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Ichabod had taken notice of the far away look she would sometimes get in her eyes when he was regaling her or everyone else with a tale from his past. At first he had thought, perhaps she was painting herself a mental picture of the tale. However, since getting to know the Lieutenant's mannerisms he wasn't so sure.
In the beginning it hadn't been very often but lately it was becoming quite commonplace. And he noted that she had taken to staring at his mouth. Her pupils would dilate, the rhythm of her breathing would become more cautiously controlled as though she were trying to keep him from knowing she was panicking or worried, and the pulse point in her neck would thrum faster.
If he didn't know any better he would think she was... aroused.
But that was a bit of a silly thought considering he was usually droning on about something from his past when she got the look. Although she did get the look when he was simply chattering on about something that had caught his interest. Perhaps he was talking too much again? Whilst she hadn't done it since his return, in the past she had snapped at him a few times for doing such.
He could easily reduce the amount of time he spoke on certain subjects, yes—he had no doubt the Lieutenant cared not one bit about the tiniest details of how he went about selecting the apples for the tarts he was preparing. However, those tiny details were the one thing between him actually completing said tarts and hoisting her off of the bar stool she was sitting on and taking her like a wild, uncivilized beast on the island counter top.
Especially since her eyes kept darting between his mouth and hands. Her lips were slightly parted, tongue lightly tracing the line of her teeth. Abbie drew in a slow, deep breath as he tossed the slices of apples in a mix of light brown sugar, cane sugar, and cinnamon. Her eyes were focused on his hands as they scooped up the spices and fruit and delicately tumbled them in the bowl. She shifted in her seat, uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the opposite way.
Her eyes followed one of his hands as he brought it to his lips to taste the spice mixture on the tip of one finger. One of her eyes gently twinged as she watched. He licked his lips to get any of the mix that may have flaked away in the process. Her chest had started to gently heave but the expression on her face was still steadfast and calm.
“I think, perhaps, there is a smidgen too much cinnamon,” he rambled. “Easily rectified with a little more of the sugars. But, mine is not the opinion that matters... have a taste and tell me if it is too much, Lieutenant.”
Abbie's eyes widened and she suppressed a gasp. Her eyes flickered between his face and his hand. “Taste?” she asked, her voice pitching slightly. She licked her lips as her eyes finally focused on his spice covered hands. “Sure...”
She eased off of her seat and made her way to the island. When she made to it his side she seemed to realize she was actually standing beside him and smiled up at him before swiping her finger along the base of the bowl and plunking it into her mouth. Humour danced in her eyes.
He wasn't entirely certain what he had been hoping for in this situation. But he was sure it hadn't involved her finger in her mouth. Perhaps he should have been a little more clear that he had it all over his hands too.
Stop it Ichabod, he scolded himself. It was hardly appropriate to be having the sort of thoughts he was having about the Lieutenant. After all, she was providing him with food, shelter, and a place to sleep. The least he could do was treat her with proper respect and refrain from thinking about something other than her finger being in her mouth.
She closed her eyes and licked her her lips once she finished sucking the mixture off her finger. “I think you need more brown sugar,” she said, her voice low and—dare he say it—sultry.
Ichabod felt like maybe there was some kind of hidden innuendo he was missing but he decided not to read too much into it. “As you wish,” he responded with a gentle bow of his head and turned to wash the mess off of his hands and retrieve the item in question from the spice cabinet. When he turned back, his heart leapt into his throat and the plastic bag in his hands tumbled to the floor.
Abbie had hopped onto the island counter—not entirely unusual and nor was her doing so in her “lazying around the house” ensemble of “cut offs” and tank top. However, instead of perching there as she normal would do, she was lounged on her side, legs hanging over the edge of the counter as she swiped a wedge of sugar and cinnamon coated apple from the bowl.
He quickly retrieved the brown sugar from the floor, steeled his resolve, and strode purposefully back to the bowl as though he took no notice of Abbie closing her eyes and giving a most... beautiful... moan as she tasted her stolen treat. Ichabod's fingers fumbled with the little twisted tie that sealed the bag shut. His face warmed as his eyes darted between his task and the gentle glow of sunlight on her thigh.
