Wallbanger (21 page)

The next evening I was rolling out the pie crust when the text came in from Simon.

Come on over whenever. I’ll start dinner once you’re here.

I’m still working on the pie, but I’ll be over soon.

Need any help?

How are you with peeling apples?

The next thing I heard was a knock on the door. I walked over, hands covered in flour, and elbowed the door open. “Well, hello there,” I said, holding the door open with my foot.

“Looks like the end of
Scarface
in here,” he observed, reaching out to touch my nose and show me the flour on the end.

“I tend to lose control when there’s pie crust involved,” I said as he shut the door.

“Duly noted. That’s good information for me to have,” he responded, swatting at my hand as I tried to slap him.

He took a good long look at me then, blue eyes dropping from my face and traveling across my body. “Hmm, you weren’t kidding about the apron, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hang in here without trying a little grab-ass.”

“Get in there and grab an apple, buddy,” I said and walked toward the kitchen, adding a little extra swish to my hips. I heard him sigh heavily. I glanced down at my outfit, noting my tank top, old jeans, bare feet, and chef’s apron that said,
You should see my scones
…

“Now when you said ‘grab an apple,’ what exactly were you referring to?” he asked from the kitchen where he’d started taking off his sweater.

I shook my head at the sight of Simon in a black T-shirt and weathered jeans. He was in his stocking feet once again, and I marveled at how at ease he seemed in my kitchen.

I walked around the kitchen counter and picked up my rolling pin. “You know, I won’t think twice about whacking you over the head with this if you continue this borderline sexual harassment,” I warned, running my hand up and down the rolling pin suggestively.

“I’m gonna have to ask you not to do that if you’re serious about me peeling apples here,” he said, eyes widening.

“I never joke about pie, Simon.” I sprinkled a little more flour on the marble.

He was silent while he watched me pat out the pie crust, breathing through his mouth. “So, what are you gonna do with that?” he asked, his voice low.

“With this?” I asked, leaning over the board, and perhaps arching my back a little as I did.

“Mmm-hmm,” he replied.

“I’m gonna roll this crust out. See, like this?” I teased again, thrusting the pin back and forth over the dough, making sure I arched my back each time and the forward action pushed my girls together.

“Oh my,” he whispered, and I grinned naughtily at him.

“You gonna be okay over there, big guy? This is just the top crust, I still need to work on my bottom,” I said over my shoulder.

His hands clutched at the edge of the counter. “Apples. Apples. Gonna peel me some apples,” he told himself and turned away toward the colander filled with apples in the sink.

“Let me just get you the peeler,” I said, coming up behind him and pressing myself against him as I curled around his side to grab the vegetable peeler from the other sink. This was fun.

“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me,” he chanted as I openly laughed at him.

“Here, peel this,” I said, taking pity on him and removing myself from his cooking space. I might have sniffed his T-shirt.

“Did you just sniff me?” he asked, keeping himself turned away.

“I might have,” I admitted, going back to my rolling pin, which I squeezed mightily.

“I thought so.”

“Hey, if you can sniff, I can sniff,” I shot back, taking out my sexual frustration on a defenseless
Pâte Brisée
.

“Only fair. So how do I rate?”

“Good. Very good, actually. Downy?”

“Bounce. I lost my Downy ball,” he confessed.

I laughed, and we continued to roll and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rolled-out pie crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.

“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and generally tidying.

“Now we spice things up and add a little citrus,” I answered, lining up cinnamon and nutmeg, my sugar bowl, and a lemon.

“Okay, where do you want me?” he asked, taking care to show me his hands, now covered in flour.

Visions ran through my head, and I had to bite back an invitation to show him exactly where I wanted him. “First dust yourself off, and then we’ll get started. You can be my assistant.”

He looked around for a dishtowel, and I turned to look for the one I knew I’d left out. I’d already started for it on the counter when I felt two very strong and very specifically placed hands on my ass.

“Um, hi?” I said, freezing in place.

“Hi,” he answered cheerfully, not releasing his hands.

“Explain yourself, please,” I ordered, trying not to notice how my heart was trying to leave my body by way of my mouth.

“You told me to find something to clean my hands with,” he stuttered, trying hard not to laugh as he gave each cheek a little squeeze.

“And you took that to mean my ass?” I laughed back and turned to face him, removing his hands with my own.

“What can I say? I take liberties with my neighbors,” he replied, his eyes darting back and forth now between my lips and my eyes.

“We have a pie to make, mister. I’ll thank you to remember your manners. No one touches my ass without an invitation.” I giggled, still holding his hands. I felt his thumb trace little circles on the inside of my palm, and my head got swimmy. This guy was going to be the death of me. “Get over there, handsy, and behave,” I instructed.

He smirked and turned away, which gave me the opportunity to mutter, “Oh my Jesus Lord,” to no one in particular before meeting him back at the apple bowl.

“Okay, you do what I tell you, got it?” I said, sprinkling sugar into the bowl.

“Got it.”

I started tossing the apples with my hands and Simon followed my instructions to the letter. When I asked for more sugar, he sugared. When I asked for more cinnamon, he complied. When I asked him to squeeze the lemon, he lemoned so well I had trouble keeping my tongue in my mouth and off his throat.

