Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
The voice startles me from my internalized rage and self-hatred, and for some reason, the normal tone of his voice only intensifies my desire.
There's no sarcasm or irritation in his voice. There's not even a hint of expectation. Just like everything else this man does, it seems to crawl all over me, but not in the way I'd expect. The annoyance I felt seconds ago fades, and that empty space fills with memories of times when we would just hang out, moments when I was accepted into his home and always felt like a member of his family. There was always that underlying urge to eat and go back to his room, where I knew he'd get on his knees for me, but when his older sister Dakota made us food, we'd always sit and eat with her. I'd even smile and laugh when the time felt right, even though it felt so foreign to me at the time. I figured it was the least I could do for someone who took the time to make me something to eat.
"Fran-Zeus?"
Memories fade as I blink, and I see the man standing there, looking at me over his shoulder.
"Yeah," I mutter as I walk closer, doing my best not to touch him as I grab plates from the cabinet, but the tiny kitchen doesn't exactly allow for two grown men, and not touching in some way is impossible.
I ignore the zing of electricity that jolts through me when my shirt sweeps his back. I clear my throat as I take a step back and place the plates on the counter.
Instead of engaging in any other way, I glance down at the mismatched plates, knowing that my adoptive mom, Sheila, would have a fucking coronary if she went to someone's house and they served food on dishes that didn't match. What I hate most about that is knowing that I even noticed it. So many things were drilled into my head as a child that I don't even realize it until a situation comes up that triggers that knowledge.
I create more distance, giving him room to plate the food, and keep my attention on my feet despite the desperate urge to watch his hands. I crack my neck, turning my head to either side at the flash of those very hands wrapped around my cock that first time. We were both trembling, but the relief I felt when his warm fingers cloaked my dick is something I sought out way too many times after.
"I don't think I've had chicken parmesan since the last time Dakota made it for us," I say just to fill the silence.
Zayne freezes, the spaghetti he's dishing out making a mess on the counter as he holds the utensil a foot above the plate.
The reaction seems out of place for a man who seemed hell-bent since he arrived to remind people that we have a shared past, but I'm not going to dive into all that shit. I remain silent, only opening my mouth to say thank you when he finishes fixing the plate and points to it.
Maybe their relationship went south in recent years, but whatever shit he's dealing with isn't my problem to solve. I can't even get a handle on my own shit these days.
I take the plate and head to the living room, taking a seat in the busted-looking recliner. The house isn't big enough to have any form of dining area, and even though my first instinct is to go to my bedroom and hide out, I figured that would be incredibly rude. It's just one more thing that makes me think of growing up and all the rules I had to obey.
A minute or so later, Zayne takes a seat on the sofa and places his plate on the scarred table in front of him.
I take a bite of the food, barely able to contain myself from moaning as the delicious flavors hit my tongue. Dakota always said food made with love tastes the best. I don't know if those words made it taste so much better every time, but her food was always ten times better than anything my parents had catered from the most expensive restaurants in town.
"Dakota's food was always the best," I say absently between bites, only to look up and see Zayne with his jaw clenched.
The man wanted to talk in the van on the way here, but now it's as if he can't stand the sound of my fucking voice. The way the silent treatment triggers some deep shit from my past makes me want to throw the food in the trash. But I'm a reasonable man, and that would only hurt me.
This is the second time he has reacted this way when his sister is mentioned, so I leave it alone. Instead of trying to change the subject, I just keep my mouth full of food and my attention on my plate.