Dangerous Exes (Page 39)

We left with Stanley holding up the paper cross in front of his face like Goo-Poh was a vampire.

I was surprised he didn’t toss garlic.

By the time we made it to the car I was exhausted.

“So . . .” Jessie smirked at me. “Bridal bed? Do I want to know?”

I groaned into my hands.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

JESSIE

I was at a complete loss.

For once in my life, I had no plan other than try to survive the next day without ending up front-page news, going to prison, or losing my mind as Isla showed me a side of her I wasn’t quite prepared for.

Baking.

She was a baker.

And not the clean-up-your-mess sort of baker.

But the kind where flour filled every crevice of my house.

The only way I even saw it was because I had blue walls, but that was beside the point.

The point?

I went to take a shower with every intention of coming back into the living room, pouring her a big glass of red wine, putting on a movie, and possibly getting lucky.

But when I walked out?

It was the exact opposite of what I expected.

Chaos.

Complete and utter chaos.

Isla had covered her red dress with an apron—a lot of good it did her with all the flour on her cheeks. She was rolling out something with such aggression I almost felt sorry for the dough.

Something that smelled sweet was cooking in the oven. She pulled the dough up and started pounding it with her fist, giving me a little jolt.

My eyes fell to every dirty dish.

Every inch of space that was taken up with something gooey, sticky, that didn’t belong.

The things that had no place.

A bomb had exploded in my kitchen.

And she just kept going, pounding, yelling things in a language I didn’t understand.

Anxiety squeezed my chest as I mentally calculated how many hours it would take me to clean the house. My erratic paranoid thoughts wondered if she was tracking flour with her shoes, if she would clean her dishes or leave a mess.

My mind was everywhere.

And then she swiped her right hand underneath her eyes as a tear fell into whatever the hell she was making, and my heart stilled.

More yelling followed as she pounded the bread.

A warm sensation gripped my chest, replacing the anxiety as I pulled out my phone, scrolled through some slow music, stopped on “Only,” by Shashi Pratap Singh, and pressed “Play.”

She looked up as I approached, and then back down like she was ashamed.

I walked behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, then twirled her in my arms and started dancing.

Her eyes flickered to mine with uncertainty. “I know you’re pissed, I’ll fix it, I just need some time, and I’ll clean up my mess. I just needed to get lost in something so I could think and—”

“Isla?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.” I covered her mouth with mine before she could protest, then wrapped my arms around her, our bodies danced, our tongues did the same as I comforted her in the only way I wanted.

I forced the world away.

And concentrated on her.

The minute I stopped thinking about myself, my own anxiety, the mess, I relaxed and enjoyed the moment.

I embraced the chaos surrounding me.

And just let go.

She moaned against my mouth then broke off. “I feel like any minute you’re going to yell at me for this disaster, or for getting us caught in this horrible position, and I’m really sorry about your car.”

I flinched. “What did you do to my car?”

She smirked. “Gotcha.”

“Oh, you think that’s funny?” I reached for her before she could pull away and punished her with another kiss, then lifted her onto the counter. Flour caked her ass and then my hands as I tugged the apron off and scooted her dress up. I gripped her hips, making flour handprints on her skin.

I liked the way it looked.

The way it felt.

To see my handprints on her body.

Mine.

“What are you doing?” She looked so innocent then, with her hair pulled back in a low bun, flour caking her cheeks and pretty red dress, and the few tears that you could still see streaked down her face. God, I wanted to eat her up. I didn’t want to let her go. And it scared the shit out of me. “Two hours, how could you forget?”

“Oh?” She grinned wickedly. “And what are we going to do with our two hours tonight?”

“Actually”—I made a face—“I didn’t get two hours last night. Being drugged cancels out any sense of time—especially since I wasn’t aware time existed in your arms.”

I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Her lips parted.

I captured them again, one by one, taking my time sucking as I cupped her face, pushed open her knees, and walked between her thighs. Her heels hooked behind my ass as I laid her down next to whatever she’d been attempting to bake.

Our eyes locked.

Hers were hesitant.

Mine only saw her.

So when I shoved everything off the counter and it crashed to the floor, I could see her surprise, I could feel her desire and shock.

And I wanted to be the man to do that to her every fucking time.

I opened my mouth to tell her.

To tell her something was changing.

To tell her that it was me.

That it was her with me.

But she didn’t let me, she pulled my shirt over my head and hungrily devoured my mouth until it was hard to breathe. I tried again to speak when she shoved my sweats down with her gorgeous stilettos, and then I was tossing them to the ground while she inched her skirt up higher.

“No underwear,” I breathed out and nearly lost consciousness as she wiggled closer to me and shook her head.

“Were you like this at Goo-Poh’s?” Why was my voice so strained?

She nodded slowly.

“Shit.” I braced myself on either side of her, then climbed onto the counter, my knees spreading more flour everywhere while her hair made a snow angel with the rest of it. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I have flour in my ears.”

I chuckled and blew in her ear, then kissed it and whispered, “Like I said, gorgeous.”

She moaned when I tugged her ear with my teeth.

And then she was clawing at me as I thrust into her. Flour went flying like dust as her body moved against the island.

I’d owned this house since my first marriage.

I’d never once had sex anywhere but the bed.

I suddenly wanted to burn my bed and set up camp in every other available space, as long as I had a flour-covered Isla.

Our mouths met with each crazed thrust, my body was so tight, so ready for her, ready to explode, and I could tell she felt the same, like she was on the edge of sanity just waiting for me to push her off.

Waiting for me to jump with her.

“Never want this to stop.” The words rushed out. “I think I like you better on a bed of flour than one of expensive sheets.”

Isla moaned. “Me too. I like you like this.” She placed a crazed kiss on my mouth and then her flour-caked hand was running down my cheek slowly as dust filled the air around us.

I moved deeper, I felt her constrict around me as the walls surrounding my heart crumbled further, as something like freedom took over and replaced the bondage that had been my comfort.

Our mouths clanged together as I pumped faster.

And then she was there, I could feel it in the way she pulsed, released me, and shook in my arms. I didn’t want it to end. Every selfish part of me cried out with my release, only to beg for more seconds later.