Chapter Thirty

I’ve been domesticated.

Somewhat.

To a small degree.

Minuscule, really.

What’s worse is that I actually don’t mind it that much.

Reason being is that it brings a modest level of routine to my otherwise chaotic existence.

Cecelia flips a page next to me as music filters from my speakers. Exhausted by the recent short bout of sleepless nights—when the sky fucking refused to break, and rain refused to come—I close my eyes as relaxation sets in. Hand splayed on my chest, I tap along to the song with my pointer. Maman loved Chicago. A few bars in, I feel the unescapable weight of a deep blue stare on my profile.

Cracking one eye open, I see Cecelia’s book sliding from her chest onto her lap. She sits in nothing but stark white panties, her jaw slack as she gapes at me. In the next second, she tosses the sheet up before it hangs briefly midair and lands, blanketing her as she starts rooting around, searching the mattress.

“The fuck you doing?” I ask as she pokes my side with the pads of her explorative fingers.

“It seems I’ve misplaced the motherfucker I came home with,” she says, her tone jovial before she lowers the sheet, a blinding smile in place. “Because there’s no damned way I just busted him lip-syncing Peter Cetera . . . O.M.G. is that a blush? Are you blushing?”

Unable to hide my smile, I slowly extend my palm to her chest and flatten it before pushing her off the bed. She lands with a thud, her hysterical laughter filling my bedroom. Not at all something I’m used to—my chest tightens a little at the idea it could be.

Laughter subsiding slightly, Cecelia’s head pops up into view. Lifting to her knees, she folds her forearms on the bed, brows raised. “Note to Cecelia, a little wine and a few puffs, and your closeted romantic comes out.”

“Haven’t had a drop, and you know it,” I assert.

“Which only further proves my point,” she quips with a shrug. “Your secret is safe with me, my menacing motherfucker, but I feel it’s my duty—as I’ve been told numerous times recently—to tell you to ‘own it.’”

“You’re delusional,” I dismiss.

“Can’t blame you. As they say, ‘they don’t make love songs like this anymore.’”

“They are idiots.”

“Ah, Jean Dominic,” she coos, “but you have to admit, it puts you in the mood, right?” She snaps to her feet and turns sideways, thrusting her pert ass out and positioning her hands on her hips before she starts to gyrate. “It’s all bump and grind these days,” she bellows in a terrifying impression of a man’s timbre before booming, “and ‘get on your knees and suck it biatch!’”

She pops her ass out with each word for good measure which has me barking a loud laugh as she continues to gyrate, adding her arms in the mix. “Stop,” I chuckle, “for your own sake—and mine—and don’t ever do that again.”

She turns and tosses a flirty grin over her shoulder while batting her lashes. “You really shouldn’t try to deny your inner romantic, Jean Dominic, I’ve seen it, and I busted you sifting through The Bronze Horseman.”

I shrug. “The plot is decent.”

She climbs back on the bed and presses her nose to mine, drawing another chuckle out of me. Her bravado is due partly to the bottle we saved, and I tell her as much. “You’re cut off.”

“I drank it all anyway, and don’t you dare try to divert, buddy. You’ve got more than one romantic bone in your body.” She pops her brows and runs her fingers down my cock.

“I didn’t read the whole thing,” I lie.

“Uh, huh . . . sure you didn’t, that’s why the other two books suddenly popped up on your shelf.” Stradling me, she presses our noses together and bugs her eyes. “I, too, take notice of things, birdman.” She lowers her voice above a whisper. “You’re in quite the mood tonight. Dare I say a good one?” I pull my nose away and grip her ass, squeezing hard in warning.

“Ouch, okay, fine, I won’t push it. Besides, if you hold that smile a few more seconds, you might scare your face.”

She takes her place beside me as the opening notes of “Hard Habit to Break” start to play. Angling her head so we share a pillow, she listens intently until the song plays out. “Nothing to interpret about that,” she comments in mention of our budding routine, where we listen to older, more cryptic music from different eras to try and decipher the lyrics. She squeezes our laced fingers, looking over at me, eyes hazed. “God, that was beautiful and painful.”

