Page 79 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
A soft smile graces his lips as he shakes his head. “Just reminds me of my parents, Rylee and Colton. They used to do this thing when I was younger. They’d pick one day out of the month where we got to eat pancakes for dinner and ice cream for breakfast.”
My laugh floats through the room as the warmth of his smile translates into his eyes. There’s something about the quiet nod of his head that tells me this is a good memory. One he’s fond of. After a night filled with tension, it’s a welcome sight and I want to know more. “Why?”
“It had something to do with when they were dating. Holds some kind of special significance, but anytime I asked to know more, Rylee would shoo her hand at me and say that sometimes you need to live in the moment and enjoy the little things, because you never know what tomorrow brings.”
“She sounds like a neat lady.” My comment causes a shadow to fall across his face before he concentrates too hard on the food on his plate. “You must miss her.” My voice is soft; I’m treading cautiously into unknown territory.
There’s no response aside from silence. Then the scrape of the fork over the plate. The crinkle of the paper napkin. The clink of ice in his glass. So we sit and eat in the quiet of the house that only moments ago was filled with the angry noise of the hammer. Now we both seem loaded down by the weight of our own solemn thoughts.
“It’s good. Thank you,” he finally says with a nod of his head, but he still doesn’t meet my gaze. And I’m left wondering what exactly he doesn’t want me to see if I look too close.
“Mm-hmm.” My vague response earns me a lift of his head so I can finally see his eyes.
“How are you doing . . . after earlier . . . tonight, I mean?” And I know he’s serious, wants to know, but there’s a sadness in his gaze that has me wanting to delve further into what’s going on with him. I only wish I knew how to go about it without him feeling like I’m crossing those boundaries of his.
I shrug listlessly. Scoot my eggs around on my plate as I try to figure out the answer. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. . . . Everyone wants their parents to love and approve and want the best for them.” Something flashes in his eyes and disappears just as quickly. “But at the same time, what was shocking for you to hear was my everyday reality. I’d assumed some of those things were true for so long . . . and then hearing you say them out loud, throw them on the table, was a double whammy. Recognition and hurt all in one swoop. And his reaction . . . his lack of response told me it was all true.”
“Shit, Getty.” He blows out a sigh and runs his hand through his hair, sounds apologetic. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Because it was your battle to fight and I couldn’t help myself. I stepped in when I shouldn’t have. Because sometimes there are truths you know deep down, and it’s only when someone else says them aloud do you really hear them. Those are the ones that hurt the most.” His voice is barely audible. I know he’s not just talking about tonight but rather his own life too. “So, I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t apologize. Don’t you get it, Zander?” I hold his stare for a moment before I continue. “You’re the only person who has ever stood up for me in as long as I can remember. And you’re right. The truth stings when you hear it validated by someone else . . . when someone else who has known you for a whole five minutes sees it clear as day. But do you know what that meant to me, knowing that my feelings mattered to someone enough for them to stand up to one of the two people who have disregarded me for so long?” Tears well in my eyes. The ones I promised I’d never shed again when it came to my father.
He nods ever so slightly, lips twisting and eyes closing momentarily in thought. “You deserve to have someone fight for you, Getty.”
My heart swells at his soft-spoken words. “We all do.”
He opens his mouth several times to say something before stopping himself. And even without words I can see his vulnerability. His need for more from me and yet what that more is I’m not sure.
Without warning, he shoves his chair back and averts his eyes as he grabs his plate and brings it to the sink. “It was good. Thank you,” he repeats. “You cook a mean breakfast.” His voice is gruff, the chuckle he emits strained.
He begins washing his plate and when I look down at mine, I realize that I barely touched it. Well, except for the bacon . . . because, hello, it’s bacon, but the rest of my food just looks spread around. The food I fixed for comfort now seems to have done anything but that.
At a loss, I clear the table in silence and wipe down the counters I already cleaned before we ate. I keep busy while I try to put my finger on what has upset Zander. When I set my plate next to the sink, his wet hand reaches out and grabs onto mine. Startled, I look up to him. His eyes are intense. Angry. All-consuming.
The handsome, valiant, considerate, funny, drop-dead-sexy man in front of me after such an emotional day stops me in my tracks. There’s an undeniable need within me to feel close to someone. Everything collides at a fierce pace. And from one beat to the next, throwing reason and boundaries and everything I’m supposed to think about but don’t want to right now out the damn window, we meet in the middle.
Our lips crash together in a whirl of need and want. Passion ceding way to pure greed. Finesse disregarded by our hunger. We turn into a frenzy of motions. Hands groping. Mouths demanding. Bodies grinding closer.
His mouth closes over my nipple through the thin cotton of my cami-tank. My head goes dizzy. My hands unbuckle his trousers without any conscious thought. Goose bumps race over my skin. Hands finding his skin warm, cock hard and ready for me. My body begins to ache. His hands slide inside my waistband, and the cool air of the room strokes my skin as he pushes my pajamas down. The ache turns molten; liquid desire burns its way through every muscle. The clatter of dishes being swept into the sink startles me. Our smothered laughs as his lips find mine again. His hands on my waist, lifting me up, setting my butt on the counter. My legs part automatically. The tear of the condom wrapper from his wallet.
My desire is ravenous. Real. Unbridled. So very new to me.
Our movements slow. Our gazes focus downward where his dick is unhurriedly pushing its way into me. The torturous anticipation of watching me take him in—while the sweet burn of my muscles accommodating him inch by inch seeps through my entire body. Nerve by nerve, sensation by overwhelming sensation.
And then when he’s fully sheathed—with his hands gripping my thighs and my fingers digging into his shoulders, a moan falling from both of our mouths—the urgency returns. The carnal need takes over as our bodies move in sync, trying to give and take and own and sate.
Murmured words fill the room, the running water of the sink the only other sound. Now. I want you. Yes. I need this. Oh God. Right there. Fuck. Harder.
He pulls me into him. His hands slide under my tank and brand themselves to my back as he picks me up a bit to adjust the angle. And just that tiny change—my weight the determining factor for the depths he can reach—catapults the sensations he’s drawing out of me from borderline heaven to full-blown ecstasy.
His name on my lips. His dick swelling inside me. The need to lose myself in something other than what happened tonight. His hushed pants in my ear as he works our bodies into that point of no return.
When it hits—first me and then him shortly thereafter—there’s no scream into the room, no harsh grunt to let the other person know one of us has come. Instead there is a tensing of bodies, an honest connection of our eyes, and the sound of Zander saying my name in the softest of groans. It’s a quiet acknowledgment that the moment held as much for him as it did for me.
