Page 11 of Taste Of You

“...I’m running late as is. It’s all I have time for, Jet.”

At my name, I look up and away from her tits. “Not anymore.” She looks confused by my wording, but there’s no time to explain. At least, not now. “Grab your stuff, Millie. You can eat on the way.”

If left to her own devices, she will run around on an empty stomach for the second day in a row. Yesterday she ate like shit. Was so tired.

This isn’t okay in my book. Not one bit.

It’s another reason that cements my need to be here—to take care of her. She needs me, and I like being needed by her.

Knowing she’ll never go without again makes me feel like a God. Her protector.

“On the way where? I have to be—”

“I’m taking you to school.”

“But, sir, that’s unnecessary and out of your way. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Not up for negotiations, Camille. Grab your bag, or I’ll do it myself.”

“But—”

“You have three minutes, or I’m coming in.” This time, her nervousness is more pronounced in her expression. There is worry, with just a hint of panic that makes me shake my head and chuckle. “Are you a slob, babe? Did you leave your bra on the coffee table or something?”

Thank God she doesn’t pay attention to the slip. The terms of endearment keep slipping without a conscious thought. This battle is lost.

I’m the one that wants more; I just need to accept it. And God knows I’m close. So close to the edge before free falling into her.

“W-What?” She’s holding the doorknob tight in her hand. “Why would you think that?”

“Why are you panicking?”

“Not panicking, just overwhelmed by what’s happening.” Not buying it one hundred percent, but I can also see how this is all intimidating. I’m coming on strong, but at the same time, she needs this. Someone to help her. Watch out for her.

“Sixty seconds,” I remind, and Millie rushes back in. The door remains ajar, and I can just see into her small living room. Looks cozy, a bit messy, but nice and pink.

Pink blanket.

Pink cushions.

Pink trinkets in different shades.

Nothing for her to worry or be embarrassed about. If she likes soft and girly, I can more than deal with that.

Kind of like it. Suits her with all that shyness and sweetness.

She’s back and closing the door before I can take a single step inside. Backpack and wristlet in hand, Millie looks at me expectantly. “Guess I’m ready.”

It’s then that I notice she’s wearing a pair of denim frayed shorts with her top. They aren’t too short, but enough that I’m considering following her around for the day. Thwart any attempt to get her attention or ask her out.

“Won’t you be cold in those?” I say instead of demanding she change.

“Not at all. These are beyond comfy.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. Why?” Millie looks down at herself. “Do I look bad or something?”

“You look perfect to me. Too perfect,” I admit, and before she can ask another question, I’m gently pushing her toward the elevators. We need to leave before I attack, and I think a small part of her knows this.

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