Page 82 of The Bonds We Break
“You test my control, duchess.” He squeezes my butt. “I’ll go grab the groceries, and you can put them away while I get the fire going.”
“Thank you, Uther.”
He steals another kiss. “You’re welcome. Can you I tell you something without you thinking it’s foolish?”
“I’m not going to judge you.”
“It’s just ... this ... I’m not sure I remember how to just be me. I’ve always been Arthur “Camelot” Hills’s son. President-in-waiting. I’m proud of my club. I’m proud to be an outlaw. I’ll never leave. But I think I’ve forgotten how to be the man and not the biker. Fuck, I’m not even sure they’re separate; maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. But there’s a piece of me that really wants to be here without the club for a little while. Just to see who I am without it. Does that make any sense?”
I squeeze his hand. “That’s brave of you to admit to me.”
“Maybe you make me feel brave, duchess.”
He unlinks our fingers and heads for the door. I watch as he shrugs against the cold and unlocks the truck. Then I drag my suitcase to the laundry, where I separate the clothes and put the first load in the machine. When I unscrew the cap to the soap, the old smell hits me. It’s different to the one King uses. The scent more delicate, less synthetic.
I take a deep inhale and embrace being home. Even if it’s just for a few days.
By the time the load is going, King has brought the groceries to the kitchen table. As he passes me to grab some more, his fingers brush against mine.
What would it feel like? For this to be our life? For us to be a normal couple?
I hear his heavy footsteps on the wide-plank wooden floor. “Leave your boots by the front door,” I yell.
When I hear the thud of two boots, I can’t help but grin.
It takes us ten minutes to accomplish our chores, and King comes to join me in the kitchen. “Want to make dinner together?” he asks.
“Forming new memories around preparing food with someone would be helpful. So, yes, I’d like that.”
The stir-fry is simple to make, but I try to be present through every minute of it. King comes up with a rule that every time I mentally drift to the past, I have to kiss him. It takes seven kisses to get through all the chopping. Four more to get through the cooking. By the time we sit down to eat, my body is hyperalert to his presence.
I sometimes wonder if we vibrate on the same energy frequency.
When the dishes have been cleaned and put away, he leads me to the sofa and lies on his side before patting the space on the couch in front of him. “You’ve been such a good girl, overcoming all those thoughts that kept hitting you, I feel you deserve something just for you.”
My mental gears start to grind. What if I can’t come? Do I just lie there? How do I—
“I don’t want you to do a single thing I don’t tell you to, Rae. So, get your ass down here in front of me.”
The fire casts a warm glow over his face, the look on it fierce. I do as he says.
He takes a moment to rearrange us until I’m lying with my back pressed against his chest. One arm is beneath my neck, that hand cupping my breast over my clothes, the other hand cupping my pussy. His fingers rest on either side of my clit, kneading the skin.
“Serious question, duchess. What happens if you don’t come?”
I try to turn my head to face him, but he moves his hand from my breast to my cheek to stop me. “What do you mean?”
“I get the obvious: you miss out on the physical experience. But why do you worry about not coming?”
“I wasn’t expecting this conversation,” I mutter.
I feel the huff of his laughter against my neck. “Maybe I like having the upper hand occasionally. What do you think will happen if you don’t always come when we’re together?”
I try to sort my answer, but I can’t anchor it around one thing. “Sex gets reduced to the man coming. If they realize you find it hard to come, they take the excuse to stop trying to get you there. It’s complicated. I want the intimacy of sex. I want the fulfilment of being naked and vulnerable with another person. I love the touch of it and the smell of it and possibility of it. I love the closeness of it. But over time, men get bored and stop trying.”
“Do you think I’m likemost men, duchess?”
I shake my head. “You’re one of a kind.”