“Some of the best things are.”

She turns on her side, propping her head with her palm. “Such as?”

“Growing up,” I say, tracing the divot at the hollow of her throat.

“That’s right,” she grips my finger and kisses it reverently. “Someone is about to have a birthday.” She glances back at my bedside clock, “in exactly four hours.” Her eyes lower to calculating slits.

“Please don’t embarrass yourself by making plans I won’t show up for,” I warn.

“Don’t underestimate me, Jean Dominic,” she quips, twinkling eyes making it apparent that a plan is already in place.

“Stop saying my name like that. I’m not a French poet.” Brushing the hair away from her shoulders, it’s easy to make out she’s fully relaxed and seemingly . . . entertained. Something I can’t say I’ve ever really accomplished with another girl outside of the physical.

But for how long? She can’t be happy locked in my room. She needs—

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It isn’t true,” she says softly, reading my apprehension. Something she’s getting way too good at. Knowing I’m not going any further with the conversation, she takes the reins. “Spark one up. This time I’m smoking with you and playing DJ.”

Lifting to sit, I do as ordered as she flips through the extensive digital library open on my desktop. Not a minute later, “Oh No,” by the Commodores, another of Maman’s favorite groups, starts to play.

She shrugs when she sees my surprise. “I loved it when you played it before.” Turning it up on my keypad, she smirks, knowing we’re at full capacity tonight at the townhouse—no doubt pissing the neighbors off. Even with Lionel Richie blasting through my room, I can’t find a fuck to give. Especially when she animatedly leaps back onto the bed, pouncing me. Lowering her head, she runs her lips and tongue along my neck before reaching for a condom from my nightstand.

“I am not fucking you to this,” I announce firmly, “I have my limits,” I mumble against her active lips as she does her best to seduce me. “I’ve already watched one too many teen angst movies against my better fucking judgment.”

“Two,” she draws out as I turn her over and sink between her thighs, discarding the blunt she ordered me to light on my nightstand.

“Yeah, and that’s two too many.”

It was another of those rare days spent out of my head. Where we did exactly shit—aside from watching movies on my laptop and fucking—but a day I didn’t feel like my world was coming to an end. She stares up at me, grinning like the romance-drunk fool she is. That look is unmistakable—a look she gives to me in front of everyone, unabashedly, fearlessly, whether we’re at the garage or alone. A look my head and chest can no longer ignore. A look that’s starting to feel like it’s beyond chemistry.

My blissful ignorance stares back at me, her smile fading, that look ever-present.

Ignoring it is fucking torture—so I don’t bother doing it or denying it anymore. I can’t, to the point that I palm her face and lower to kiss her. When I close the kiss, she pulls back, dazed. “What was that for?”

For believing for the both of us that whatever the fuck is happening between us is real, because I can’t.

The throb only increases as I take her mouth again, and she matches me, lick for lick. I’m hard in seconds, and I refuse to ignore it, this thing, this feeling, this state. Lionel serenading us or not, our attraction gets the best of me, and I let it guide me along with her moans. Just as I’m about to take her panties down, a pounding sounds on my bedroom door a second before Tyler’s voice booms from the other side of it.

“Please, for the love of fucking God, no more love ballads tonight. That’s all I’m asking.”

Sean sounds out not even a second later with an “A-fucking-men, brother.”

“First chance I get, I’m moving out of this fucking frat house,” Tyler snaps before slamming his bedroom door.

Cecelia and I break apart, laughing hysterically. She buckles sideways, and when I realize her destination—floor—and manage to get a good grip on her, she takes me down with her.

We stay there, crumpled between her side of the bed and my bookshelf, her cradled in my arm. As the sun sets, the room grows darker, and neither of us moves. Whispers of streetlight stream between my blinds, hitting the wall behind my computer as we smoke a joint while listening to the Commodores. When the record plays out, Cecelia fills the long bouts of silence she knows I won’t by telling me about her life before she was summoned to Triple Falls.

