7. Delia
CHAPTER 7
delia
W hatthefuck, whatthefuck, whatthefuck.
Why did I just do that?
What is wrong with me?
I collapsed against the wall of the shower, letting the scorching hot water batter my spine and shoulders. My thoughts whirled, my feelings coruscated, and my desires crashed up against logic and reason.
The man had every intention of giving me another orgasm.
Six of them…without asking me for a damn thing.
All I had to do was go along with it. Let the man have his way.
Did I do that?
No, I did not.
I turned the whole thing into a damned game. One I most certainly will not win. Because there won't be a winner. It's not a game anyone wins. It's playing chicken. It's stupid and immature.
But fuck, is it fun.
For a guest bathroom, this one sure is well stocked—quality shampoo and conditioner, good soap, clean washcloths and towels in a warmer. Even a spa-quality bathrobe. The shower itself is fucking magical. Acres of marble and glass, a rainfall showerhead with absolutely incredible pressure, and sprayers on the walls shooting hot water from a dozen different directions.
For a few minutes, I set aside everything that had just gone down and focused on getting clean. Shampoo twice, condition once. Scrub. Rinse. There was even a razor and moisturizing shaving cream—I would bet heavily on the fact that whoever stocked this guest bathroom was a woman. This raised questions, but that’s for later. I shaved my legs, pits, and lady bits, a job that was long overdue.
Thusly clean, smooth, and smelling good, I reluctantly got out of the shower and dried off with the delightfully warmed towels. A drawer beside the sink held new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste as well as a package of flossers, which meant I even got to brush my teeth.
Even after my teeth were clean, though, I still tasted hints of Hawk's cum. Which shouldn't make me horny, but did. Because I'm weird like that, apparently. It's not normal, by the way. I mean, under most circumstances, yes, I do enjoy giving head. A lot. I like giving pleasure. Since I have trouble reaching orgasm myself, I get enjoyment out of providing the most pleasure for my partner as I possibly can. And I'm good at it.
But with Hawk? Things are very, very different. The norm for me is out the window.
I wrap myself in the bathrobe and hunt through the drawers and cabinets; I owe whoever stocked this bathroom a hug and a glass of wine because she thought of everything. There's a very expensive hair dryer, a brush, and a new package of hair ties. Magical!
I brush and blow dry my hair and try to figure out the best approach moving forward.
What's done is done—he gave me the best orgasm of my entire life. He was willing to keep giving them to me without expecting anything in return. Why? Out of the goodness of his heart? An ulterior motive? I'm not sure it matters. I circumvented his intentions and blew the whole situation up.
And I enjoyed the fuck out of it.
My pussy tingled just thinking about Hawk's cock. It was…in a word, perfect. Huge, but not so much that I was worried about it fitting. Or, well, I knew it wouldn’t, but in all the right ways. I’ve been with well-endowed men and those not so blessed. And truly, it’s really all about the individual, the motion of the ocean, and all those other stupid, trite sayings that are nonetheless true. I’ve enjoyed both ends of the spectrum. But speaking for myself, there is a just right, and Hawk is that. I desperately want to feel him inside me. If he can make me come that hard with just his mouth and fingers, what can the man do with that giant magical dong of his?
A lot of very high-quality fucking, that's what.
But he scares me.
I have a sneaking suspicion as to the reason for his presence here in Ketchikan, and I don't like it. Other investors and buyers have, over the years, come sniffing around, hoping to get a piece of the Badd’s Bar action. Dad has always sent them packing without so much as a how-do-you-do. We’re not for sale. We don’t want or need investors. We’re happy. We're content. We're growing.
But Hawk…he's different. I get the sense that he's the boss…and someone very important. I don't know how I know that, but I do. I’d wager my Ranger on it, and that truck is my baby. Who he is, I don't know. What precisely he's after, I also don't know.
But the fact that he's flat-out admitted that he's keeping something from me, but won't say what? It's weird. What do I do with that? I can't get pissed at him later, if and when he tells me the truth because he's been up front about his dishonesty, or at least his lack of transparency.
He's exciting. That’s the problem. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He’s arrogant, but so far, he’s backed it up, which makes it just well-deserved confidence instead of hubris.
He’s fine as fuck, also.
I’d put him at about thirty, which is eight years older than me—about my cutoff for dating older guys.
Not that I'm dating him. Which is the conundrum.
What are we doing? What does he want? Is he using me somehow? Or am I just a target of opportunity?
Have I mentioned that he scares me? Or rather, my fascination with him worries me. The depths of my attraction to him. I mean, shit, our sexual compatibility alone is a worry, because he's not from here. He's not staying. There can’t be anything between us. I have no intention of leaving Ketchikan, ever. I love this place. It’s my home. My past, present, and future. Sure, I’d love to go on vacation to cool places, but I’ll never live anywhere else. And Hawk? He’s a New Yorker through and through. I hear it in his voice, see it in his mannerisms. He’s a captain of industry, a hard-charging, take-no-prisoners, win-at-all-costs type. He’s probably worth more than Badd's Bar has ever and will ever earn combined.
