Page 37 of Whispers of Fire

My hands shake as I grip the staircase railing and join him in the kitchen, trying to hide the blush spreading across my cheeks from having just showered in his house.

A pen and notebook are waiting for me on a stool next to the island while he makes a mug of tea, watching me with attentive eyes, like a lion studying its prey. I feel his gaze like wax dripping over my skin, each passing second leaving a searing sensation.

"Sit," he says in his warm voice, sending shivers down my spine, as he gestures to the stool in front of him, the island separating us.

Thank god. I don’t think I can handle more tension right now.

He's dressed in a black t-shirt that accentuates his thick, tattooed arms. I have to force myself to stop staring, closing my jaw before sitting. A corner of his lips lifts.

Come on, Rose, be more subtle.

Circling the island, he puts the mug in front of me, briefly touching my jaw with the back of his hand, making me melt at the contact. It feels natural, him touching me.

I wish I could stand and rush into his arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck, but it goes against everything I’ve been told since the day I was born.

“Made pancakes, do ya want some?” he says, putting away a jar of flour.

He made me breakfast.

I had never seen a man cook.

Never.

In the Faithful Lambs, only women are allowed in the kitchen, for some strange reason, so men have no idea how to cook. When a woman is ill, another one from the community has to come and cook for her husband, making sure he never has to make anything by himself. I must look shocked because a slight grin flashes on his handsome face.

“Is that a yes?” I nod eagerly, feeling hungry and unexpectedly cherished by the fact that this man, this biker covered in tattoos, has cooked for me. He chuckles as he places a plate with four huge pancakes in front of me.

It looks so good.

"Maple syrup or butter?" he asks, holding each option in his hand. I point to the butter with a large smile.

"Here, Angel," he says, handing me the butter.

That nickname still takes my breath away each time he says it.

I silently mouth "thank you," watching as he reads my lips and nods slightly in return. I enjoy communicating with him in my own way, knowing that simple things can be understood through lip reading by most people, though I rarely do it. With him, it feels different. I want him to understand me, to find our own language. As I reach for another bite of the fluffiest pancakes I've ever eaten, I pause to look at him for a moment.

I want to know everything about him. But I don’t even know where to start.

I'm not sure how I should act right now, it's so far out of my comfort zone, so different from the rules I've followed my whole life. Raising an eyebrow, he looks amused and asks, "Want somethin’, sweetheart?"

I pick up the pen and try to think of something to ask without appearing too eager to know about him.

"What are you doing today?" I write in the notebook and show it to him.

A small smile appears on his face. “Well right now, I’m enjoying breakfast with ya, and after, the usual,” he sighs, “Club business.”

Club?

Looking at his house and the people I saw in his garden, it looks like he’s a part of some community. But I don’t know anything about motorcycle clubs and he certainly looks like he won’t tell me more about it.

Circling the island, he takes a mug of steaming coffee and sits on the stool next to me with a larger smile on his face.

“Can almost hear the questions in your mind. What do you wanna know, Angel?”

Angel. That word makes my knees weak and my blood pulse each time his lips say it. His blue eyes lock with mine and my breathing quickens at the sight of his angular jaw, chocolate short hair and tattoos on his neck.

It should be illegal to look that attractive.

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