10. Felicity

felicity

. . .

I spent all afternoon in Hutton’s fabulous kitchen, creating some new recipes and photographing the results. At the market, I’d chosen the most brightly-colored, locally-grown foods I could find—apricots, raspberries, crisp greens, snap peas, broccoli, sweet cherries, radishes, honey. Next, I hit my favorite cheese shop and bakery, ducked into a reputable butcher shop for Hutton’s steak, and finally I hit the wine store, picking up a couple bottles each of red and white.

This is why you have no money, I told myself. It was true—my love for good food and wine and my dedication to using seasonal produce and small-batch products always trumped my desire to grow my savings. I couldn’t help it! But today, I was looking at it as an investment in my business, and in myself.

Hutton eventually wandered up from downstairs and opened his laptop at the kitchen table, where he sat and worked while I floated around in the kitchen, happier than I’d been in months. Even when I thought about that stupid Dearly Beloved review, it didn’t bother me nearly as much as it had before. Everyone faced setbacks, right? When you put yourself out there, whether it was with a plate of food at a restaurant or a recipe on the blog or a new business or a cookbook, you had to anticipate criticism, both deserved and undeserved. The important thing was to keep believing.

And every time I looked at Hutton, my belly swooshed and my mouth curled into a smile and my heart fluttered wildly. He was so handsome and serious sitting there in his light blue button-down, frowning at his screen and sometimes tugging on his hair, just like he used to when we were teenagers studying calculus. I could hardly wait to go to bed tonight, change that expression to something different, hear that deep voice in my ear again, feel his skin on mine. Who would have thought our sexual chemistry would be so good after so many years of being just friends?

Around six, Hutton closed his computer and grabbed a beer from the fridge. “Want one?”

“No, thanks. But maybe you could open that bottle of Valpolicella for me?”

He opened the wine and poured me a glass. “Anything else I can do to help?”

“Nope. Just keep me company.” I set the plate of vegetarian charcuterie I’d assembled earlier on the island. “Have a beer and a snack and hear me out.”

He straddled a stool at the island and tipped up his beer. “Hear you out? That sounds ominous.”

“Not really.” I took a sip of my wine. “I just want to tell you about a little party.”

One of his brows arched. “What party?”

“The surprise party your mom is throwing for us on the patio at Abelard Vineyards the last Saturday in July.”

As soon as the word surprise came out of my mouth, he was shaking his head. “No fucking way.”

“The patio is really lovely,” I went on smoothly, sliding the onions from the cutting board into the pan.

“No.”

“And the best part is, capacity on the patio is limited to thirty, so it has to be small.” The onions began to sizzle.

“It’s not the patio I’m objecting to. It’s the surprise. Also the party.”

“But Hutton, we’re not even supposed to know about it—at least if Winnie plans it at Abelard, we’ll have all the details in advance. We’ll know the terrain, the menu, the timeline—all the relevant details. Even if Winnie pretended Abelard had no available dates, your mom would not give up,” I said emphatically, facing him again. “She’ll go somewhere else and we’ll have no clue when it’s coming.”

Hutton grumbled something I couldn’t make out and took another swallow from his beer.

“Our families are happy for us, Hutton.” I softened my voice. “People want to celebrate. We know it’s not really happening, but they don’t.”

“I know, but...a party? That was not part of my plan.” He shook his head. “This engagement was supposed to get people off my back, not invite them to pile on.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He shoved a piece of baguette in his mouth and chewed grumpily. “When is it?”

“July 30th.”

“Two days after my testimony.”

“I realized that after Winnie told me the date,” I said, applying a dry rub to his steak. “I know the timing stinks, but that was the one day Abelard could fit us in. They had a cancellation.”

He brooded silently for a moment, watching my fingers on the meat. “You’re right. My mother is not going to drop it.”

“We’re not even supposed to know about it.”

He tipped up his beer again and looked at me. “Do you want this party?”

I flipped the steak and put the rub onto the other side. “It might be kind of fun. But I feel bad that your parents are going to spend money on it.”

“Listen, my mother has been trying to throw me a party since I was twelve and I’ve said no every time. No birthday parties, no graduation parties, nothing. She will not care about the cost.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Do I have a choice?”

I laughed. “Not really. Unless you want to call the engagement off before you go to D.C. End things sooner rather than later.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I can deal with the party. Let’s stick to the original plan.”

After dinner, Hutton had some work to finish, and I wanted to edit the photos I’d taken and create some content to post this week. We sat at the kitchen table with our laptops in comfortable silence.