Since this thing between us became regular, I’ve done what I can to avoid this part—knowing the consequences of feeding into it and deciding it’s inevitable.

Because I want to know. Everything.

So, I listen, feigning ignorance about the particulars I do. At the same time, she fills me in on memories—and the people that matter to her. She changes some of the fiction I’ve read about—the girl living in a parallel universe to factual—the beauty of what makes her tick while whispering a new reality between us.

“I’m sorry . . . I haven’t shut up,” she says sometime later. I don’t even recognize how much time has passed, having sunk deeper into her melodic voice, her history, her antics, smiling or chuckling—even when she’s not funny.

Especially then.

“Must be the weed,” she offers as if her rambling hasn’t been present the whole time we’ve been together. “Am I boring you?” Before I can answer, she’s talking again. “I don’t remember what I was talking about anyway.”

“When you and Christy stole your mom’s car in seventh grade,” I prompt.

“You were listening,” she muses.

“Not like I had much of a choice,” I quip in jest, pulling her tighter to me so she knows it. I feel her smile against my skin as she tilts back, her eyes on what she can make of my profile before she presses a slow, sensual kiss to my neck. She wants me to know she cares and to feel it—and I do.

Stopping this is pointless, but encouraging it is the worst crime I could commit.

Tonight, I do neither.

When her soft murmurs start to fade in strength, I gather her up and lay her atop me on the bed. Burrowing in, she rests her cheek on my chest, securing her thigh around my torso—the act familiar. It’s how we sleep. The feeling of it settling in my chest, the kind of intimacy I’ve never allowed myself with anyone.

Ever.

Because of the exact fucking conflict going on inside me now.

“Happy Birthday, Dom,” she whispers softly, running her fingers over my chest before drifting off. Somewhere between the drift of sleep and consciousness, I claim the only gift I want, palming her thigh and drawing it up to bring her snugger to me. Pressing and keeping my lips to her forehead, I inhale her scent and let myself fall into the idea of us and linger there—knowing that eventually, I’ll be jerked away by the hard, unforgivable reality waiting for me when I hit the ground.

Rousing due to the feel of her hand on my cock, I open my eyes in time to see Cecelia flick the head of it with her tongue, the most devilish smile lifting her lush lips as she glances up to see my eyes pop open.

“Hi,” she rasps out, a greeting that rings out more like a warning. Freshly showered, dressed in a tank top and panties, hair damp, she grips me hard as a confession starts to roll off her tongue between licks.

“In case you’ve ever wondered,” she murmurs before flattening her tongue up one side of my cock and down the other, “If I was braver the night I saw you naked. If I knew then how good this felt,” she draws out, her tone pure heat, “I would’ve walked into your room,” she swirls her tongue over the tip of me “and done this.” Clamping her swollen lips around my length, she takes me to the back of her throat.

Jesus Christ.

A low groan escapes me as she works me over, lips still swollen from the hours we’ve spent in this bed. Her skin marked, shoulder and neck rashes still raw due to my bottomless imagination.

“Fuck,” I grunt, fighting my hips to keep them idle as her addictive scent invades me. Intent on not missing a second, I gather her damp hair into my fist, absorbed as she takes hard pulls of my cock, keeping my base in a firm grip. Inhibitions forgotten, she keeps her confident gaze on me—on my reaction.

When I move to lift her up to me, she swats my hands away, making it clear she wants me at her mercy while she takes my pleasure for herself. She’s coming into her own, realizing how potent her power is over those that desire her. With that knowledge, I let go, allowing her to take what she needs from me. The second I do, she sucks me so thoroughly that I see stars, tightening the fingers I have tangled in her hair.

“The perineum, or the taint,” she ticks off as if doing a mental count. She brushes the skin just beneath my balls, fisting my sheets as she suctions before letting my tip pop out of her mouth. “Oh, did I say that out loud?”

