Kristen Ashley - Raid

He got control of his hilarity, his body quit shaking and his neck moved before I felt his lips on top of my hair where he murmured, “My girl came hard.”

I so did.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I think you’re gonna have fun with the way I like to play,” he noted.

He was not wrong.

I didn’t answer. Just cuddled closer.

“Yeah, she’s gonna have fun,” he muttered into my hair, and I heard the smile in his voice. But there was no smile, his voice was gruff when he finished with, “My reward.”

That was twice he said that, but I let it go, mostly because I had a feeling he would tell me what that meant when it was his time.

He fell silent. I remained that way.

We held each other and Raiden only moved once, to lift a hand and brush the tips of his fingers tenderly along my neck at the place where his teeth sank in before his arm moved back around me to pull me closer.

There was something about that gesture, that touch. Something significant. Something I wasn’t sure I got, but something I liked. I didn’t question it, didn’t say a word; not willing to break the mood, not about to question that gesture of tenderness Raiden gave me, happy just to accept it silently.

After a while, I tilted my head back and his chin dipped down so I could catch his eyes.

Those eyes.

In my bed.

Looking at me.

I let that settle as I asked an important question.

“You want a hot fudge sundae?”

“Yeah,” he answered, lips twitching.

“I make homemade hot fudge,” I shared.

“Then fuck yeah,” he replied, now smiling.

I reached up, touched my mouth to his and said, “Let’s go.”

He lifted up, taking me and the afghan with us so I was still covered, which was again sweet.

He pulled on his jeans commando.

I rooted under my pillowcase and pulled on my pajama shorts (commando) and my tank top (also commando).

We went downstairs and I started a pot of hot fudge sauce that eventually burned beyond being edible.

This was because as I was preparing to assemble the sundaes, I got out a spray can of whipping cream

And Raiden saw it.

So the hot fudge ended up burned.

But I ended up naked on my back on my kitchen table getting another orgasm that had everything to do with Raiden: his hands, his mouth, his tongue and a can of whipping cream.

It was better than any sundae I’d ever had.

Much better.

The next morning…

I was in the kitchen standing at the counter in my pajamas, arranging the cinnamon apple slices on top of the coffeecake batter, when I sensed movement to my side.

I turned my head.

Raiden was there.

This wasn’t a surprise. I’d heard the water going in the bathroom upstairs.

But it was a delight, seeing as he was wearing nothing but jeans, his hair a sexy mess, his eyes drowsy but warm and on me as he sauntered my way.

I smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”

His “morning” was better.

He said no words but fitted the front his big body to the back of mine and wrapped his arms around me. Then he bent his head and kissed my shoulder.

Yes, a whole lot better than mine.

His stubbled chin came to rest on my shoulder and I knew he was watching my hands arrange apple slices.

This was proved when he rumbled, “That looks good,” his voice deeper because it was like his eyes, still a hint sleepy.

“Apple cinnamon streusel coffeecake,” I told him.

“Jesus,” he murmured, sounding slightly stunned, as he would considering the countertop was a mess of bowls, ingredients and coffeecake preparation residue.

Suddenly, I felt tense, nervous and hurried to explain, “It’s not an, um… everyday thing but I kind of felt in the mood for something…”

Oh God! I should never have pulled out the big gun coffeecake that took forever to bake and assembly was seriously fiddly.

What was I thinking?

“Special,” I finished lamely, thinking that said too much too soon.

Raiden wasted no time communicating he didn’t think it said too much, too soon.

One of his arms around my middle let me go only to lift and wrap around my chest. He pulled me deep into his body, and this time he kissed the skin below my ear.

“Haven’t tasted it yet, but already know it’s perfect,” he whispered there, and I relaxed into his hard frame.

He gave me a squeeze before his arms loosened, and I informed him, “Coffee’s made. Cups are in the cupboard over the coffeepot.”

Raiden let me go, but did it sliding his hand across the skin of my chest, the other one across the material of my tank at my midriff before his body disappeared.

He got a mug and was filling it when he asked, “You need a warm up?”

I was smoothing the top layer of batter over the apples when I answered, “Yeah.”

He brought the pot to my mug and topped it up, asking, “See milk, babe. You need more?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I use the creamer in the door of the fridge.”

He went, grabbed the French vanilla-flavored Coffee-Mate and splashed some in my cup.

I spread the streusel on top of the batter thinking this was fabulous. Me cooking. Raiden topping up my coffee. Couple stuff that felt natural and right, even though we’d only had two dates.

Maybe Raiden’s brand of slow was good.

He leaned a hip against the counter as I slid the cake in the oven and went to wash my hands at the sink.

“Your day?” he asked as I dried my hands.

I moved to stand in front of him, grab my mug and leaned against the counter, too.

I took a sip and told him, “Grams to mah jongg then me to my place in town, if the cops will let me get in. I need to see what Heather got up to, if I’m caught up, orders filled, get back on top of that.”

“You need me to talk to Joe to make sure you have access, I’ll give him a call,” Raiden offered and I smiled.

“I think I’m good, but I’ll let you know.”

“All right, honey.”

I repeated his question, “Your day?”

He took a sip and dropped the mug to the counter. “Hardware store, back here, installing new locks for you. Then I gotta go into Denver and see to some shit.”

