stairs back down. “My fragile self-esteem can’t handle it.”

“Fragile?” He snorts, turning on the light to illuminate a gorgeous kitchen decorated with cherry cabinets and shades of lemon and cranberry. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does. The granite counters are clean, save a few cutting boards evidencing Trevor’s meal preparations. No man has ever cooked for me. It makes me feel special.

He makes me feel special.

“So we’re taking a shortcut.”

Trevor assembles the ingredients—sugar, flour, butter, vanilla extract, a cup of blackberries and a cup of blueberries, sugar, eggs, and packaged pie crust.

“That’s for the topping. My mama would skin me for not making it, but we’re pressed for time and this is what my sister had.”

“You usually make the crust? Like make it, make it?”

He grins, opening the crust and sliding it toward me.

“Yep, but since it’s your first time, I’ll be gentle with you.”

I grin, recognizing my words to him from yesterday.

“Touché.” I point to the pie crust. “What am I supposed to do here?”

“You’ll cut that into strips for the cobbler, while I mix all this together.” He walks over to the oven, turning a knob. “That’s preheating.”

He glances up at me, his dark eyes dancing with mine across the counter.

“You ready?”

“Um, no, but when have I ever waited to be ready to do something?”

He surprises me, leaning over the counter to drop a quick, sweet kiss on my mouth.

“This time, with me, you’ll wait until we’re ready, right?”

One minute we’re talking about cobbler, and the next we’re talking about his timeline for sex. I think?

“How will you know we’re ready, Bishop?” I hold his eyes with mine, refusing to release him until he answers.

“We’ll both know, Sof.” He turns his attention back to the ingredients. “You, pie crust. Me, mixing.”

For the next few minutes, we work and talk. It feels so natural, the way we talk about our day, laughing at things that aren’t even really that funny except because the other said it. I’m doing something I’ve never done before. Making cobbler, yes, but I’m sharing myself with him in a way that feels as intimate as anything I’ve ever done, but new and fresh. Like a gulp of ocean air, revitalizing me. Clearing my head.

“Okay, that goes in for forty-five minutes. We got a while before it’s done.” Trevor turns from the stove, leaning against the counter and looking devastating.

He took off the hunter green sweater he was wearing earlier, and is wearing a plain white T-shirt, which contrasts with the naturally tanned skin he inherited from his father. His face is a riveting geometry of sharp angles and straight lines, softened by the dimples that appear every time he smiles.

“So tell me about Haven.” He settles onto a stool of mahogany and dark brown leather. “What’s that all about?”

I take the stool beside him, crossing my ankles and resting my feet on the lower stool rung. The T-shirt rides up to about mid-thigh, and his eyes run over the length of my legs. I don’t pull it down. I love seeing him want me, even if he won’t do much about it yet.

“Ever heard of Goop?” I ask.

“Gwyneth Paltrow?” Trevor scrunches up his face in thought. “Her website thing?”

“Yes, her website thing.”

I tug at the pins digging into my scalp, securing my hair in the knot behind my ear, until my hair falls past my shoulders. Again, I enjoy his eyes on me, taking in the silky fall of hair to the middle of my back. I look up to find him studying me, his eyes dark and warm and admiring.

“Haven is my Goop.” I offer a small smile. “More like Preserve, Blake Lively’s site, but you get the picture. It’s a lifestyle website, but mine has a heavy fashion emphasis.”

I gather some stray flour between my fingers, sifting it and rubbing the velvety texture.

“We partner with artisans and designers who create products specifically for our site. Part of the appeal from their perspective is that half of the profits go to charitable partners.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown horns before opening his mouth and then closing it again.

“Charitable partners?” he asks. “Which ones?”

“The Walsh Foundation, obviously.” I pull a clump of hair across my mouth, a girlish habit I never kicked. “I’ve been their celebrity ambassador for years, but I want to work with other organizations, too. I’m being really careful about which ones, though.”

I look up at him through my lashes, feeling more exposed to him than when I brashly shoved his hand into my panties this morning.

“Maybe you could help me? I mean, to find the right charitable partners.”

“Of course.” He reaches over, toying with the ends of the hair hanging just above my breast. “I’d love to.”

“Really?” A wide smile takes over my face. “Marlee’s heading up the charitable effort, and the rest of the team handles everything else. You wanna see what we have so far?”

“Sure.” His eyes flick from my eyes to my mouth and back again. “Show me.”

I find myself hunched over his laptop in the office, pulling up the site my team has been working on.

“I love it, Sof.” He navigates across the various tabs. Some empty, some already filled with content.

“I’m taking a very hand-drawn approach to the aesthetic.” I point to the sketches for the various aspects of the site. “Along the lines of Megan Hess. In keeping with fashion sketches and design.”

