Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
She swallows hard, looks up at the ceiling. “So when I started having the cramps, the doctors, the ultrasounds—it was all too much. I just stopped going. Figured I’d deal with it when I had to.”
I step closer, run my hand down her hair, then cup her cheek. “You don’t have to deal with it alone.”
She closes her eyes, leans into the touch. “I know,” she whispers. “But it feels like I do.”
I kiss her forehead, just once, and she melts against my chest. We stay like that for a minute, the kitchen warm and safe, the night cold and sharp outside the window.
She straightens, wipes her eyes, and laughs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to trauma-dump on you.”
“Don’t apologize.”
She grins, grabs the spinach spoon, and pokes me in the ribs. “Now tell me something embarrassing about you.”
I pretend to consider it. “I was in a boy band, once.”
She shrieks, loud enough to rattle the pans. “No fucking way!”
“Senior year of high school. We had matching shirts and did synchronized dances. There’s video.”
“Oh my god, please show me.”
“Maybe. If you’re good.”
She leans in, smirking. “Define good.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Whatever you want it to mean.”
We finish cooking together, falling into a rhythm that feels natural. She sets the table, I pour the wine. The meal is nothing fancy—roast chicken, sautéed spinach, some wild rice with cranberries—but it feels like a feast. We eat side by side at the kitchen island, sharing bites off each other’s plates, feet touching under the stools.
When we’re done, she loads the dishwasher and washes the big pan by hand, humming tunelessly under her breath. I lean against the doorway, just watching her, memorizing the way her hair falls over one eye, the way she scrunches her nose at stubborn bits of food, the way she turns and smiles when she catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, flicking a drop of water at me.
“Nothing,” I say, grinning. “Just looking, that’s all.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink.
After the dishes, I suggest dessert. She says, “Only if it’s you.”
I raise an eyebrow, and she laughs, shoving me toward the stairs.
We leave the kitchen a mess, plates still drying on the rack, crumbs on the counter. Upstairs, we make new messes, ones that can’t be tidied away with a sponge and a little effort.
But for now, I just want to remember this: the smell of food, the sound of her laughter, the heat of her hand in mine. I want to believe it can last.
I want to believe I deserve it.
Upstairs, in the blue-dark hush of my bedroom, everything feels different. The house is still, but there’s a charge under my skin, an old, animal tension that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the possibility of fucking it all up. Simone stands just inside the door, eyes on the bed like it’s a new country she isn’t sure she’s ready to visit.
“You good?” I ask, my voice low.
She gives me a look, bright and a little wild. “Are you going to tell me I have to finish my vegetables first?”
I shake my head, smiling as I approach. “No more rules.”
The light in the room is low, just the splintered slats of moon and the city’s sodium haze. I reach for her, pulling her in by the hips. She’s warm and soft, and her mouth is already parted when I kiss her, greedy, searching.
She tastes like chicken and wine, like relief, like every good thing I’ve ever denied myself.
She kisses back, hungry, fingers sliding under my t-shirt, nails grazing my ribs. I lift her onto the bed with both hands, pressing her down into the memory foam, feeling the mattress give under her weight. The sheets are cold, but her skin is hot enough to melt them. She lets me pull her jeans off, not even a hint of protest, her thighs flashing pale in the low lights as I peel them down. Her panties are plain, cotton, damp at the crotch. I leave them on, just for a second, watching the way she squirms under my gaze.
“You ever done this before?” I ask, dragging a hand along her calf.
She grins, impish. “What, missionary?”
I grab her by the ankle and pull her closer, so her ass is right at the edge of the bed. “You know what I mean,” I say, squeezing a handful of her firm ass before drifting my fingers down to rub at her back buttonhole.
She bites her lip, then shakes her head, face suddenly serious. “Not really. I mean—once, but it was… it didn’t work. I think I laughed and made the guy stop.”
I slide my hands up her legs, spreading her, exposing the tight seam of her pussy through the cotton. “Do you want to try again?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she props herself up on her hands and knees and fixes me with a look that’s both apprehensive and eager at once.