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I slip around the counter and come between her open legs, taking her face in my hands. Our eyes lock, and her sweet breath hails down on my senses, making my chest grow tight and my cock thicken. Slowly I bring my mouth to the corner of hers, first kissing then leisurely licking the glaze away. When I’m done, I move to the other side, and heat slides down my spine at the little whimper she does as I lick off the rest of the cruller glaze.
When she’s kissed and licked clean, I pull away, finding her cheeks pink. She licks her lips. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you,” I breathe, an electrical shock zipping down my core at the reality of those words, and how I mean them with every inch of me.
Her eyes hold mine as we both process just how much I mean it. “After work,” she says, her voice weak. “Do you want to go furniture shopping again?” I look around the space, and it’s much fuller than before, but still severely lacking.
I nod. “Yes, I do.” I swallow around my nerves, suddenly lodged in my throat. “I want to sleep with you again tonight, Scarlett. In truth, I don’t see myself wanting to sleep without you anymore.” I look down at my bare feet, considering how powerful that statement was, realizing it may be… too much. “But I know it’s—”
“I want that to,” she buzzes, eyes brimming with excitement, the sadness all gone.
“Okay,” I nod, slipping from between her legs to return to the kitchen. I pour her a cup of coffee and one for me too, then gather ingredients from the fridge.
“What’s your favorite thing to eat for lunch?” I ask as I assemble a salad in a glass container, dropping pre-sliced carrots onto the bed of spring greens.
She watches me as she says, “Honestly, I pretty much like everything. Why?”
I drop cherry tomatoes onto the salad, and open a tupperware of grilled, sliced chicken, adding that, too. Pulling a brand new knife from the drawer, I slice cucumbers and add them as well. “Because I want you to eat lunch.”
Her brows pinch together as she wraps a hair tie around her hair, leaving a messy bun atop her head. Fuck that’s hot. “I eat lunch.”
I place the knife atop the cutting board and brace my hands on the counter, leveling a stare her way. “Scarlett, we work at the same place, remember? An apple and protein bar isn’t lunch.”
For the last few months, I’ve tried my best to not look at her. To not notice her. But my eyes would veer her way every so often, and when I’d see her at lunch, I noticed she never had a real lunch. I hated it then, but didn’t know why I cared.
“He ingrained that in me,” she says, sipping her coffee, picking at the cheese danish in the box. “And he wrote a weight clause into my contract and I guess… even though I’m at Crave now and can look however I please, it’s just… perma-fried into my brain that I need to lose weight, or should watch my weight, at the least.”
I reach into the box and set the cheese danish onto a napkin and slide it to her. “You’re mine now, Scarlett. And that means you eat what you want, when you want. And if you want to eat this whole box of sweets, you do. And you don’t question yourself. You don’t devalue your body in any way, not in front of me. Because you’re beautiful and perfect, and I won’t hear a word otherwise.”
I have to tamp down the anger and rage that run rampant through my veins when I picture that fuckface telling Scarlett she needs to change.
She brings the danish to her lips and takes a satisfying bite, moaning around the sweet pastry. While she eats without guilt, I continue making her lunch, bringing out a loaf of wheat bread.
“Condiments?” I ask, wanting to get it just right for her.
With her mouth full she says, “Any, all, none. I’m easy. Honestly. And I like all the veggies, all the meats and all the cheeses.” She pauses, then adds, “I haven’t had cheese in a year. Pete always said I could do without, so I felt guilty eating it.”
Body shaming piece of shit. I slide on an extra slice of cheese, and add a slice of provolone for good measure, then give her a small wink.
She sips her coffee, tracing the rim with her fingers as she hedges into conversation. “Back in Michigan,” she starts, taking time to be intentional, which makes me respect her so much. “Did you cook a lot?”
I freeze with one palm pressing into the top of the closed sandwich, my knife stilled too. “I didn’t,” I reply slowly, painful bursts of my life exploding behind my eyes. Memories long repressed, because the simple happiness of our existence seemed too painful before.
Now, though, discussing that time doesn’t immediately turn my stomach and make me crave the pool, yearn to hold my breath and wait for pain, hope for darkness. In Scarlett’s company, sharing details of my past feels like honoring something that’s been ignored too long.
We lost her. But we were happy, and to pretend we weren’t is devaluing my daughter’s short but happy life.
“I worked a lot,” I admit, “and Valerie took care of everything.” I slice her sandwich and open the remaining tupperware. “I should have done more. I should have done so much more.” I place the sandwich inside and put the lid on.
“Hindsight,” she says quietly, gathering my eyes with her soft words.
I nod and grab an apple from the produce bag and retrieve the nylon lunch bag I ordered her. I put everything inside, and zip it up.
She’s finishing the pastry with a smile on her face, and this simple moment in the kitchen has me feeling more pride and value than I have in years.
We divide after that, Scarlett going back to her place, the both of us getting ready for work. And then, because it makes sense, we take just one car.
I’ve been here for years and never felt the urge to stop work to watch a scene. To watch anyone perform for that matter. Have I seen them perform? Of course. But I’ve never reallywatched. I’ve been so detached. My eyes see but my brain could give a shit less. I’d never even gotten hard at work before, and I’d always been proud of that fact.
