It's 10 o'clock in the morning and I'm up making breakfast.
Two years into our marriage, I stopped cooking for Xavier. Which was a pretty big deal, considering I come from the type of family where food equals love. Or, at the very least, affection.
Xavier never even noticed.
But, this morning, in spite of the previous long day and night, I'm up and at 'em, tearing up the kitchen in an effort to make us the best damn breakfast Oakley has ever tasted.
He appears just as I've finished pouring our coffee, completely dressed, save for his button-down which hangs loosely from his hand. He's got his boots on and laced up. The sight of those gives me pause. Causes the smile that had been plastered across my face to falter.
"You made breakfast," he says as he saunters into the room. His eyes move over the place settings, and the matching plates piled high with pancakes, sausage, fried potatoes and scrambled eggs.
I swallow around the sudden lump of emotion which has risen in my throat. I didn't think he'd be ready to go so soon.
My feelings probably read on my face because he curls an arm around my waist and pulls me close.
"You look like you swallowed something sour. What's wrong?"
The tip of his nose grazes my cheek, my ear, igniting a line of heat directly to my cunt that's in complete opposition with what I'm feeling.
"You look like you're on your way out the door." My voice is soft. My fingers curl uselessly against his chest.
"I am. I've gotta get back. There's a few things I have to take care of before tonight."
I don't know why I'm acting so weird. The guy does have a life outside of here. I can't expect him to lounge around with me all day. Once again, reality smacks me in the face.
I am sad. That's the emotion slithering around inside my chest. It's been so long since I've felt it, I don't immediately recognize the heavy weight of it.
I don't like it. Sure, Oakley had taken a big step in coming to my parents party last night, but did it really make that much of a difference? It doesn't necessarily make us a couple. Right...?
I pull away from him, my head bowed to hide my face, but he drops the shirt and uses both hands to pull me back in.
"Aren't you gonna ask me what's happening tonight, Meara?"
I don't like his light tone. I don't like that he's making me feel like a love-sick cunt. All I want to do is trash all this food and crawl back into my bed.
God, I'm such an idiot.
"Meara?"
"Nah. Whatever it is, you have fun, ok?" My voice sounds thick and strange to my own ears.
I twist in his grasp, needing to put some distance between us, and he simply laughs. My eyes shoot up to his face. If this fucker is laughing at me, I will scratch his eyes out.
"You're so damned moody," he says, smiling, eyes bright in the rays of sunlight filling up the kitchen.
"Did you just call me 'moody'?" Rage spikes through me. It snaps sharply along my spine.
"I did."
He's taunting me. Teasing me. In this moment I very much prefer dark and brooding Oakley. That asshole knew how to keep his mouth shut at least.
"Listen here, fuck face-" I begin, but whatever I am about to say is cut off by Oakley's lips on mine. I'd like to say I struggled. I do not. I open immediately, moaning at the warm, wet taste of him, and the thick, dominating slide of his tongue. I moan helplessly, wantonly, because, damn, the man can kiss, and arch against him.
"That's more like it," he says when he pulls away. I've softened considerably. The cheat.
"Dick."
"Mmhmm," he grumbles, pushing said appendage against my hip. He's already rock hard and my fingers ache to curl around it.
He moves us backward and uses strong arms to cage me in against the counter. He bends low. Forces me to meet his gaze. His hair shifts around his shoulders.
"Now that I have your attention," he drawls. The humor bleeds from his face slowly. He's all serious now, and I don't know what to make of it.
"My brother wants to meet you."
My heart thumps solidly at his words, kicking and knocking wildly behind the bars of my ribcage. I don't know if it's excitement or apprehension. Can't really tell the difference. And the grave look on Oakley's face isn't helping me decide between the two.
"I don't... Is that something...you want?" I ask.
He licks his lips and I try to concentrate on what's going on rather than the lingering taste of him on my tongue. He seems so uncertain right now. This is reality. This is us outside of quiet nights and cold beers. Sex doesn't seem to be an adequate buffer any longer.
"I..." he begins, his eyes cutting away briefly before coming back to me. "There's a lot you don't know about me. I just don't want to put you in an uncomfortable position. But," he pauses. Slicks his thumb across my bottom lip. "If we're doing the whole family meet-and-greet thing, then... My brother is someone I'd like you to meet."
I slip my hands along the bare skin of his forearms.
"Forgive me if I sound like an asshole, but, you don't seem so sure about that."
He sighs. "I like the way you look at me, Meara. I don't want any of that to change."
Fucking riddles.
"Why would it?"
He looks as if he's about to say something, but then decides against it. He dips his head for another kiss, this one slow and easy as if he's savoring it, then steps back, putting a bit of distance between us.
"Come out with me tonight and then we can talk."
I'm used to Mysterious Mr. Oakley. I know he would never put me in a position where I would feel unsafe. I'm okay with whatever's beyond that. So, I nod, using all my willpower to keep my smile in check. I'm actually pretty excited to learn more about this man.
He turns away to grab his shirt and I lift my foot to nudge his leg while he puts it on.
"I slaved over a hot stove all morning to make you breakfast and you're slinking out on me."
He scoffs. "Two things: I don't 'slink', and I promise to spend a couple hours making it up to you."
I shouldn't cream as much as I am over those words.
"Walk me out."
It's not an order, but I salute him before sliding past him and leading us to the front door.
Once outside, he brings me in close. His lips slide along the curve of my jaw and I'm tempted to say 'Fuck it' and beg him to stay.
"What should I wear tonight?"
He chuckles. Pats my hip with his left hand.
"That's a trick question, right?"
I laugh, throwing my head back and pressing my body firmly against his.
"Only if you answer wrong."
He rolls his eyes. "Wear something comfortable."
His hair shifts over my hand where it rests on his shoulder. I turn it and allow the silken strands to sift across my open palm. He smells like my soap. My shampoo. I love it.