“It’s like the old days.” I nudged his leg with my foot. “Sitting here working next to you like this.”

“It’s better,” he argued, tipping his chair back on two legs.

I laughed and tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from my ponytail behind my ear. “How so?”

“Well, I used to sit next to you and wonder what it would be like to kiss you. I’d come up with all these crazy ways I could make it happen, then talk myself out of every single one of them.” He shook his head. “I’d think up tons of things I wanted to say to you—I’d even practice my lines—but never actually be able to say them.”

I smiled. “Do you remember what you said to me after we danced at the prom?”

His eyes closed. “Don’t tell me.”

“You said, ‘That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.’”

He groaned. “That is not what I rehearsed. I totally chickened out. Sort of like I did at your bedroom door Saturday night instead of telling you the real reason I was about to knock.”

I feigned shock, my mouth forming an O. “You mean you weren’t really coming to my room with no shirt on to see if I was thirsty? I’m aghast! You had me totally fooled!”

“That’s it.” He lunged for me, picking me up out of the chair and tossing me over his shoulder, heading for the bedroom.

“What is this?” I cried, hitting his butt with my hands. “Kidnapping?”

“We’re not kids anymore.” He entered his bedroom, where just one nightstand lamp was on, and tossed me onto the foot of the bed.

“Hutton, wait!” Lying on my back, I crossed my arms over my chest. “I have to take a shower. I never took one today and I’ve been running around and cooking and getting sweaty. I won’t smell nice.”

Bracing himself above me, he lowered his chest over mine pushup-style and buried his face in my neck. “You smell fucking great. And I’m only going to make you get sweatier.”

I laughed as his scruff tickled my throat. “Compromise—how about you give me ten quick minutes in the shower and then you join me?”

“Five minutes.” He stood up and adjusted the crotch of his pants. “Go.”

I shrieked and bolted for the bathroom, whipping my shirt off on the way and slamming the door behind me. Hutton’s bathroom was airy and luxurious, with a double vanity and a freestanding white tub beneath the window. Next to it was a glassed-in shower with multiple heads and a multi-color pebbled tile floor. But my eyes lingered on that tub.

I glanced back at the door—could I get Hutton into a bubble bath?

After turning on the faucet, I dug through my bag for my lavender and vanilla shower gel and dumped some in. It didn’t create a ton of bubbles, but there were enough to make it look fun and smell good. Then I undressed, tossed my hair up, and slipped into the water.

I closed my eyes for a second, marveling that I was naked in Hutton French’s tub, that in a moment, he was going to come in here and join me. Seventeen-year-old me would be astonished .

It set my mind spinning.

Less than five minutes later, Hutton barged in, buck naked with one hell of an erection. But he stopped short at the sight of me in the tub.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a bath.” I smiled sweetly and splashed a hand in the water. “Come and play.”

He inhaled, and his cock jumped. “What’s that smell?”

“Lavender and vanilla. It’s supposed to relax you.”

“It’s not working,” he said, approaching the tub, his gaze roving hungrily over my skin. “In fact, I’m the opposite of relaxed right now.”

“Then get in with me.” I lowered my chin and looked up at him through my lashes. “I promise to make it all better.”

He shook his head, his eyes still on my breasts. “Felicity, there’s no way we’re both going to fit in that bathtub.”

“I’m not saying it won’t be a tight squeeze, but I’m sure two people as skilled in geometry as we are can come up with a solution to this problem.” I sat up and turned off the water. “For example, you can lie on your back and I’ll lie on top of you—a parallelogram. Or you can sit, and I’ll straddle your lap—more of a trapezoid. Or,” I said, getting to my knees, “you can stand, and I’ll kneel in front of you.”

His cock twitched again. “And what do you call that?”

I licked my lips. “A blowjob.”

Without further argument, he stepped into the tub.

I moved closer, running my hands up the front of his thighs. Then I pitched my idea. “Want to play a little?”

“Play?” His tone was intrigued but cautious. “Play what?”

I looked up at him and smiled wickedly. “My parents aren’t home.”

“Huh?”

“So you have to be quiet.” I wrapped my fingers around his cock and brushed my lips with the tip, keeping my eyes locked on his.

“Oh, fuck.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You want to play teenage us ?”

A laugh bubbled from the back of my throat as I angled my head in different directions, brushing the sensitive crown across my cheek, under my jaw, along my throat. “Yes.”

“You do realize that teenage me already came all over your face.”

