8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

O ur home.

Did he seriously just say that, or am I actually losing it?

For a moment while he'd had me perched on his thick hip like a toddler, I was sure I'd been half-dead, or severely drunk at the minimum. But now, as I stared into his pretty eyes, I saw nothing but honesty.

"O-our home?" I sputter.

Fred nods sharply, tightening his hold on my chin. God, why do his soft fingers feel so good against my skin?

"We don't have a home, Fred," I state, even as I lean into his touch. I don't know Fred, but somehow, I'm already addicted. It's like that one time I mistook cocaine for sugar and doused my coffee in it. That was nine years ago, and I still crave the high.

Okay, it wasn't an accident, but hell, I was in college. Can you really blame me?

"Listen," he drawls, smoothing his thumb over my jaw. "I understand this is all a lot. You've been through something traumatic tonight. But I can't go another second without telling you how I feel…" I wiggle in my seat, excitement and anticipation making my stomach dance.

Fred freezes, his eyes searching mine. Whatever he sees makes him sigh and drop his hand. "Never mind. It's too much. Too soon."

No!

He starts to close the door, a forlorn look etched across his pretty face, and panic races through me.

"Wait!" Reaching out, I grip his tank top and tug him back. "What were you about to say?"

He shakes his head, looking lost, sad . Is it possible he's noticed this strange, magnetic connection, too? Fred's lips move, forming words I can't quite make out, but have me on the edge of my metaphorical seat. But not the actual seat, because, hello— butt plug .

Say it.

Say it.

Come on, tell me!

"I'm sorry," he finally murmurs. "I shouldn't have brought it up. You're injured. I'm a professional. It was inappropriate of me."

I suck in a sharp breath. He can't mean that, can he?

Loss thrums through me, hot and acrid. For some reason, the sudden need to be brave, for fear of missing out on something incredible, fills me until I'm nearly bursting! But that's not me. I don't initiate. I don't admit my feelings first.

Doing so leads to bad places.

Take tonight, for example. I initiated steamy toy sex and wound up on an episode of Undressed and Terrified . Well, not really, but that's how it felt.

Admitting feelings makes you vulnerable.

Doing it first sets you up for rejection.

Rejection sucks.

I'm still fighting with my chaotic thoughts when Fred lets out a long, resigned sigh. His shoulders drop and he gives me the saddest smile I think I've ever seen. Almost as if he's giving up before we've even begun. It forces me into action.

"I feel stuff, too!" I cry out. Fred freezes in his tracks. His eyes are wide, his expression hopeful.

"What do you feel?" he asks cautiously.

Come on, Story, be brave! For love!

Do it for your future babies!

Aww, I love kids! I want at least ten, maybe more. I can just see them now. They'd have his pale lashes and thin brows, but my peach hair and brown eyes. My head tilts. I wonder if Fred is naturally bald. Maybe he has some curls under that shiny scalp. I smile. Our big headed-babies would look so cute with peach curls and pale skin.

"Story?" I blink away my daydreams, finding him giving me an odd look. "What do you feel?"

I swallow hard.

"Feelings."

Seriously, Story?

Rolling my eyes, I huff out a breath. I need to be honest with him. If I don't, I'll probably regret this for the rest of my life.

"When I walked into that bar tonight and spotted Bud, I knew this was going to be a bad night. I knew he wasn't the one. But then that little voice in my head said, ‘You're not getting any younger, Story. Stop being so picky, Story. Every second you go unfertilized, another egg dies a violent death, Story.' So, I went in, and then you found me here, and yeah, I was humiliated and terrified. I thought I was going to be murdered!"

My rambling mouth snaps shut when Fred releases a primal sound that goes straight to my bussy. Wait. Do women have a bussy, or is it strictly male anatomy? Regardless, something clenches, and shivers race across my spine.

Damn. My man is so hot.

"You will not die. Ever."

I gape at his declaration. "You can't—"

"I can!" He cries, his hand slashing through the air like a katana. "No death! Do you understand me?"

Suddenly, I find myself nodding.

He smiles. "Such a good little goose."

Oh, lord! It's like kryptonite for my nubbin.

"Anyway," I croak, ignoring his knowing look. "When the police broke down the door, I was imagining all the ways the night could get worse."

Me, starting my period and spilling chunky womb clots all over Bud's fuck-pad. A flesh-eating lizard catching my alluring scent and crawling into my exposed lady-cave, eating me from the inside out. Then my celeb crush, Alex Trabek, would come back from the grave and see me in my lizard-clot hell. But instead of saving me Fabio-style, he'd toss his head back and cackle before transforming into my biggest fear, a capuchin monkey.

I brush a tear from my cheek. I'd been so afraid.

"And then you walked in, and suddenly, I knew I was going to be okay." I sniffle, forcing myself to meet Fred's gaze. My breath catches when I lock onto his tear-filled eyes. "I feel like I've known you my entire life, and yet a thousand years still wouldn't be enough to sate my desire for you."

"Story," he chokes out. Leaning forward, he cups my face, nuzzling his nose with mine in the sweetest eskimo kiss. "Everything you said is exactly how I feel, only you've worded it more beautifully than I ever could." He roughly chuckles. "Can I kiss you, bed bug?"

"You never have to ask, my big, sweet quiche," I murmur breathily.

He blinks. "Quiche?"

My cheeks burn from the force of my blush. Tentatively, I lift my hand, brushing it over his silken dome. My lids flutter at the smooth texture. It's bumpy, but his skin is so soft, just like I knew it would be.

"Yes," I whisper. "It's my favorite style of eggs. And well…" I break off, cupping his head.

He stares at me for a long moment. "Are you calling me an egghead because I'm bald?"

Oh, no! I hope he doesn't take offense. I nod slowly. Fred smiles.

"Do you know the best part about not having any hair?" he asks huskily as he leans closer, leaving our mouths only an inch apart. I shake my head once. "When I go down on you, my hair won't get caught in your yummy, cummy curls, will it? No. I'll get to fuck you with more than just my mouth and fingers." His lips ghost across mine. "I'll use my entire, big, bald head to plunder your moist beaver den, baby."

And then Fred Bates is kissing me.

The kiss is plush and silky. His thick lips are like pillowy clouds of cotton candy. They're almost feminine against my cracked lips. I tense, worried Fred will notice I forgot to put on chapstick for the last twenty years, but then he's groaning and embarrassment flies out the window. I quickly find myself disappearing in all that is my Freddikins.

It's a kiss unlike any I've ever experienced before.

The last first kiss you'll ever experience, a romantic voice coos. I sigh into his mouth. Are those birds I hear singing? Squirrels clapping? Bunnies thumping? I tangle my fingers in his shirt and smile against his lips.

This is it.

This is the kiss.

When he pulls away, we're both breathless, and I'm worried I've left a puddle on my passenger seat.

Fred brushes my hair from my eyes. "Now, I'm taking you home and I won't hear another word of protest from you. Got me?"

Dazedly, I bob my head.

"Good goose."

He presses a kiss to my cheek and closes the door. My eyes are closed before the car even starts.