Starlee
If Jake Hollingsworth is hesitant to go all the way, Dexter Falco is the opposite. I can’t keep the boy out of my pants.
Frankly, I don’t mind.
We spent the afternoon delivering boxes of cookies—each tied with raffia and stuffed with red, white, and pink tissue. At the last stop, Dexter looks exhausted—so tired and a little relieved. I assume he’ll take me back home, but he passes the lodge and the Wayward Sun, turning into the trailer park, my stomach bursting with butterflies when he stops at the little white and green camper.
His eyebrow raises but my hand is already on the door latch; ready, always ready.
The bed is small, tucked in the back of the little trailer—a “guest room” in Katie’s camper. She’d given her blessing for us to use it when she’s not home now that the cottages are off limits and the double adult Starlees' eyes and ears are everywhere.
Dexter’s mouth works down my body, starting at my lips, then down my neck, shoulders, and chest. I run my hand through the hair below his belly, feeling the coil in my stomach tighten like a spring ready to snap. It’s the patience he has for his baking, for the finer intricate details, the perfect measurements, the gentle touch that crosses over from the kitchen to my body. I didn’t know I could feel this way, that someone else could make my body react this way. When we join it’s like pieces linking together, fueled on hormones and sealed with a desperate, needy love.
I’m obsessed with watch him during, when the hard lines on his face transform. The lines of anger a
nd stress evaporate, replaced by a singular focus; me.
After, we lie next to one another, a pink and white quilt pulled over our bodies. He plays with my fingers, kisses them one by one. I stare at the ceiling, so low that Dexter hit his head on it more than once. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose and my cheeks heat. “Nothing.”
He snorts. “Something. What?”
“Is it about me?”
I kiss his bicep. “Forget it.”
He reaches for me and drags me between his legs. I feel him behind me, already hard again, but he just wraps his arms around me, holding tight. He whispers in my ear. “What’s the issue?”
“There’s no issue,” I say, leaning against his muscled chest. “You’re just different now.” His eyebrow raises and I rush to add, “In a good way.”
“I feel different,” he admits. “Happier. More content.”
“Even with Sierra gone?”
His chin rests on my shoulder. “As weird as it sounds, yes, even with her gone. She was struggling, and I get the need for space. I mean, it was kind of scary at first—we’ve always had one another—but I think we still do. She gave me a chance to grow up and deal with my issues. I’m trying to do the same for her.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“Occasionally. I try not to ask a lot of questions, although she can’t help but to check in on everyone here—the twins, Jake. I think she really trusts your mom and grandmother and that’s made it easier for her take some time away.”
I twist my neck so I can see him. He looks down at me, gray eyes shining bright. I kiss his sharp jaw, push my hand into the fringe of hair hanging on his neck. “You’re a good brother.”
“Yeah?”
“And cookie maker.”
He smiles. “And?”
“Scone baker. Tart tester. Muffin mixer.” I try to keep my expression straight as his frustration rises. As much as I like this new, easier Dexter, there’s something about the low fire that runs in him that brings a similar boil in my veins.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else I’m good at?” His hand runs down my arm, taunting, teasing.
“I don’t know,” I say, turning to face him. The quilt falls to the wayside and his eye dart down. “Maybe you could show me?”
It doesn’t take much to turn on an eighteen-year-old male, but I’ve learned taunting this one has the best results. He obliges, mouth crushing mine, hands wrapping around my waist as he centers me over his lap. The heat between us grows, consumes.
And I let him show me exactly what he’s good at, the very least being an incredible boyfriend.