The idea that this undeniably combustible sexual chemistry between us could ever result in something real is straight-up laughable.
I don't want to be in love.
The Badd Family Love Charm can go fuck itself.
It's not real, and if it is, it's not gonna work on me. And certainly not with Hawk.
But good lord, the man can eat pussy.
And his cock is…well, let's just say that now that I've had a taste, he's gonna be a happy man for as long as he's in town, because I'm already jonesing for more.
I don't think I'll fuck him, though. As much as I want to, it wouldn’t be smart. I’d probably get attached. I’m starting to feel silly woman things. I’ve started to think he’d never feel the same way when it's just good sex.
So no. We'll play our little game, and we'll give each other some killer orgasms via oral and manual sex, and my heart will stay firmly out of the whole stupid situation.
I nod at my reflection, content with my decision.
"We aren't fucking Hawk," I tell the sex-crazed woman in the mirror. "You can suck him off till he doesn’t know his own name, but you're not riding that big, thick, tasty dick of his. No matter how good it would feel."
My reflection didn't look convinced.
I had to talk to Emerson. She was the only one who could talk sense into me. I didn't tend to listen to anyone, myself least of all.
Hair done, clad in the thickest, softest robe I'd ever put on, I went in search of my clothing. The guest bedroom held nothing.
Sigh.
I had to find Hawk.
I left the bedroom and went back out into the kitchen, hoping like hell that Hawk had sufficiently recovered from my…erm…ministrations and had at least put on pants.
Because that cock, if it was out, was gonna eradicate what little self-control I had.
I found him at the stove, wearing nothing but those stupid little shorts again, scrambling eggs. His back was a rippling field of muscle, each movement of his arm doing delicious things to the defined musculature. His hips were narrow and hard, his ass a firm bubble straining against the fabric. Thick, powerful, hairy thighs. Big, firm, toned arms—not bodybuilder huge, but big enough that my mouth watered. He even had that little vein running along the center of his bicep—I saw it as he turned to greet me, spatula in hand.
His abs.
Jesus.
Good arms and sexy abs are my kryptonite, and the man had both. A smattering of hair dusted his chest, thickening into a line down his center and disappearing under his shorts, which hung just low enough to reveal an absolutely absurd V-cut.
Every other time I'd seen him, he was wearing that ratty-ass ballcap. Now, though, the hat was absent, showing me his hair. And my god, even his hair was fucking fabulous. He'd had a very expensive haircut at some point in the recent past, but he’d neglected it since, allowing it to grow a little shaggy around he ears and neck. Thick and dark blonde, it trailed across his forehead in sweat-damp curls and teased the shell of his ears and the back of his neck, begging my hands to bury in it and hold on as he dove between my thighs and…
"Ahem." Hawk's eyes told me he'd read my thoughts, something the obnoxious man seemed to have a freakish affinity for. "You good? Want to take a picture for later?"
"I'm looking for my clothes." I ignored his dig, ripping my eyes away from his stupid, glorious body.
"In the dryer. I ran them through a quick wash. Should be dry in about half an hour." He gestured at the stove. "Made a lot. You want some? You never got your bagel."
The gleam in his eyes told me he was thinking, as was I, about the distraction that had led to me not getting my bagel.
"Uh, sure. You ever find the toaster?"
He laughed. "Yeah, I just had to call my assistant, who had to call the realtor." He pointed the spatula at an appliance built into the wall near the double ovens. "Apparently, that's a toaster oven. Your bagel and mine are in there toasting right now."
The appliance dinged right then, and I slid the four bagel halves onto the nearby plate. He already had butter and a knife out, so I buttered them while he finished the eggs. A coffeemaker burbled and hissed as it finished brewing a pot.
"Sit." He gestured at the island.
I thought about arguing just for the sake of it, but my stomach rumbled, so I decided discretion was the better part of valor and sat my ass down. Hawk divvied up the eggs sixty-forty, which was fine with me. He was a big dude and needed more calories than I did. Bagels, forks, and fresh cups of coffee arrived next.
"Need anything for the coffee?" he asked.
"I wouldn't hate it if you had Splenda."
He rolled his eyes. "That shit isn't good for you. I have something better." he rummaged in a cabinet near the coffeemaker and brought me packets of something else—an alternative natural sweetener.
I added it, stirred, and sipped. Tasted sweet and black, just how I like it.
We ate in silence for a while.
"So, Hawk."
He arched an eyebrow at me. “So, Delia.”
"I have to admit, I'm a bit shocked at your domestic skills. Laundry, cooking. You just don't seem the type." I expected an annoyed comeback or something snarky.
