I keep my hands slow and precise, sticking to the basic, generic responses that his tutorial would have taught him. The seriousness with which he watches is endearing, his mind working to put those movements into words. Then he looks upand nods his response, not commenting on the lingering redness of my eyes. Holding out his index finger, he runs his opposite first back and forth over it.
Practice?
He almost looks shy asking, which is ridiculous. I could never reject him for wanting something so earnest and simple. Yet it’s so much more than that. This is an invitation for him to step into my world instead of forcing me to be present in his. As my heart tightens in my chest, I settle onto the stool opposite him.
Of course,I sign back. The relief that sweeps across his face is adorable. I laugh quietly beneath my breath, and he slides his coffee mug over for me to taste a sip. Mmmm, hazelnut. Clay and I gently practice back and forth, making small talk with our fingers, commenting on the weather, how we slept, and what time it is. Even though I’m rather out of practice too, the actions flow back to my hands like the stretching of old muscles. Clay watches my hands as if he’s afraid to miss a single movement, his eyes intense with concentration.
Lifting the cup to my mouth, I sip as Clay tries to ask me if I want a cookie, but instead of pulling his hands towards himself in a claw motion, he drags them away from each other and signs sex cookie. I snort into my mug, sending a spew of liquid flying over the marble countertop. His brows pinch together instantly, confused and a little offended.
Sorry, I sign, safely placing the cup down and shaking my head. I can’t hide my grin as I round his side of the island, despite the pink tinge to his ears that says he’s embarrassed. Taking his hands in mine, I adjust the angle of his wrists, pulling his hands towards his chest. “A little twist changes the meaning,” I say out loud. “This means ‘want’.”
“What did I say?” Clayton asks without the use of his hands, seeming somewhat defeated. I read his lips, tilting my head to the side.
“You called me a sex cookie, and I’m not mad about it,” I grin. Clay smiles too, twisting his body so I can step in between his thighs. His features soften into the kind of expression that tugs every tender thread in me tight. He shifts, his knees bracketing my hips, his hands still cradled in mine. For a second, we just stand there, molding into each other’s space. His breath is warm on my cheek, the faint scent of hazelnut clinging to his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily.
I can’t resist the pull dragging my torso closer to his. Letting my thumb trace the curve of his jaw, his eyes flutter half-closed at the touch, lashes brushing his cheeks.
“You can’t rely on the signs. Your expression tells the other half of the story. The same sign can mean different things depending on the delivery.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get the hang of this,” Clay mutters. I sense the low vibration through his chest, his muttering almost too low to catch. Sliding my fingers into his hair, I tilt his head a little further back so his entire face and neck are exposed to me.
“Give yourself time. You’re doing incredibly, and I’m so,” I grind my hips into him, “so,” I dip my head to lick a path up his throat to his ear, “thankful that you’re trying.” I feel his responding groan instead of hearing it, and in the next second, his mouth is on mine and his hands are gripping my ass.
Heat blooms everywhere at once, fierce and molten. He kisses like he’s trying not to lose control but is rapidly failing, his teeth pulling my lower lip into his mouth with a drag that I feel all the way down to my core. Tugging lightly at his hair, I open my mouth for his tongue to sweep inside. The vibrations of moans shift between us, and at some point, I don’t know who’s creating them.
He deepens the kiss greedily, a growing hunger spreading through my chest. My hips fit snugly against his thighs, my hands releasing his hair to travel south. I don’t think about where we are. I can’t deny the hunger he awakens inside of me. My compassionate, caring Clayton, who turns into this possessive, starving man as soon as our lips touch. It’s a heady combination, as if my touch and tongue can unlock a part of his personality that’s reserved solely for me.
Something forces Clay to pull back, his forehead briefly dropping against mine as he struggles to get his breathing under control. I brace my hands on his chest, preparing myself for what is due to be a swift crash back to reality. Glancing around the kitchen, I find the new addition is in fact a pleasant surprise in the form of a familiar duffle bag. A police tag has been wrapped around one of the handles, but otherwise it appears untouched.
