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I barely refrain from taking my frustration out on my second-in-command, and after all his updates and the reminder I have meeting today, I don’t have time to think about Sera for a while.
Rain is coming down in fits and starts when I arrive back to the apartment later that evening and Sera is waiting with a roasted chicken ready to serve. The temperature dropped when the clouds rolled in, so now she’s wearing skin-tight jeans and a baggy sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder as she puts things on the table.
“You didn’t have to cook,” I say. Her meals are delicious, but I have a cook on my payroll. I don’t like Sera thinking she has to do things for me.
“I like to,” she answers. “I didn’t get to do it much at home.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you like it?” she asks at the same time.
We both laugh. “Everything you’ve made is amazing,” I say truthfully.
She doesn’t answer my question but I know why. It’s the same reason I wasn’t allowed to do many of the things I enjoyed when I was younger. Having an asshole for a father is like that.
We settle into comfortable conversation, once again dodging anything meaningful, when a loud crack of thunder rattles the windows.
Sera jumps with a start in her seat, the color draining from her cheeks. Jagged lightning streaks down over the buildings and the electricity flickers out just as more thunder rolls through the building. The lights come back on and I look over to see her gripping the edges of the table, eyes wide as she stares out at the dark sky as the rain begins to really lash at the windows.
“We’re pretty high up,” she says.
Before I can reassure her that this building can more than withstand a routine rainstorm, a particularly close and blinding burst of lightning sends her scurrying to her room. More thunder follows and I hurry after her to see if she’s okay.
I find her huddling under a blanket, pressed up against the headboard of her bed. The overhead and bedside table lights are on and I can see she’s quaking with fear. It’s bizarre—she didn’t seem this nervous on our wedding night, but it seems the storm is putting her on edge.
When she sees me, she groans and shakes her head. “Don’t look at me.”
“Sera, we’re perfectly safe,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. Shockingly, her hand snakes out from under the covers to grab mine.
“I know that in my brain,” she says. “I know it’s stupid to be scared of storms. But I am. I always used to run and hide in my sister’s room and she’d read to me—even as an adult.”
She looks utterly miserable and I move closer. “You want me to read to you?” I know she’s too stubborn to acquiesce so before she can say anything, I grab the textbook from her bedside table and open it to the marked page. “Can I stretch out?”
She nods, holding the blanket up so I can get comfortable next to her. After a few minutes of reading aloud, her head slowly rests on my shoulder. With each rumble of thunder she stiffens and looks out the windows with wide eyes, but I keep plodding along until she relaxes.
After a while, I think she might be sleeping. The book is so boring I’d be out like a light if the nearness of her wasn’t keeping me on edge. I trail off on a sentence about suturing and slowly ease away.
“No,” she says, grabbing my hand again. “Don’t go until it’s over.” She nestles closer and I put my arm around her—just so it has somewhere to go.
Her soft body is so delicate next to mine. The way her cheek rests against my chest has my heart pounding double time. I begin to stroke her hair, shoving the book away to mutter soothing noises to her instead. A sheet of paper couldn’t fit between us and with each new thunderclap she only clings tighter. I can’t help myself and drop a kiss on the top of her head.
Slowly going insane.
Once the storm fizzles out to nothing but a gentle patter of rain on the windows, I tuck some of her hair behind her ear, expecting to get my marching orders. Instead, she looks up at me, searching my face with her ice blue eyes. I trail a finger down her cheek, her jaw, the side of her neck, and her eyes drift closed as she sighs. When she opens them again, her gaze falls on my lips and hers part.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper. “I want to kiss you so damn bad.”
“I never expected this,” she says. “For you to be so kind. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never even been with a man like this …” She looks down, her feathery lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “I’m not like my father,” she says, so low I almost don’t hear.
“I know,” I say, fighting back the primal satisfaction of knowing I’m the only one to have been near my wife like this. “I’m not like mine, either.”
She looks back up at me and moves that inch closer that I needed. Wrapping my fingers in her hair I lean down and our lips touch. Now the storm is inside me, and it takes everything I have to hold back. She presses closer with a sigh into my mouth and when my tongue reaches to touch hers, her hand curls into my shirt.
As innocent and clumsy as she is, she’s inflaming me with her sudden greed. One hand moves up and down my chest while the other reaches for my hair. Her soft noises, her body undulating against mine is better than anything I’ve ever experienced.
“You taste so good,” I say as I drag my kisses down her throat. I slide my hands down her arms. “And you’re so fucking soft. Like velvet, Sera.”
She melts against the pillows as I lick along the edge of her top, one hand sliding under to cup her through her bra. She rises slightly against my palm and I work my way under the fabric to tweak her nipple, both of us groaning when it rises to a tight peak.