Abbie leaned back over to run the unconsumed part of the apple through the mix to get a heap of cinnamon and sugar. It would be so very easy to just reach over and—No. Ichabod pulled his hand back before Abbie caught him reaching. This was not one of his mental meanderings. He did not have permission to touch the Lieutenant in such an intimate manner.
She plucked another wedge of apple from the bowl. Ichabod cocked an eyebrow. “If you eat it all, there won't be any left for the tarts,” he said with a faux, displeased huff.
“My bad,” Abbie teased, popping the wedge into her mouth, arching an eyebrow. She leaned back to prop on her elbows. Her head rolling back as she chewed, showing off not only the delicate arch of her neck, but highlighting the fact she had obviously forgone a very important article of underclothing.
A tiny strip of belly peeped from under the lower edge of her tank top.
Ichabod didn't recognize the extent of his distraction until he realized he had just thrown the sugar—bag and all—into the bowl. By time he caught his error, the remainder of the sugar had emptied itself from the bag. When he looked back to Abbie's face, she was eyeing him with curious bemusement.
“Everything all right there, Crane?” she asked. She sat up, putting her hands on her knees. “You're not talking very much.”
Ah yes, the contradiction. If he talked too much she would “tune out,” if he spoke too little she would think something was wrong. Of course there was also the issue of his not being able to tell her why he had not been talking as much without why he had a tendency to yammer on. So the question lay in, how to say “My apologies, Lieutenant, I speak at great length to distract myself from the fact I wish to make you scream my name until you are hoarse. However, I realize you find my speaking non-stop to be annoying” without actually using those words.
Ichabod drew in a slow breath then sighed heavily as he resumed delicately folding the apple slices in the overly sugary blend. “I thought you had grown weary of my tale of shopping for supplies.” he waved a hand lightly. “After all, Mrs. O'Mallory's opinion on whether use regular or raw sugar is hardly captivating.”
Abbie hummed non-committally. Her eyes fell to the bowl. “Is it time for another taste?”
“By all means, Miss Mills,” he invited, lightly indicating the bowl with his hands which were once again coated with cinnamon and sugar. He resumed mixing despite her reaching her smaller hand in.
He froze when she delicately coaxed his hand from the bowl. His eyes widened as she brought his hand close to her lips then took one of his fingers into her mouth. Ichabod's jaw trembled as she not only sampled the one finger but took time to sample the other four, then slowly—Oh so blessedly slowly—swiped her tongue across his palm. He struggled to not only remember what he had been doing, but to breathe.
Abbie's eyes fluttered closed and she hummed softly. “Seems good but... I think I need another taste.”
Ichabod didn't even think to object when she took his other hand and repeated the gestures, except starting with his palm and ending with swirling her tongue around his pinkie then drawing into her mouth. He wasn't entirely certain if the Lieutenant was acting of her own volition or if she had suddenly been inhabited by some kind of entity hell bent on tormenting him... He just knew he could not form words.
He could... not... think.
His face felt like it was aflame.
He was fairly certain he needed to walk to the convenience store, purchase numerous bags of ice, return home, draw the coldest bath imaginable, pour the ice in, then lie face down in it. But that would entail leaving the house in a grievous state of arousal, which would prove to be a rather discomforting walk.
Abbie's small hands cupped his face. The moment her soft lips touched his, he was lost. He had imagined kissing her so many times. However, his imagination had done a terrible job of adequately portraying the warmth of her mouth, the supple wetness of her tongue, the shivers of excitement as her fingers threaded into his hair.
And the sweetness.
Although that could probably be attributed to the sugar... perhaps.
Ichabod eased one hand behind her neck to cradle her hand, the other went to her hip as she lured him to standing between her legs. Abbie arched against him, her feet pressing against the back of his knees, urging him closer to her. She gasped softly into his mouth when the hand at her hip slid up to touch the small strip of exposed skin.
“Hey Abbie... whoa... my bad.”
Ichabod leapt away at the sound of Miss Jenny's voice, leaving Abbie to look dumbfounded. Abbie's eyes widened and she lightly touched her lips. “Oh God...” She dropped her hand, her mouth hung open gently. “Oh God... that was really happening.”
She jumped off of the counter top, refusing to look toward him as she raced around the island, grabbed Miss Jenny's arm, and practically dragged the taller Mills sister up the stairs. Ichabod, himself, was not completely certain as to what had just taken place.