She looks thoroughly fucked and every bit mine.
35
OLIVIA
I wakeup with Penn’s limbs tangled with mine and a smile on my face. His eyes are closed, his dark lashes fluttering as if he’s dreaming. I hope he is.
His hair is draped across his forehead. I gently brush it away, and he stirs, pulling me closer to him. “Morning,” he says.
“Hi.”
“What time do you need to leave?”
“My class is at eight.”
“Okay, I’ll make us some breakfast and drive you home.”
When he’s out of the room, I hop up and walk to the bathroom to relieve myself and brush my teeth. I catch my reflection in the mirror and gasp. My hair is wild and frizzy in tangled waves since I didn’t brush it after the shower, but there was no time. There’s a dime-sized purple mark on my neck and another one under my collarbone.
I run my fingers over them, remembering how his mouth felt against my skin. Heat spreads through me, flushing my entire body. It was so much more than I could’ve imagined.Had I known it would be so good, I wouldn’t have waited this long. He was gentle, yet commanding in a way that had my body more alive than it’s ever been. His hands and lips touched every inch of me with care as his eyes seared into mine with such intensity, making me feel things I’ve never felt before—appreciated, cherished.
I comb my hair with my fingers and tie it back in a ponytail. Penn’s in the kitchen, tending to something sizzling in a pan when I slide onto a bar stool and watch him. He hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s singing quietly—I can only make out a few words—but his voice is so beautiful and smooth. I wish he’d sing more.
He flips what looks like an omelet and slides over, jotting something down in a notebook that’s resting on the counter beside him.
He’s writing a song.
My heart twists. He’s writing a song about me? Us? After what happened last night.
Not everything is about you, Olivia.
The tips of my ears burn in embarrassment, remembering my drunken demand that he write a song about me. He never even teased me about it, like I thought he would. He didn’t even mention it.
I stay quiet, wanting to hear him sing more.
When he finally turns, he spots me, eyes widening in surprise. “Been watchin’ me?” He arches a brow, drops the omelets onto the plates, and slides one to me.
“Maybe.” I shrug, then pick up the fork, and take a bite.
He grabs something from his fridge, spins around, placing a frosted glass in front of me before taking a seat. “Your coffee.” He winks.
I smile as warmth dances over my skin, making my heart flutter.He’s made it a point to always have the ingredients on hand for my coffee and never hesitates to make it for me.
I lean over and peck his cheek. “Thank you. Were you working on a song?”
“Yeah, trying. It’s just words right now.”
I nod and we eat in comfortable silence, then I carry my plate to the sink. “How many songs have you written?” I stay on the opposite side of the island, leaning across the counter in front of him.
“I don’t know. Not all of them have seen the light of day. Some are still in notebooks.”
I glance at his coffee table and the stack of books that are always piled in the center. I couldn’t imagine writing one song, let alone so many I lost count. It’s impressive how creative he is. I don’t think I could write a single line that would make sense and have rhythm.
“I keep them everywhere. Never know where inspiration is going to hit, and I need to write it down before it slips away.”
“You don’t use your phone or computer?”
“Nope. Like the feel of a pencil in my hand.” He gets up to clean his plate.
