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Well, it scarred me for life.
This isn’t the equivalent, but from my point of view, it is a little.
“Milo, why don’t you go get ready for school?” I encourage him.
Milo squints his eyes and glares at Lyric before turning back to me. “We will discuss this at breakfast, where you will allow me to pour chocolate milk into my Lucky Charms.” He walks out of my bedroom, slamming the door with a huff.
Blushing from humiliation, I press my face into the pillow. “I can’t take this,” I whisper, convinced I’m doomed.
“I’m more concerned about his taste buds.” Lyric grabs my pillow and tosses it across the room, not letting me hide.
I glare at him from under my hair, which probably looks as though I was well fucked, or at least well orgasmed.
Lyric lifts the strands, rubbing them between his fingers. “I love your hair,” he murmurs. “The color is unusual.”
“My mom had the same auburn color,” I say, my voice carrying a touch of nostalgia. I shift on the bed, sinking into the mattress, the softness beneath me providing a momentary comfort amidst the chaos of the morning. As the minutes pass, the gentle morning light bathes the room, casting a warm glow that seems to breathe life into my memories.
“It’s still early,” I continue, glancing at the clock, “and Milo doesn’t have to be at school for another two hours.” The mention of my brother’s name softens the edge in my tone. I often find solace in the routine of our daily lives, a comforting anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions that swirls within me.
“Tell me more,” Lyric demands softly.
“My dad used to say it was the color of fire.” As I speak, I close my eyes, savoring the bittersweet memories of my parents. It takes me back to when life was simpler and my family was whole. I can almost hear my father’s deep, affectionate voice as he spoke those words, his eyes twinkling with love and admiration for my mother.
“He didn’t just love my mom,” I add, my voice softening further, “he worshiped the ground she walked on.” The image of my parents, their love and devotion to each other, fills my mind. It’s a love that has left an indelible mark on my heart, a love I aspire to find for myself one day.
As I open my eyes, I’m met with Lyric’s gentle gaze, and I can see a depth of understanding in his eyes. It’s as though he recognizes the significance of my memories and the emotions they evoke.
“You miss her,” Lyric states, his voice filled with empathy as he smooths the strands of my auburn hair between his fingers.
“Every damn day,” I reply softly, the weight of my grief evident in those words. I watch as Lyric’s eyes lose focus, and his fingers come to a stop. It’s as if he transported to a place within his own thoughts, a place where he can comprehend the depth of my longing for my mother.
In that moment of shared understanding, there’s a profound connection between us. Lyric’s silent presence, his willingness to listen, and his ability to grasp the complexities of my emotions make me feel less alone in my grief. It’s a rare and precious gift, one that eases the ache in my heart, even if only momentarily.
As we lie there, entwined in each other’s worlds, I can’t help but wonder if this connection is a sign of something deeper, something that could potentially heal the wounds of my past and bring solace to my fractured soul.
“I don’t remember them,” Lyric whispers, his words sending a shiver through me. It’s a topic that I wouldn’t dare ask about, and the fact that he’s broaching it on his own feels like a significant step in our relationship. “I remember Matty, I remember Kelly, but I don’t remember my parents.”
I turn toward him, meeting his sea foam green eyes, which seem to shimmer in the soft morning light. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, an openness that tugs at my heartstrings.
“You were young,” I whisper in response, my voice gentle and understanding. I roll closer to him, propping my head up with my hands. “Eleven.”
Lyric lies down on the mattress beside me, mirroring my position. In this quiet, intimate moment, he appears surprisingly innocent, his face still carrying a trace of his boyish features. His tousled curls spill over his forehead, framing his eyes and giving him an almost ethereal quality. The feathers of the raven tattoo lick at his jawline, a testament to the enigmatic allure surrounding him.
As we lie here, I fight the urge to reach out and trace the delicate lines of his tattoo. I don’t want to disrupt the fragile connection that’s forming between us. Instead, I want to encourage him to keep talking so he can share his thoughts and emotions, but then, unexpectedly, Lyric yanks the sheet off my body, exposing me to the cold air. His eyes darken as they roam over my exposed form. The shift in his gaze is palpable, and a charged tension hangs in the air between us.
“You want to know about my past?” he questions, his voice dripping with seduction. “Hook your leg over mine. Show me how much restraint you have before you come while I talk.”
Swallowing my desire, I glance at the door and then back at Lyric, only to find a devilish smirk on his face. His words hang in the air, laden with a tantalizing promise.
I hesitate, my mind racing with the risk of Milo being just down the hall, but the allure of Lyric’s past and the sensations he’s stirring in my body are too tempting to resist. With a slow, deliberate movement, I hook my leg over his, locking us in a sensual embrace.
“Milo is down the hall,” I hiss in a half-hearted attempt to maintain caution.
“Then you better be quiet,” he teases, his fingers tracing a maddening path over my nipple and sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through me.
I can’t help but arch into his touch, savoring the electric sensations. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you two stripped me,” I say, my voice laced with playful irritation. “I can’t believe Tatum didn’t beat you two with a bat.”
As Lyric continues to trace my nipple with a devilish smirk, he reveals a snippet of Tatum’s involvement. “Tatum wouldn’t defy Desmond,” he explains, his words causing a shiver to run down my spine. “She needs him to keep her safe.”