I perch on the desk, pulling one leg up and resting my bare foot on the edge.

“And after this initial stage, I want to expand Haven into my own clothing line, home goods, furniture. The works.”

“Sofie, that’s brilliant.” He runs a finger over my hand, resting on the desk for support, the simple contact lighting fire to the goose bumps his touch arouses. “You’re brilliant.”

“We’ve all got our things.” I shrug, of all things embarrassed, and look for something to draw his focus away from me. A glass jar filled with tiny kernels on a shelf behind his desk provides the perfect distraction.

“What’s that?” I point to the glass jar.

Trevor reaches for it, stretching across me to grasp it, bringing us closer. He smiles at me, acknowledging the magnetic tug between us.

“This is my seed jar.” He points out the script writing etched across the front, handing it to me. “That’s a Ugandan proverb.”

“Sow seeds in your garden; wait and see what comes with the rain,” I read, tracing the faint letters with my nail. “What are these seeds from?”

“Everything we do isn’t diamond mining or some grand venture.” He pulls a seed from the top of the pile, holding it in his palm. “A lot of the places we visit are still primarily agrarian, and the best thing we can do is introduce the farmers to modernized agricultural techniques, show them how to more effectively grow their crops, and, subsequently, provide a better livelihood. Knowledge is the greatest charity because it continues giving.”

“Who said that?” I ask, trying to place it.

“I just did.” He grins and plops the seed back into the jar. “So every time we work with a new village, a new farmer, I keep one of the seeds we plant. I guess it’s a collection of sorts. Even though they all blend together, and I couldn’t tell you which one belongs to which village now, every one is special to me.”

“That’s really cool.” My response sounds lame compared to his impassioned eloquence, and I drop my head, chewing on my bottom lip, feeling like the vapid girl people assume I am.

He tips my chin up, smiling at me until I smile back.

“You’re right. It is pretty cool.”

His eyes fall to my lips, darkening to that delicious shade of chocolate I’m coming to crave. Just as I’m sure he’ll kiss me again, and wanting it so badly, the oven timer goes off, signaling the cobbler is ready. Desire tugs taut between us like hot wire. I’ve never let it simmer this way. I’ve always just given in to it, but there’s something about this slow build, this spark that grows hotter and brighter every time we look but don’t touch. Every time we smile but don’t kiss.

It makes me want him more.

“I may be biased,” I say around a mouthful of warm black and blue goodness, tempered by cold ice cream, “but I think this is the best cobbler I’ve ever had.”

“Have you had much cobbler, Ms. Yankee Supermodel?”

“No, can’t say I have.” I laugh, turning the spoon to cup my tongue. “But I bet it’s some of the best ever. We did good.”

“Things taste better when you make them yourself.” He scrapes his almost-empty bowl. “Just like things feel better when you build them yourself. I guess. I’ve never had anything handed to me; I’ve always built everything from scratch, so I don’t have much to compare it to.”

“Well, you’re right.” I slide my bowl over to him, still half full since he keeps eyeing what I can’t finish. “I’ve never felt as good as I do at the end of my workday now. Knowing I’m doing it all myself.”

He digs into my cobbler, nodding his agreement.

“I have to work out extra hard tomorrow after all this,” he says.

“Oh, will we see you in barre class again?” I grin, my chin resting on the heel of my hand.

“No, back to my Ironman regimen tomorrow.” He stands and steps close until his sweet, berry-scented breath brushes my lips. “Besides, I got what I wanted from the class.”

“What was that?” I lean forward another centimeter, tempting him to come the rest of the way. “A date with Anna?”

He looks confused for a moment, and then he understands.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot her name. Sweet girl, but no.” He inches in, his lips touching mine with his next words. “Was there ever any doubt why I was there? Who I wanted?”

He closes the tiny gap separating our lips, the berries barely disguising the deliciousness just beneath that is all him. His tongue, his lips, his mouth. So sweet. So addictive. I want much more. I’m throbbing between my legs for him. I’m soaking through my panties for him. I’m falling apart inside for him, and it’s the merest brush of our lips. The softest tangle of our tongues. Imagine how wonderfully devastated I’ll be when he fully unleashes himself on me.

Voices in the foyer burst our bubble, the one our kisses fashioned around us.

“Damn,” Trevor mutters against my lips. “Harold and Henri are home.”

I smile, easing forward again to nip his bottom lip. His groan vibrates against my lips.

“And if they hadn’t come home”—I pull back, lifting one challenging brow—“what would you have done, Bishop?”

“You mean what will I do, don’t you?” He cups my head, threading his fingers into the long tresses falling around my neck. “There’s still the ride home.”