Page 41 of Heated
“I’ll take that as a yes too,” he says, covering the remaining space to the island.
There’s gravel in that midnight voice, and a shiver trips over my skin.
What wasthat? He hadn’t been staring at my hips, atme, like he wanted to strip me out of my jeans and eatmeinstead of the dutch apple pie. That must’ve been a figment of my overactive, sex-starved imagination. Yes, that had to be it. After all, it’s been ... well, a while since I’ve had an orgasm that wasn’t like frozen yogurt—self-served.
Cyrus lifts the crystal dome from the cake plate and cuts a healthy-size slice of pie, sets it on a plate, and slides it across the island to me. I tense, waiting for the comment; I can’t help it. Call it a side effect from too many boyfriends who considered it their God-given duty and right to advise me on my health, dietary habits, and weight just because they stuck their dick in me. Other than platonic, professional handshakes, Cyrus has touched only my chin—and yes, I can still feel the brand of that grip without even trying—but it doesn’t stop me from bracing myself for the verbal onslaught.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, he cuts himself a slice as big as mine, replaces the top, and tucks into his food. Surprised, I stand frozen, watching him. I’m not ashamed of my size 16 frame and the curves that pack it. Contrary to what some people have to say about my lifestyle, I regularly work out and eat a well-balanced diet, but I refuse to starve myself. And I enjoy food, especially treats like pie. And I don’t see a reason to go without things I enjoy just because society frowns on it. Society can suck a fat bag of dicks. Skinny ones, at that. Still ... I wouldn’t be human if the comments didn’t dig into my tender skin, if they didn’t leave bruises. Particularly when they come from people I share my heart and body with. I would be a liar—more so than I’ve already been lately—to claim I haven’t erected a sensitive wall when it comes to this issue.
“You’re not hungry?”
“What?” I rasp. Giving my head a small shake, I cut off a piece. “No, this is great. Thank you.” I slide a forkful of the dessert into my mouth, andholy shit. Did my eyes roll to the back of my head? Did I moan aloud? I think I did, and I’m not even sorry. “Oh my God. This is sex illegal. Where did you buy this, and can I purchase it in bulk?”
I open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed and once more meet pure heat. The pie melts on my tongue, and unbidden, I slick the tip of my tongue over my lower lip. I tell myself it’s to catch any wayward crumbs, but deep in that place where it’s safe to be honest with just myself, I admit it’s to see those flames jump in his eyes again. That can get addictive.
Iwantto become addictive, even though I know it’s about as good for me as crack.
“I baked it.”
My head jerks back, the fork nearly tumbling from my fingers. “Say what now?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I baked it.”
“As in you made it? From scratch? With your own hands?”
“Sometimes I think we speak different languages. We’ll need to work on our communication, as I understand it’s one of the foundation stones of a good relationship,” he drawls. “Yes, from scratch, with my own two hands.” He holds them up, palms out, for emphasis. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Wow,” I whisper. “Plot twist. Didn’t see that coming.” Then I pause. This was my stipulation, after all. But it can’t go unsaid. “I’m sorry about your mother. From what you’ve said, I’m assuming she’s gone. And I’m truly sorry for that.”
“My mother and father. And thank you. It’s been a long time, though.”
“That doesn’t matter. I can’t imagine it mattering.”
As dysfunctional as my parents are, if I’d lost one of them, much less both, I don’t know how I would’ve managed. Who I would be today. How I would’ve recovered. Cyrus suffered the hell of losing his father and mother and still stands here today. The strength of that ... the pain of that ...
“At least I have this part of her.” He tapped the edge of his dish with his fork.More than that. She lives on inside you.But I lock those words down. That’s not us. “I’m glad you like it. Gives me brownie points toward making up for interrupting your family dinner. Speaking of family, your sister texted Jordan. He’s utterly fascinated with her, by the way. Especially since she refuses to have anything to do with his community peen. Her words, not mine.”
I snort, slapping a hand over my mouth to trap my loud bark of laughter.
Cyrus waves a hand. “No, go ahead and laugh. I did. Hard. Your sister is hilarious. Is it just you and her?”
“No, I have an older brother by two minutes.”
“Two minutes? Twins?”
I nod. “Yes. His name is Levi.”
“Levi.” He frowns. “I assumed you were named after Zora Neale Hurston. Was he named after Primo Levi?”
I shake my head. “You’re right about Zora Neale Hurston, but no. Since we were twins, my mother named me, and my father chose Levi’s. It’s short for Leviticus, the third book in the Bible.”
“Got you.” He forks up another piece of pie. “That explains Miriam, then.”
I laugh, and it abrades my throat. Hearing it, Cyrus lowers his fork, his gaze watchful, careful. And I want to duck it, avoid it. But it’s as if a switch flipped on my mouth, and it won’t stop running.
“You’d think, but no. When my sister came along, my parents couldn’t agree on who would name her. It was easy with me and my brother; they had a kid apiece. But this time they only had one, and they fought over who had the right to choose the entire pregnancy. I was only three or four, but I remember the loud arguments, the yelling. From what I understand, after my mom had my sister, she waited until Dad left the hospital room and filled out the birth certificate without his knowledge. She named my sister after Miriam Makeba, the South African singer and activist. My father has never forgiven her for that.” That and a long list of other things. “When asked, he tells people my sister’s named after Miriam, Moses’s sister. But that’s just to save face.”
