“Come on. You want to go or stay here? You look hungry.”
I do? Wow. I am, actually. Starving. “You’re right.”
“Let’s sit down and get this in you now, then.” He scoops that same arm around me and drags me to an empty table against the back wall of the coffee shop, which is bustling with mid-morning business, Lamé at the helm. They steam milk and brew espresso and sling muffins onto plates and the scents make my mouth water so hard I could drool. Bill Withers oozes from hidden speakers, telling us he wants to be used up and, for the first time in my life, I completely understand the sentiment. Hell, Iamthe sentiment.
“Oooooooooh, now would you look at what the lion dragged in?” Lamé stops mid-steam, skates to the end of the bar, and breaks into a teary slow clap. “You two look like you’ve been up to…things. Did you consummate your marriage? In the old-fashioned sense, I mean? Can I get out the word and put everyone out of their misery? There’s a lot of money riding on the when and how, so I need details and—”
Setting his cups and bag on a table, Zion casts a quick look around before focusing in on Lamé. “Would you quit it? Please?”
“Oh. Oh, sorry.” Lamé meets his gaze, their eyes wide, their expression theatrically innocent. People are milling around, over-stirring their coffees, and pretending not to hear, while almost literally bending their ears to listen. “It’s just that betweenyourobvious coffee order and your wife wearing a sheet I know is from a bed you’ve never shared with another person, and the fact that you’re both usually incognito, but today you’re just out here, faces naked, owning your IRL selves, I figured—”
“Oh, shit.”
Like two marionettes controlled by the same puppet master—aka Lamé—our hands fly to our faces as one, confirming that we both did, indeed, forget to put on masks when we left the cabin this morning. Zion for whatever reason and I because I was absolutely flipping out about everything that happened—and my perceived desertion by Zion.
Nervous, I glance up at him, meet his stare, which is steady, and then watch him look at the people standing around, barely hiding their smiles. “Y’all knew already, didn’t ya?”
For a second or two, nobody answers, then, as one, the kinksters burst out withYeahsandObviously, mansand outright laughter. The ambiance goes from a low simmer to a happy boil, and something bursts in my chest as I watch Zion take in the obvious affection with which his crew acknowledges him.
Has he always felt apart from this, then? Or at least since he hit some level of stardom? Or was it earlier? Before he got famous? Has fame been an excuse to deepen the division?
And why the hell does this idea break my heart?
I sink into a seat and open the bag Zion’s left on the table, grab the coffee I’m assuming is mine, and watch him adjust to the idea that literally everyone here knows exactly who he is and that, beyond that, they’ve kept his secret for years. It’s a testament to their affection for him, I think. Or maybe it’s just a sign of how very private these people are about their lives. There’s a definite here and out there mentality. There’s Camp and there’s Real Life and, while people will share details if they wish, nobody asks. It’s a rule that is deeply respected. Photos are only put on the site of people who’ve agreed to it. Others, like me and Zion and probably half the people here wearing bright yellow bands, have something to lose if the outside world finds out about us.
Us. Not them. Am I part of this now?
Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.
When Zion finally sits in the seat beside me, he’s half smiling, a little flushed.
“You okay?”
“Guess so.” He shrugs, the movement of skin over thick muscle and bone attracts my gaze, and I’m brought right back to that first moment he laid atop me last night. The moment he penetrated me, skin to skin. The pure intensity in his gaze, his frown, even his body, so tight and ready for anything. I want more of that. “Got plans for today?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
He grins, his mouth curving up slow and lazy and totally confident of his sexiness.
“Stop that.” My skin flushes under his stare.
“Stop what?” He’s close, his voice quiet, intimate. My gaze hops from his eyes to his mouth, then skims over his beard-dusted chin, his Adam’s apple, that dip at the base of his neck, which I can’t remember tasting last night and, dammit, I want to taste it now. I want to sniff it, feel it with my cheek, my fingers.
“Baby.” I look up to find him biting that plump bottom lip, his focus as acute as last night. “Don’t make me bend you over this table right here and fuck you in front of everyone here, baby.” He leans in. “Show them exactly who you belong to.”
I swallow.
“Come so hard and deep inside you, you’ll feel it drippin’ out all day.” He grins full out. “Lamé won’t like that. Some health and safety bullshit.”
I’m breathing hard and fast and, while I hear his words telling me it’s not the best idea, my body’s perfectly on board with that public over-the-table bending thing. Like, big time. Like now.
“Do it,” I say, half out of my chair, when, out of the blue, a tall, gold-clad figure whooshes between us.
“Absolutely not.” Lamé slams both hands on the table, jolting us out of what was surely the most frantic sexual desire I’ve ever had. I can’t speak for Zion, obviously, but a glance at his crotch says he’d have had no problem following through on his threat. “No sex in the café.” They point up at a big yellow sign, with blue lettering, hung askew right over the exit. “Even if I know people would vastly enjoy watching you.”
Okay, now I’m probably glowing red. No doubt about it. My face is a furnace.
Zion leans back in his chair and stares at me. I bury my head in my coffee—which is absolutely delicious, by the way. Vanilla syrup and whole milk and foam and… ugh, why is everything so perfect right now?
