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Realizing how desperate all of those answers are, I simply pull my lips to one side of my face to plead the 5th.
Better to say nothing than look like the lovesick teenage girl I’m feeling like.
Displeasure returns swiftly to Nero’s face. “You’re not going to answer me?”
“How about I cook for you instead?”
“What?”
“Breakfast.”
“That’s a meal, yes.”
“I was thinking I could cook that for you.”
“That’s what the kitchen staff is for. They cleared out when I brought you in; however, that doesn’t negate their duties for the morning.”
“Can it?”
My suggestion furrows his brow.
“I wanna make a meal for you. For us.”
“I’m calling Mickie back in here.”
“Why?”
“To have him take us to the hospital where Hans will meet us.”
“Why?!”
“You’re clearly concussed.”
“Because I wanna cook for my husband?!”
The passion of the word stuns us both.
Geez, how is it that one word has begun to feel more real than it truly has any business feeling?
Softness returns to Nero’s loving gaze in such a way I think he may be experiencing the same emotions that I am.
“Okay,” his arms fall to allow his hands to tuck themselves into the pockets of his red silk pajama bottoms, “you can cook for me, for us, after you take a pain killer and tell me why you were on your knees trying to suck my toes instead of my cock.”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks to epic portions.
Nero kicks his chin to the bottle left behind. “Pain killer first.”
I reluctantly cast aside the icepack, pop one of the pills into my mouth, and swallow it down with the glass of water given to me upon us first entering the room.
“Now, explain.”
“Nero-”
“You trust me?”
“Of course,” the words thoughtlessly leap from my tongue.
“Then trust me to handle your explanation for what the fuck went down in our bedroom this morning.”