Stepping out of Clay's hold, I examine the side pocket and pull out my receivers. Yep, this is my bag, seemingly retrieved from Clay’s stolen truck by the police and released from evidence. Given that there is now a disgruntled-looking maid moving across the room, I snap my receivers into place. I never thought I’d miss the damn things, but being without them is wholly different from choosing not to use them. Missing a sense is much like missing a limb, and though I’ve learned to embrace it, there are times when it’s easier to accept the aids available. Stopping by the two-door refrigerator, the maid turns to face me and purses her lips.
“This was also delivered this morning, next-day delivery to be tracked and signed for.” She reaches into the pocket in her apron and pulls out an evidence bag containing my phone. Her eyes are like laser beams, pale and piercing, while she searches my face for I don’t know what. “If you’re trying to hide out here from the police, it’s safe to assume they know exactly where you are.”
“I'm not hiding from the police, and I’m not a criminal. In this instance, I’m the victim. They know exactly where I am staying and why.”
“And may I ask how long you intend to stay?” She asks with her nose slightly in the air. I sigh, rounding the island to put me directly in front of her.
“I'm sorry for my lack of manners last night. Can we start over? I'm unsure of Rhys’ relationship with you, but I do not intend to be a burden. Rhys has kindly offered to let me stay here until I've got my head straight. Don't worry about waiting on us, we're quite content to look after ourselves.”
The maid looks at me disbelievingly but manages to ease her shoulders somewhat. She's a slender, older woman, her once-dark hair pulled back tight. The apron pinned at her waist is white over a black skirt and shirt, all of which is pressed to perfection. Holding out my hand, I force a smile that I'm not sure is going to be reciprocated, but I do it anyway.
“I’m Harper, and this is Clayton.” I tip my head toward him, catching Clay’s hand raising to give a small wave. He’s watching on with rapt interest, returning his hand to a fist in which his chin leans on. The maid hesitates for a beat, her eyes flicking from my face to my hand like she’s expecting a catch. Eventually, she steps forward and accepts the handshake, her grip cautious. I keep my smile fixed in place, willing her to see that I’m no threat.
“Fiona,” she replies at last, and relief washes through me. Finally, progress. Releasing her hand, I turn to walk back over to Clay before remembering the other bit of housekeeping I should take care of.
“Oh, just to put it out there, I’m deaf, so if I don’t notice or respond to you, I’m not being rude. I just can’t hear you.” A flicker of surprise crosses Fiona’s face, her brows lifting beforeshe schools her aged features. I can’t be sure of what she’s thinking, but whatever it is, causes her eyes to soften slightly.
“You don’t…I mean, I wouldn’t have been able to tell.” She says almost apologetically. I shrug one shoulder, forgiving her for the initial slip-up. I’m used to it.
“That’s the plan,” I wink before returning to Clay’s embrace. His arm lifts automatically, tucking me into his side while I stand, and he remains seated. Hesitating for a moment, Fiona nods sharply and attends to emptying the dishwasher, putting her back to us. Clay’s thumb brushes slow, affectionate circles against my arm, his nose nuzzling into my hair.
“That was very cordial of you.”
“We’ve got enough to worry about. If a little kindness lifts the air of hostility around here, I’m more than happy to be that sacrificial lamb.”
“You’re amazing, my little sex cookie.” Giggling, I melt further into his side, accepting the kiss he places against my forehead. I feel like a fraud accepting his praise for simply being a decent person, but I’m not about to turn down Clay’s undivided attention.
Despite stating we don’t expect to be waited on, two fresh coffees appear in front of us. Fiona lists options for breakfast and refuses to take no for an answer. We settle on eggs and I slide into the stool, going back to some simple sign practice with Clayton. He asks me to show him certain compliments, and then immediately repeats them back to me.
