I have felt tits before, but they were on a stripper, during a guys’ trip to the strip club for a teammate’s twenty-first, out of town and past the city limits so we wouldn’t get caught—though every single person there had to have known who we were.
Man-children the size of giants don’t waltz into gentlemen’s clubs every day of the week.
Fake tits I paid to feel.
Not my finest moment.
“Want help with those?” I offer, desperate. The last thing I want is for her to be mad; we were having fun, and now…we’re not.
“Nope. You keep doing what you’re doing.”
Shit.
I set the knife down, resting my hands on the table’s surface, debating. Wipe my palms on the thighs of my jeans, tapping my fingers on the fabric.
Debating.
Before I can think twice, I’m standing and crossing the small space. I stand behind Charlie, my body pressed against her back, hands poised on her upper arms.
She stills.
Waits.
Hands threaded in the mush on the cookie sheet, separating pumpkin guts from seeds, an ooey, gooey mess.
“Don’t be mad.” Eventually my palms quit hovering and land on her shoulders.
I feel her stiffen, feel her intake of breath.
“I’m…”
She’s going to deny it, but we both know it would be a lie.
I move my hands slowly, reveling in how smooth the skin on her shoulders is, so unlike mine. Watch as my calloused fingers trace along her bare flesh, over the soft curve of her neck.
“I’m just…”
Charlie’s neck tilts the barest fraction to the left.
I stare at that spot—the one that no doubt smells like her. Fresh and feminine and perfect.
She’s not short, and she’s in heels; I’d only have to lean down slightly to place my lips in the crook of her neck. I’ve never done it before; I’ve never done lots of things guys my age have done, and for a split second I regret being so regimented.
It wasn’t because I wanted to be; it was because I had to be.
Because of Pop’s drive and determination.
I have drive and determination of my own, and most of it matches his, but am I my own man if everything I do is because he demanded it of me?
Because of everything he denied me?
Women make you weak, son.
Women make you lose.
I don’t feel weak standing behind Charlie. I feel strong and virile and hard.
Sensitive.
I dip my head.
Rest my lips on her neck, right in the spot God intended them for.
When her arm comes up, when her goopy fingers thread through my hair, we both moan.
My hands drag down her arms and to her hips, palms grasping at her narrow waist, pulling her in against my body.
She smells so damn good, better than I was imagining but nowhere near as good as she feels. Pumpkin spice and vanilla and whatever this shampoo is that she uses—fucking fantastic. Cherries and almonds.
I can’t stop my hands from exploring. They’re so much bigger than she is, cover so much ground with little effort, and Charlie lets me.
Gently my fingers press into her hipbones, make a triangle like they’re catching a football and go farther down to that V between her legs. Slowly up over her abs.
She’s soft in all the right places.
Charlie withdraws her pumpkin-covered fingers from my hair and turns, her back pressed against the kitchen counter. Eyes widen when they rise to my hairline.
“Jackson.” Just my name, but said in a way that speaks volumes: What are you doing? Why did you kiss me? Are you going to do it again? Will I let you?
“Charlotte.” I have no idea what else to say—not when she’s staring up at me with those big, bright blue eyes. They’re searching mine, a bit confused and honestly, so am I.
I’m confused as fuck.
“You have pumpkin guts in your hair,” she says at last, reaching up with her gunk-covered fingers to pull out a seed that’s stuck in the strands.
“I don’t fuckin’ care.” I like her touching me, dirty hands or not.
“Someone is going to notice.”
“I don’t fuckin’ care.”
“You’re so…” Her voice trails off, catching when she finishes with the word, “Cute.” She breathes it quietly, as if it’s a confession and not a statement.
So. She thinks I’m cute.
Obviously, or she wouldn’t be with me right now, though I’m far, far from it. I haven’t been cute since…well, probably never. I was nine pounds when I was born and wearing one-year-old clothes by the time I was six months.
Not a single soul has ever called me cute before.
A big baby, now a big boy.
I’m more lummox than male model, but Charlie seems to have her rose-colored glasses on. Huge. Stubborn. Ruthless.
Handsome? Rarely.
Cute? Never.
“You think so?” I ask, just to be sure. Or to hear her say it again. Whichever.
She bites her lip, back still pressed against the counter, chin still tilted up in the most fetching way. “Yes.”