Smiling, I gently slide his hands from my waist, and look around for my clothes.
“Uhm, no. I think my vagina needs at least a four-to-six hour break, Zayn.”
He smirks as he passes me the bottle of whiskey. “That’s fair, baby. You take my cock so well. I suppose I can give you that.” I splutter a bit as I take a sip, the cool amber liquid burns mythroat and nostrils. This is a perfect reminder of why I don’t drink this shit.
“Jesus,” I choke out.His words.
Zayn grasps me around the waist and pulls both me and the bottle of Balevnie close to him. We collapse together in a fit of gentle kisses and soft laughter. And Zayn draws my face to him before I can reach for my clothes on the couch.
For just a moment, everything is perfect.
And with his warm lips pressed against my neck, I start to question the statement I just made.Four to six hours was a long time, really.
19
CHARM
KAT
We make it back to Bronwin Home, as planned, but barely. I couldn't help but lean over on the way home and rub his cock over his jeans. It was extra fun seeing him try to focus on the road when I started rubbing my pussy over my clothes as well.
But when the car made a bit of a dangerous swerve onto the shoulder, I had stopped misbehaving and kept my hands to myself for the remainder of the drive.
Walking into Bronwin Home, I breathe in the scent of leather and cedar. Something spicier, like chicory coffee maybe, emanates from the quaint vintage kitchen. Antique blue pots and dishes adorn the space there, and it feels so cozy. Safe.
I set my overnight bag down on one of the plush leather chairs. Zayn offers me white wine, tea, and food. He has a leftover Cassoulet and some crusty sourdough bread waiting in the small retro fridge. I accept the tea as he reheats our food and sets the table.
Sipping my herbal tea, I realize that I no longer feel the desire to numb at nighttime with wine.Huh. When had that happened?
We sit at the circular table and enjoy our food. We talk about our teen years and our twenties, and I learn more about Zayn’s time in the Corps working in cybersecurity and advanced anti-terrorism. We share our favorite and least favorite authors and books. I tell him a little about Rae and share some stories about growing up with her and visiting Pearson House over the summer. When I ask him more about his childhood, he shifts in his seat.
“What was your mom like?” I ask.
“Oh, she was beautiful. Kind. Nurturing.”
“And your dad?”
His mouth hardens to a flat line.
“Well… he drank a lot,” he says finally.
I nod, encouragingly. “He served, too, right? Did he see combat?”
“Yes,” he answers, “and it… fucked him all up.”
“PTSD,” I reply softly. And he nods.
Without thinking, my hand darts out and covers his. I tenderly move my thumb over his knuckles. His gaze meets mine. His eyes reflect a history of pain—both old and new. But in front of the wounds is a barrier, a veil. I can perceive it but not yet touch it.He’s not ready to share more.At least not yet. And I don’t push it.
I rise and grab our dishes and flatware to bring them to the sink.After I’ve cleared our plates, Zayn captures my wrist and pulls me onto his lap.
“Leave the dishes. I have something for you,” he says, as he moves my long side plait over my shoulder.
“Oh, do you?” I ask, a coy smile playing across my lips.
“Mhmm,” he nods, pulling me more firmly onto the center of his lap.
He digs a hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small, dark blue velvet box. It looks like a jewelry box. I hesitate for a moment as I peer down and then back up to Zayn.
