He sits across from me, resting his elbows on the stone. The tension in the room is a third person, watching us. I wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat soak into my palms, and stare at him.
After a beat, I say, “I noticed you didn’t need your balls massaged last night.”
He laughs, a low sound, and shakes his head. “Turns out sex clears the pipes just as well.”
He sets the mug down, then looks at me for a long time. The blue of his eyes is almost dangerous, the kind of color that makes you think of oceans that drown people.
“You okay?” he asks, and I know what he means.
I nod, blushing. “A little sore, but… yeah. Really okay.”
He smiles—just barely, but enough.
We eat in silence, the food so perfect I barely taste it. My hands are shaking, so I take tiny bites and chase every mouthful with a gulp of coffee. Kent eats like a man who’s been starving, cleaning the plate in three minutes flat, then wiping his mouth.
When we’re both done, he leans in, arms folded on the island.
“Just to be clear,” he says, “you should expect to have sex every night from now on.”
My face goes hot, but I hold his gaze. “Every night?” I say, feigning scandalized. “What if I have a headache?”
He grins, the kind of grin that makes you believe in devils.
“Then I’ll fuck it out of you.”
The words go straight to my core. I feel my cheeks flush and my thighs tense, the ache from earlier flaring up again, but this time it’s sweet, a good kind of pain.
He keeps looking at me, waiting for me to break eye contact. I don’t, not at first, but the intensity is too much. I have to look away, and when I do, I stare at the mug, at the swirling sheen of coffee on the surface, at the little flecks of light reflecting from the kitchen window.
The silence stretches. The only sound is the bacon grease popping as it cools in the pan.
He stands, comes around the island, and leans in close. His hand finds my chin, lifts it until I’m looking him dead in the eye.
“I mean it,” he says, voice a low growl. “When you’re home, your pussy should be ready to receive my cock. Anytime, anywhere. You’re mine, baby girl. You belong to me now.”
A warm rush fills me veins and I nod with a sweet smile.
“Yes. I belong to you, Kent. I’m yours.”
His possessive growls comes low and deep as he pulls me close for a passionate kiss and when our lips touch, my heart contracts at the rightness of the situation because this is how things were meant to be. I was meant for this man … and he for me.
17
THE TRUTH REVEALED
MARY KATE
By the time the sun angles west and warms the kitchen with that syrupy gold, the red sauce is already halfway to heaven. I keep stirring just to have something for my hands to do, letting the steam prick my cheeks and the perfume of garlic and basil turn the world into a small, soft box. The marble is cold even through my elbows, and there’s flour stuck to the undersides of both arms. It’s gotten on the flannel shirt I stole from Kent’s closet—a faded red buffalo check, so big I have to keep tugging the sleeves back from my hands—but I don’t bother to change. I like how it swallows me. I like that I look like a girl who belongs here.
I’m not even mad about the flour on my leggings, or the sticky spot on my knee from where the can of tomatoes slipped and splashed. The house is silent except for the low chuff of the dishwasher and the burble of the simmering pot. If I close my eyes, I can hear Kent’s voice in the last voicemail he left me: “Remember to take the bay leaf out before serving, or you’ll spend all night fishing it from your molars.” His idea of a joke.
It’s been three weeks since I moved into Kent’s room, and I still expect the moment to pop like a soap bubble. But it doesn’t. It only thickens: in the muscle memory of where he keeps the wooden spoons (top left), the right setting for his espresso machine (one below “steam”), the ritual of showering off the night’s sweat and then putting on his softest shirt before bed. Every morning I wake in his sheets, half on his chest, my pussy still sticky and open, my body singing from the stretch and fullness of his cock. There’s nothing else in the world I want. Not even close.
I hum to myself—something old, maybe even a nursery rhyme, but it turns sweet and round in my mouth, like the way I talk to my houseplants. I chop basil, tearing the leaves by hand instead of using the knife, because the taste is gentler that way. I imagine what Kent would say if he walked in: that I’m too precious for my own good, that I have the hands of an artist, that I’m a pain in his ass. He’d take the spoon and tap me on the nose with it, then press my back to the counter and slide his fingers up the inside of my thigh and into my pussy, making my cream while the garlic burned.
The day is so perfect that I almost don’t hear the sound of the Mercedes in the drive, the gravel crunching under the tires. It’s half a second before the front door opens. The lock clicks, and Kent’s keys hit the sideboard with a chime. There’s a hush, like the house is holding its breath. I keep stirring, letting my hair fall over my face. My heart jumps, but in a good way.
His footsteps come up the hall—heavy, slower than usual, a drag in the left foot that only happens when he’s lost in thought or pissed off. He smells like hospital soap and winter air, the ozone tang of the city clinging to his coat. When he rounds the doorway, I look up, spoon in hand.
