Page 117 of Cakes for the Grump
“Youare? I am. And the blame is on you.” With jerky annoyance, I part my legs to let him step in between.
He yanks my underwear down. “How can I want you? I’ve already had you so many times already.”
There’s a clawing desperation angrily telling me the same. That now he’s too far away when he’s not inside me. “Once you find out why—let me know. I’m suffering as well.”
He undoes the button of his pants, not bothering to do more than pull them down a little before plunging into me. My head drops back and I go limp from sheer pleasure.
“Hold on to me,” Luke demands, his voice guttural. “Don’t let go.”
I don’t and we lose our minds fucking on the table.
“I can’t think around you,” he accuses afterward.
“I can’t think around you, either,” I accuse right back. “We’re cursed. Or it’s mutual Stockholm syndrome from living together this long. I should move out?—”
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Just—don’t.”
My hands grip his shirt and I jut out my chin. He might be able to order around half the world, but not me.
At the sight of my defiance, his expression softens. He carefully traces the lines of my body, shutting his eyes for a long moment before opening them again.
“Are you okay…? I should have asked,” he said. “Before assuming again. If I was too rough?—”
I silence him with a kiss. It’s supposed to be quick, but it’s not, and that triggers a second round. Me holding onto the chair, and him entering me from behind.
Eventually, we use the table for what it’s meant for. Drinking tea, clutching to our past morning routine as if it will save us. Luke is browsing data reports, but more often, I feel his eyes on me.
I’m reading the same few pages of a molecular gastronomy textbook I bought yesterday. My foot taps a rushed beat on the floor. He’s looking at me again.
Between us, possible words swell up, bloating in importance on tongues, but it’s as if any syllable is dangerous with the power to launch an avalanche if we’re not careful.
What has changed between us? That we keep losing ourselves to the most drowning of sensations. That I wish to reach over and hold his hand just to stay connected.
“I’m late, meeting with the lawyer,” Luke says, putting his tablet down.
“You should go.”
He stares.
“The lawyer—” I remind him.
He reaches over for me but is stopped by the sound of my phone. It beeps more than a few times. Someone needs my attention.
I read the messages. My chair clatters behind me as I stand up.
Luke gets up too. “What is it?”
“It’s Ms. Baghdadi,” I say. “She said Mr. Albo has fallen off a ladder. Janice must have asked him to clean the gutters. Fuck. I have to go.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“Your meeting?—”
“It’ll hold. Let’s go.”
We end up in the hospital in a crowded emergency stall, joining Mrs. Milla and Ms. Baghdadi. Mr. Albo’s arm is in a sling, though he insists he’s not in any pain.
“When did the chores start? You said you were going to tell me.” I’m pacing back and forth, wringing my hands together. Apart. Together. Apart.
