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I entered his walk-in closet and found a pair of plain black socks. It was odd, opening and closing drawers that belonged to him. It didn’t bother me one bit to barge into his home and take up space. I loved it, because it annoyed the shit out of him, but something about wearing his clothes and going through his things so freely was intimate. I slipped them onto my feet, their warmth and comfort shielding me from the icy marble floor throughout the large condo.
Decked out in his clothes that carried his scent, I walked into the kitchen, still acclimating to the oversized threads that hung on my frame. Weston stood there like a fucking househusband, muscles moving under his tee as he pressed oranges into submission. The sight knocked me sideways. “I need drugs,” I blurted out.
He turned, towel slung over one shoulder, and gave me a look that was all soft edges and concern. It wasn’t the usual hard-ass lawyer vibe he dished out, and it threw me for a loop once more.
“You have to eat first. Or you’ll vomit all over the place. Here, drink this.” Weston’s voice cut through my foggy brain as he slid a small glass across the counter. It held some brownish concoction that looked about as appetizing as motor oil.
“What’s this?” My fingers wrapped around the glass, eyeing the liquid suspiciously.
“Drink it,” he said, leaving no room for an argument.
So I did. I tipped the glass back and let whatever home remedy he’d conjured slide down my throat, expecting the worst.
The liquid hit the back of my throat, and I gagged, the burn of it chasing down whatever pride I had left. “What the fuck? Are you trying to kill me?”
Weston didn’t miss a beat, setting a plate clanking onto the counter in front of me, loaded with eggs, bacon, and toast. It looked like a goddamn all-American breakfast.
I narrowed my eyes at him, everything just feeling totally messed up. “Where’s the real Weston?” I grumbled before sinking my teeth into the corner of the toast, the crunch loud in my ears.
“I am therealWeston.”
I chewed on the toast, eyes still locked on him. The muscles in his jaw worked as he spoke, and something twisted inside me. I swallowed hard, the bread turning to paste in my mouth. “You cook? I never thought I’d see the day.”
A chuckle rumbled out of him, deep and unexpected. He lifted his coffee cup, his gaze holding mine with that infuriating confidence of his. “I said the exact thing when I was on my knees begging for your cock a few days ago.” He took a sip. “Thought I’d never see the day.”
Heat flared up my neck, painting my cheeks with a shade of fuck-you red. This man, this fucking enigma wrapped in a casual T-shirt, knew exactly how to pull my strings.
“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath, taking another bite of toast, the buttery texture doing nothing to soften the tension coiling tight in my belly.
Silence hung in the air, thick as the steam curling off the eggs. Then I burst out in laughter.
“Fuckin’ eat,” he said, nodding at my plate. His voice was rough, like it had been dragged over gravel.
“Weird, so fucking weird.”
“What’s weird?” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip.
“Fuck,” I exhaled, shoving bacon into my mouth. The salty crunch was grounding. “You. Being all human and shit.”
“Wasn’t I human before?” Amusement laced his question.
I shook my head, mouth full of eggs. “No, you were more like an insufferable fuck.” I speared another piece of toast, the butter soaking into the bread and my soul. “Why are you not at work?” The curiosity poked at me with each chew.
“Took the week off. Can’t go in looking like shit,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “And I have to stay home to take care of the baby.”
My gaze snapped up. Baby? My brain screamed, but then I got it. A snort escaped, and I reached for the glass of juice, the sweet citrus a stark contrast to the bile rising in my throat.
“Fuck you,” I spat out, even as a smirk tugged at my own lips. Because despite everything, despite the pain and the fucked-upness of it all, this felt right—us, in this kitchen, doing this… whatever it was.
“Fuck me later,” he shot back with that goddamn grin, the one that spelled trouble and had my heart racing every damn time.
I rolled my eyes, the ache throbbing behind them. “I’m not a baby,” I said, reaching for the pill bottle on the counter, my fingers clumsy as they fumbled with the childproof cap. Fucking thing wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me.” The words were soft but firm as Weston’s body pressed against my back, his hands covering mine, large and warm. A shiver that had nothing to do with pain ran down my spine as he effortlessly twisted the cap open. His breath tickled my ear when he leaned in closer, commanding, “Be a good boy and stick out your tongue.”
“Cock sucker,” I mumbled under my breath, but complied, sticking out my tongue in a clear act of defiance more than obedience.
He placed two white pills on it, their bitter taste hitting immediately. I snatched the glass of orange juice from the counter and tilted it back, swallowing the pills and chasing away their chalky residue. The acidic sting of the juice was a welcome reprieve.