Two sentences, a huge amount to go over.

“New locks for me?” I asked.

“Your lock sucks,” he answered.

“But—”

“And, Hanna, it’s good we’re on this because you answered the door to me last night and I didn’t hear the lock go.”

My brows drew together in bewilderment.

“But… I was home,” I told him something he knew.

“You were a woman at home alone. You should lock your doors.”

“Raiden—”

“No,” he cut me off. “I’m tryin’ to ignore the thought of you takin’ a nap without your doors locked. Bad enough they’re not locked when you’re awake.”

“I live in the boonies,” I reminded him. “No one comes out here. No one even knows there’s a here to come to. But the ones who do, I can hear them coming.”

“Don’t give a fuck. Just a guess, you don’t have a gun. Your lock is total shit and wouldn’t keep anyone out who knows rudimentary lock picking or has the power to land a solid kick to your door. You gotta have a new lock. I’ll check this one,” he jerked his head to my backdoor, “and you might get two. But when you’re home, you lock both.”

“This is the house I grew up in, Raiden. I’ve lived here all my life. I know that it’s—”

I shut up when his hand curled around the side of my neck and slid right up into my hair, pulling up so I went on my toes even as he bent into me, and I saw his face was not sleepy-ish handsome anymore. His eyes were hard and sharp and his jaw was tight.

“Lock. Your. Doors,” he commanded.

“Okay,” I whispered instantly, and he let me go.

I rolled back to my feet and hid my discomfiture at his extreme authoritarianism and easy ability to underline that by getting physical.

“Hanna,” he called.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled into my mug.

“Honey, give me your eyes.”

I lifted my eyes to him.

“I know the threat that lurks out there. What I want is to know that threat won’t threaten you. If shit can happen, it will. Odds are, no threat is gonna wander down that lane and stop at your house. But if it does, I want you to have five minutes to call 911 and get yourself safe so you don’t learn exactly what a threat is. I get thinkin’ about it for the second it takes every time you flip a lock is unpleasant. Livin’ a lifetime with the consequences of not doin’ it would be far fuckin’ worse.”

This made sense.

It was even sweet he was worried about me and wanted to protect me.

However.

“You could have explained that instead of grabbing me and going all drill sergeant,” I told him.

“Did I get your attention?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered then hesitantly added, “in a way I didn’t like very much.”

“Then next time, don’t backtalk,” he returned.

I blinked.

He took a sip of his coffee before he asked, “How long’s that cake take?”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again to reply, “About an hour.”

Raiden looked at the clock on my microwave then pulled my mug out of my hand, put it on the counter, tagged my hand and dragged me toward the doorway, muttering, “Then I gotta eat you now before the cake.”

My nipples started tingling and I missed a step but Raiden didn’t notice.

He pulled me behind him up the stairs and to my bedroom, and before I could get my thoughts together, I was on my back in my bed. My panties and pajama shorts were gone, Raiden’s mouth was between my legs and I had no thoughts at all except how unbelievably good he was with his mouth.

He had me before cake.

And I had an orgasm before cake.

* * *

Early evening, the same day…

My cell rang and I grabbed it. The display said, “Raiden Calling”, and I was undecided about answering it.

I knew why this was.

I didn’t like how things turned so drastically in my kitchen that morning. I also didn’t like that Raiden didn’t give me the chance to address it or that I’d allowed him to take my mind off it. Not to mention the fact that after, there wasn’t enough time to go back to it, but more, I didn’t have the guts to do it.

But the bottom line was what Raiden did was uncool. I didn’t like to think of him as uncool. I really didn’t like to think of myself as a woman who would put up with uncool because she was hanging onto the man of her dreams. A man who gave her a scary indication that she shouldn’t live with (on top of other scary indications she was telling herself she could) that he wasn’t cool.

And I figured I needed time to sort through all this.

Nevertheless, being an idiot (though, this was Raiden Miller), I took the call and put my phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted back, and my insides melted.

There it was again. He did something dreamy and that something dreamy was simply calling me “baby”, and I forgot he could be not-so-dreamy.

“Where are you?” he went on.

“At home,” I answered.

“Things cool in town?” he asked.

“Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, seeing as she had two jobs to do and she was getting paid for both; Heather was totally on top of things. It’s going to stink, having to put together my shipments again, but I’m not behind.”

“Excellent,” he muttered then continued. “I’m just headin’ outta Denver. Be home in about forty. I’ll pick you up. We’ll go to Rache’s for dinner.”

“Uh… I already put a chicken in the oven.”

“Right, then be there in forty.”

I didn’t exactly ask him to dinner but it seemed he didn’t exactly care.

“Raid—” I began, but he interrupted me.

“See you soon.”

Then he was gone.

I stared at my phone.

Okay then, I’d talk to him at dinner, and I promised myself I would talk to him at dinner.

I dealt with things in the kitchen. After I did that, I opened a bottle of white wine, poured myself a glass, got my wool and headed out to the front porch.

I was swaying sideways on my swing, one leg bent, my foot in the seat. The outside of my leg was resting against the back of the swing. The other leg was down, tips of my toes swaying me. The makings of an afghan were in my lap and Carole King was coming soft through the windows of my living room when the Jeep pulled up.