I tossed and tasted, and when they were finally right, I lifted a wedge to his mouth. “Open up,” I said, and he leaned in.

I placed an apple on his tongue, and he snapped his mouth shut before I had to chance to remove my fingers. He let his lips close around two, and I slowly withdrew them, feeling his tongue wrap around them delicately and deliberately.

“Delicious,” he said softly.

“Gah,” I answered, eyes crossing a little at the sex on two legs displayed in front of me.

He chewed. “Sweet. Sweet, Caroline.”

“Gah,” I managed again. Brain knew this was bad, Heart was beating out of our chest.

“Good for you?” he asked, that knowing smile treading dangerously close to smirk territory.

“Good for me,” I answered, on fire after the fingerlatio. Truce schmuce, harem schmarem. Who cared if there was no actual O? I needed to be in contact with this man in the very worst way.

My sexual wall had been hit, and as I prepared to rip the clothes from his body, throw him to the ground, and ride him amid a pile of apples and cinnamon with only a rolling pin to guide us, my phone rang.

Thank you, Jesus.

I looked at the blue-eyed devil and launched myself across the room, away from the brain-scrambling voodoo. I saw his face as I ran, and he looked a little disappointed.

“Girl, what are you up to tonight?” Mimi screeched into the phone. I held it away from my ear before the bleeding started. Mimi had three sound levels: Normal Loud, Excited Loud, and Drunky Loud. She was leaving Excited and on her way to Drunky.

“I’m getting ready to have dinner. Where are you?” I asked, nodding at Simon who had started pouring the apples into the pie dish.

“I’m out for drinks with Sophia. What are you doing?” she screamed.

“I just told you, getting ready to have dinner!” I laughed.

Simon came out into the living room with the pie in his hands. “Should I put this in the oven?” he asked.

“Hang on, Mimi. Not yet, I still need to brush it with a little cream,” I told him, and he ducked back into the kitchen.

“Caroline Reynolds, that was a man! Who was that? Who are you having dinner with? And what are you brushing with cream?” she fired at me, her voice growing even louder.

“Settle down. My goodness, you’re loud! I’m having dinner with Simon, and we’re making an apple pie,” I explained, which she immediately screamed out to Sophia.

“Shit,” I muttered as I heard the phone yanked away from Mimi.

“Reynolds, what are you doing? Are you baking pies with your neighbor? Are you naked?” Sophia yelled, taking her turn to grill me.

“Okay, no, and you all need to seriously settle down. Hanging up now,” I yelled over her yelling at me. I could hear Mimi squealing nasty things about pies and cream. Sophia was in the middle of threatening me not to hang up on her, when I did just that.

I sighed and went to find Simon, with his hands full of pie. I snorted in spite of myself.

“Oh, my God, that’s so good,” I whimpered, closing my eyes and losing myself to the sensations.

“I knew you’d like it, but I had no idea you’d enjoy it this much,” he whispered, staring at me with rapt attention.

“Stop talking, you’re going to ruin it for me,” I moaned, stretching and feeling myself respond to everything he was giving me.

“Did you want another one?” he offered, raising up on his elbows.

“If I have another, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Go ahead, be a bad girl—you deserve it. I know you want it, Caroline,” he teased, leaning closer.

“Okay,” I managed, opening up to him once again. I closed my eyes and heard him fumbling about before putting it in. Sighing as I felt it, I closed my lips around what he offered.

“I’ve never seen a woman who could take so much in one sitting,” he marveled, watching me come undone once more.

“Yes, well, you’ve never met a woman who likes meatballs as much as me,” I moaned around another mouthful, feeling stuffed beyond belief but not wanting the meal to end.

Simon had just cooked me quite possibly the most perfect meal ever, hitting every single taste bud that needed to be hit. He’d learned how to make the most amazing meatballs from a woman in Naples, and he’d sworn they’d be the best I’d ever had. After no less than seven jokes about balls and mouths, I had to agree they were the best balls I had ever had in my mouth.

God, he gave great meatball.

I then proceeded to eat almost a pound of pasta myself, as well as all of my meatballs, plus half of his. I insisted he eat the last one, but he refused and brought the perfection that was his meatball to my willing mouth.

Simon was a great host, insisting that I sit, drink wine, and watch rather than help. He entertained me with stories about his travels as he got everything ready, and while the food was simple, it was good. “Nonni made me promise if she showed me how to make her
polpette
I would only serve them with her special sauce. If I dared serve these with a jar of Prego, she would cross the ocean to break her wooden spoon against my backside.”

“She made you call her Nonni?” I laughed, leaning back in my chair and unbuttoning the top button on my jeans. I had no shame. I’d eaten an obscene amount.

“You know what Nonni means?” he asked, surprised.

“I had an Italian great-grandmother. She insisted everyone call her Nonni.” I laughed again when his eyes went to my hands massaging my stomach.

“You gonna be okay there?” He raised his eyebrows as he got up to clear.

“Yep, just need to breathe a little.” I groaned, pulling myself up from the table.

“No, no, you don’t have to help,” he said, rushing to my side and grabbing my plate.