My Ex Is Engaged to My Stepsister, and I'm Still His Wife novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: The Long Counter

Josiah turned off the burner under the pasta before he touched me.

That was how I knew he meant it.

His kitchen was the biggest room in the bungalow his grandfather built in Edgehill.

A long butcher-block counter ran down one wall, under a window that looked out on the dark yard.

I was sitting on that counter in his T-shirt and my jeans, with my father's guitar leaning against the refrigerator.

He stood between my knees and did not move.

"Say what's on your face," I said.

"It's nothing."

"You've been quiet since the Tahoe."

He looked at my mouth, and then at my eyes.

"Who was that kiss for?" he said.

"What kiss?"

"The driveway. Two hundred phones. Colt on the lawn with his hat in his hand."

I took his face in both my hands.

"It was for me," I said. "He was just standing there."

His jaw worked under my palms.

"Say it again."

"For me, Josiah. You were the only person on that lawn I wanted to kiss."

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, something in his face had come loose.

He took the hem of the T-shirt and drew it up over my head.

I sat on his counter in my bra, and he kissed me.

It was the slow kiss, the one he used when he had all night.

I got my fingers into the neck of his shirt and pulled.

"Off," I said.

"Yes, ma'am."

He undressed with his back to the stove, one button at a time.

He laid his shirt over a chair and came back to me bare-chested and watchful.

I ran my hands down his chest and over the scar on his ribs.

He reached behind me and unhooked my bra, and it fell between us.

He looked at my breasts for a long time.

"Say it," I said.

"You are the best thing that has ever sat in my kitchen."

He bent his head and took my nipple into his mouth.

I arched into him, and my hands found his head, and I held on.

He sucked, slowly and thoroughly, and flicked his tongue over the tip until I was panting.

He moved to the other breast and did the same.

My hands slid down his back to his belt, and he caught them.

"Not yet," he said against my skin.

"You keep saying that."

"I mean it every time."

He undid my jeans, and I lifted my hips, and he drew them off with my underwear.

Then I was naked on a butcher-block counter, with the cold wood against the backs of my thighs.

He kissed my knee.

He kissed my thigh and the crease where it met my hip, and he did not touch me where I wanted him.

"Josiah," I said.

"Ms. Dunavant."

"I'm going to die in your kitchen."

"You'll hold the note first," he said.

I hummed an A.

He slid two fingers inside me, slowly, and found the place he had learned the night before.

He pressed.

My voice stuttered, and I got it back.

He circled my clit with his thumb, small and exact, and the A held, and wavered, and held.

"Good," he said, low. "That's good. You're so wet for me."

"Don't talk."

"Then sing."

I sang.

He curled his fingers and pressed up, and he moved them in a slow rhythm, and the note climbed a little each time.

I was gasping, with my head against the cabinet and my hands braced on the edge of the counter.

"Up," Josiah said.

"What?"

"Go up a half step. Show me what you've got."

I slid the note up to B flat, and he pressed harder.

I went up again to B.

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