The eye contact had become physical—thick like heat, like hands wrapped around my throat, holding me still in it. He was looking at me like he was trying to see my soul instead of just my body.
My stomach knotted.
“Zio…” I said quietly, not even sure what I was trying to stop yet.
He froze, just for half a second. His jaw tightened. And I knew it. This wasn’t just sex. Not tonight. He blinked once, hard—like he was shutting something off—and then he sped up. He started fucking me the way I was used to. Hard. Deep. Full-body thrusts.
I gasped, grabbing at the couch cushions. He was hitting that spot now, forcing me to feel instead of thinking. Every stroke pushed the confusion deeper down. My back arched. My nails dragged down his arms. I stopped trying to process and just fucked him back. I felt him cum, wetting my insides.
When he finally eased out of me, he moved behind me on the sofa, pulling me into his chest. My body was still buzzing, but my mind was already retreating. What the fuck was this?
I lay there for a minute, listening to his breathing, waiting for him to grab his phone or crack a joke or do something that would put us back where we belonged. He didn’t. So, I slipped out of his arms, reached for my robe, and stood.
“I’ve got writing to do,” I said, as casually as I could make it.
He hummed like he heard me, already settling back into the cushions, too comfortable for my liking. I walked into the bedroom, sat at my desk, and opened my laptop. The screen glowed back at me, blank.
All I could think was… What the fuck just changed? Because something did. And I didn't know if I wanted to ask him about it or pretend I didn't feel it at all.
Chapter one
Sky
February first.
The night didn’t start with sex. That was what unsettled me, especially after the way he had acted the night before. Especially after he woke me up before he left that morning. He usually just said bye, but earlier he had been like, “I’ll see you later, Love.” And then I couldn’t go back to sleep. Because what the fuck did that mean?
Later? When had he started reporting to me? And love since when?
I spent all day trying to remember when the just-bye stopped. It had been a while ago, more than a year. Then I ended up thinking about what that meant.
My head throbbed from the effort. I was exhausted from thinking. I didn’t really want to deal with him or any of the emotions last night had stirred up, but I let him in.
It was so hard to say no to him. He had a fresh haircut. Of course. He was offensively handsome, a gallery of ink stretched over clear brown skin that looked expensive without trying. Big in every direction—shoulders, hands, presence. The kind of man who occupied space anywhere he went.
He walked into my house with an armful of groceries and kissed my forehead like I was someone he prayed for. Like I was blood.Like I was his fucking sister. He didn’t even glance at the thin piece of silk clinging to my thick body. I should have sent him home.
He moved through the house like it was his.
He ended up in my kitchen, unpacking groceries and unearthing my pressure cooker from the dark back corner of the cabinet as if I’d invited him to cook for me. Like we shared a lease.
It irked me how competent he looked there, being there. How natural.
We fucked. That was it. It had been that way for four years.
What the fuck was this? I tried to say it out loud, but my mouth wouldn’t work.
He was leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, showing off the corded muscles in his forearms, methodically bisecting peppers and onions.
It was too much for me. I was scared of commitment, and I had no trauma to offer as an excuse. My parents had been married 37 years; they had waited five before they had me. It was time they spent just liking each other—they didn’t want to share. To that day, they were stupid in love. Overripe, embarrassing love. They slow danced in front of company to Anita Baker all the time. I wrote love stories, but I couldn’t write a single sentence that captured the messy, terrifying reality of what they had. Was that what Zio was trying to build in my kitchen?
My heart kicked up. I hoped not.
I thought what was worse than being from a dysfunctional family was being from a whole, loving one when it came to romance for the children. Because I knew what perfect love was supposed to look like. It was why I could sell it. But it didn’t feel like a reality for me. What if he wasn’t like my daddy?
“Sky,” he said, his voice cutting through my thoughts. He didn’t look up from the onions. “You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes. Come here.”
I didn’t move. My feet felt like they’d been bolted to the hardwood.