I narrow my eyes as she rakes her nails gently over my balls—leaving me speechless.

“You do know that’s one of a male’s most potent erogenous zones, right?” She demonstrates it’s fast becoming one of my own as she licks the skin beneath my balls with an explorative tongue before deep-throating me and pressing on it gently with the pad of her thumb.

I’ve created a monster.

“Cecelia,” I grit out in warning as she rakes her nails down my thigh.

“Come,” she commands, gripping my base hard and suctioning around the head.

“Fuck,” I exhale as she swallows my release like it’s the air she needs. Chest heaving, I stare down at her as she flattens her tongue along each side of my shaft. She carefully avoids my sensitive tip before releasing me and moving to hover above me, eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Happy Birthday, motherfucker, and good morning.”

Releasing my smile, I run a thumb along her swollen lips. “You’re doing a good job of convincing me it could be both.”

“Take a shower and meet me downstairs,” she whispers before placing a few worshipful kisses on my lips.

“Join me,” I whisper back, matching her tone.

“I’ve already showered, so I’ll see you down there,” she bounces off of me onto the edge of the bed.

I grip her arm, pulling her upper half to me, brow raised. “Cecelia?”

“Yes?”

“What’s waiting downstairs?”

“Coffee,” she says, feigning innocence.

“I told you I don’t want—”

“Shut the hell up, King,” she eases from my grip and stands, pulling her shorts up before tossing my next order over her shoulder. “Make it quick.”

When she closes my door behind her, my gaze trails up to the ceiling. Another year older. Another year to create the future I want. Another year to change it if I decide the life I’m living isn’t enough for me—another year of opportunity not to proceed along the path I paved for myself and my brothers. The choice has been a no-brainer year after year. It’s my frustrations in the last few months—and the lack of progress—that have me questioning the decision for the first time since I got inked. Standing in the bathroom, I study my tattoo.

What difference can one man really make?

A hundred years from now, will a single thing we do collectively truly matter?

Will every victory we claim be wiped away by a thousand steps back?

Running my palm over the heavily imprinted ink, I resign to try, as I have since the day the needles penetrated my skin.

My mind is mostly quiet due to the wake-up tongue belonging to a blue-eyed devil in disguise, or angel, depending on the minute. I’m in the midst of shampooing my hair when the shrill sound of the smoke alarm rings out. Managing to get some of the suds rinsed, I leap out and slip a little on the tiles as I snatch my towel. Gripping it around me, I race down the stairs and am stopped at the landing by the sight that greets me.

A hand-painted ‘Happy Birthday Motherfucker’ banner hangs above our kitchen island. To the side of it, Brandy sits, tail wagging, a cone birthday hat strapped beneath her furry chin. It’s Cecelia’s shrieks and Sean’s hysterical laughter that grabs the rest of my attention. Cecelia scolds Sean a decibel higher than the alarm as she opens the smoking oven. Mitts covering both hands, she retrieves a cake as the smell of burned bacon wafts into my nose.

“Give it up, Pup,” Sean chuckles, circling her waist and lifting her where she holds the cake before swinging her toward the sink where she releases it mid-bitch, “. . . told you not to distract me, to give me just five minutes!’”

She pushes against Sean’s captive hold as he nuzzles her, chuckling deeply. Releasing her, Sean moves the burning bacon from a lit burner onto another as Cecelia catches sight of me, shampoo sliding down my chest. Brandy takes notice of me, too, barking just as the right side of the banner falls from where it hangs, sweeping a party plate full of runny eggs with it to the floor. It’s a fucking circus and everything I never thought I wanted but glimpse in those chaotic seconds.

Sean begins to wave a broom at the fire alarm as Cecelia’s expression falls, shoulders slumping in disappointment as she darts her eyes from the smoking cake to the burnt bacon, to Brandy, and back to me, lip quivering.

So, this is adoration.