I laughed again, splashing his legs. “Come on. Play with me. I have confidence in your grown-up self-control.”

“That makes one of us.”

I brought the tip back to my lips, opening them slightly, letting him feel my breath. “I’ve thought about this while we study. Have you?”

“Yeah.” I could sense him concentrating hard. “And afterward.”

“Afterward?”

“Late at night. When I’m alone in my bed.”

“Tell me.” I grazed the underside of his cock with my tongue, and it thickened in my grasp. “What do you think about?”

“This. You, on your knees in front of me. My cock in your mouth.” His voice was low and commanding, and it turned me on.

“Like this?” I took just the tip in my mouth, teasing him.

“Yes.”

I sucked gently, then swirled my tongue around the crown, making his abdominal muscles flex. Opening my mouth wider, I took him in deeper, moaning softly. His hands curled into fists at his sides. I liked his hands. They were masculine and strong, and I remembered how his talented fingers had brought me such pleasure last night.

It gave me another idea.

“Show me,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “What you do late at night. When you think about this.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest, like I was suddenly shy. “Or else.”

He glared at me, but he took his cock in his hand, wrapping it in his fist and giving it several long, slow pulls. “Is this what you want?”

But I couldn’t answer. I was mesmerized—by the muscles that worked as he stroked himself—arm and shoulder and abs. By the way he stood, like he wasn’t ashamed—head up, chest proud, breath coming faster. And by the way his eyes remained on me, their shade of blue hotter and more piercing than a moment ago.

I started to breathe faster too. In fact, I think my breathing was more frantic than his. I could not get over that he was actually doing this in front of me—or how much I liked the sight of his hand on his cock, palm sliding over the darkened crown, fist working up and down the thick, veined shaft. I realized I hadn’t seen his naked body in the light last night, and it was perfect. A work of art.

“Touch yourself,” he demanded in a voice I’d never heard him use, a voice that couldn’t be refused. Besides, he’d done it for me. And this was all pretend, right? We trusted each other. Why not just let go?

I lifted my butt off my heels and ran my hands over my breasts, down my stomach, up my thighs, never taking my eyes off him.

“Yes.” His hand moved faster. Harder. “Yes.”

Emboldened by his reaction, I let one hand glide between my legs, slowly caressing my clit with soft, circular motions, as if I was alone in the dark and not under his eyes in the light.

“Fuck,” he growled through his teeth. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

“I’m thinking about you,” I panted, sliding my free hand over one breast. “I love thinking about you when I do this.”

His jaw clenched and he exhaled sharply, as if I’d said something to make him angry. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” I said, because it was. He’d always been such a good fantasy, almost like a movie star—someone out of reach. “I’d pretend your hands were on me this way.”

“My tongue.” His eyes blazed with desire. “Did you think about that?”

“I am now.” I rubbed myself a little harder, the muscles in my legs starting to hum. My eyes lingered on his erection.

“Fuck.” He closed his eyes and stopped moving his hand, keeping it wrapped tightly around his dick. “This is going to be over too soon.”

“Let me.” I took him by the wrist and pulled his hand from his cock so I could take over. Curling my fingers around him, I lowered my mouth onto his thick, hard length, taking him to the back of my throat. I held my breath, keeping still for a moment, praying I wouldn’t choke.

“Jesus,” he breathed, his hands slipping into my hair.

I felt him pulse once—a warning—and tasted something salty sweet. I began to suck hungrily, using my hand to grip what wouldn’t fit in my mouth.

He cursed again and tightened his grasp on my head, holding me still. “Are you sure?”

I glanced up through my lashes, moving my hands to his ass, digging my fingers into his skin and pulling him deeper. It was all the permission he needed, and he began to flex his hips, driving his cock into my mouth, his breaths loud, his groans escalating, his movements growing more and more frantic until his body tensed up and he stopped moving completely, except for the thick, pulsing throb of his orgasm, which erupted at the back of my throat.

He pulled out and I sat back on my heels again, wiping my mouth with my arm and catching my breath.

But I didn’t have much time to recover before Hutton grabbed me beneath the arms and set me up on the edge of the tub. Dropping to his knees in front of me, he pushed my legs apart. “My turn,” he said.

It took some serious balance not to go right over backward during the toe-curling, thigh-trembling, tub-thumping finish he gave me.

Teenage Hutton and Felicity would not have recognized themselves.

I was proud of us—for having the guts to cross the line, for being brave in front of one another, and for trusting that none of this would ruin what we had.

The game was fun, but it was just a game.