Instead, he just laughed. "Understandable. And generally, I'm not. I have people to do just about everything." He took a bite of bagel, washed it down with coffee, and then rolled a shoulder. “I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth. Beyond privileged. Butlers, house staff, cooks, drivers, maids, groundskeepers, the whole nine yards. But my dad was insistent that I not be a spoiled little shit, so once I was thirteen, I was expected to learn how to care for myself. I was taught how to do laundry and was expected to do it myself until I could prove that I was capable of it. It’s the same with cooking. I spent two hours every Saturday morning with Ramona, our chef, learning how to make the basics. How to scramble eggs, make an omelet, fry them, boil them. How to make some basic pasta dishes. Steak, chicken, fish, and pork. I had to make my own breakfast and lunches, and had to prep, make, and serve three meals for myself, Mom, and Dad."
I blinked at him. "Wow."
He shrugged. “Yeah. I hated it at the time. I thought it was so fucking stupid. Like, we have all this staff, so what's the point in doing it myself? I knew I'd always have money, so why would I ever need to know how to cook for myself or do my own laundry?"
I laughed. "I have teenage brothers. We don't have a staff, but they still bitched when Mom cut them off from laundry services and expected them to start fending for themselves instead of having Mommy make their breakfast and pack their lunches."
He laughed with me, nodding. "Now, I'm glad. And honestly, I enjoy fending for myself. In my daily life, I have a herd of people who want to follow me around and do my every bidding. Which has its perks, I admit. But at home? I just want to be a normal person. To a degree, at least. So I have someone who comes and cleans the house for me every day because I don't want to be that normal. But I cook for myself, and I do my own laundry. Sometimes it piles up when shit gets busy and I'm traveling or whatever, and I'll have Marta help me get caught up, but I do most of it myself."
"Surprisingly plebian," I said. "How noble of you."
"Oh, fuck off," he said, laughing.
"I do have one question, though."
He nodded. "Okay?"
"Was it your girlfriend who stocked the guest bathroom or what?"
He arched an eyebrow at me. "I don't have a girlfriend." He spoke over me when I started to speak. "Or a fiancé, or a wife, or a mistress, or friends with benefits, or a Rolodex of booty calls, or an escort service on speed dial. I am not currently seeing, dating, talking to, or sleeping with anyone."
"So then, who was it?" I asked.
"My assistant."
I rolled my eyes. "I see."
He set his fork down rather noisily. “Look, yes, it has been that way in the past. I will be the first to admit that I used to fuck every assistant I had. I hired them, fucked them until things got messy when they inevitably began to think things were something they weren't, and then I fired them. Rinse and repeat ad nauseam."
"But things are definitely different now, right?" I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I understand your skepticism, Delia. Truly. But yes, they are."
"What changed?" I asked. "What made you stop dipping your willy in the PA pool?"
He picked up his fork and spent a few moments eating while he considered his response. "My secretary, Harriet."
I snickered. "Your secretary? Surely you see how this is not an auspicious beginning to your defense.”
He rolled his eyes at me. "Harriet is in her sixties, spent almost forty years in the Marines, half of which was as the personal attaché to a three-star general in the fucking Pentagon. She's a grandmother. Most of my staff calls her Harriet the Hatchet. I have had a wandering dick, I will not and do not contest that. But even if I was inclined to do so, which I assure you I am not, were I to make a move on Harriet, I'm quite certain she would castrate me with a stapler.”
I spluttered a laugh. "I see." I gave an imperious hand wave. "Continue with your defense, counselor."
"Not a lawyer," he said.
"You talk like one, sometimes."
"Because, unfortunately, I have to deal with them on a daily, if not hourly, basis." He sighed, pushed his now empty plate away, and leaned back in the chair, coffee mug clutched in both hands. "Now. Where was I?"
"How your secretary, Harriet the Hatchet, convinced you to stop fucking your assistants."
“Right, right." He sipped and frowned into his mug. “Fucking cold.” He tossed it out into the sink and poured fresh. “If it’s not burning my mouth, it’s cold. There is no in-between."
I laughed. "I've been known to forget my coffee for an hour, find it, and keep drinking it. My best friend and adopted sister, Emerson, says I'm a freak like that. I hate iced coffee, but I’ll drink room-temperature coffee."
Hawk looked at me with outright disgust. "That's a mortal sin against all coffee-kind, if you ask me."
"I didn't."
A sigh and a roll of his hand. "Anyway. After a particularly dismal quarter, Harriet told me she needed to have a serious talk with me. This was…oh, five years ago. Thereabouts, at least."
"When someone with the nickname 'The Hatchet' needs to have a serious talk, I'd be afraid," I said.
He laughed. "Fuck yes, I was scared. Harriet, you see, was hired by my father, who plays golf with the general she worked for. When she decided to retire from the Corps, Dad poached her and sicced her on me. I guess he figured I needed a firm hand to keep me in line."
"I'm thinking he wasn't wrong." I couldn't finish the last few bites of egg, so I nudged the plate toward him. "I can never finish eggs, no matter who made them. The last bite or two just…turns, every single time. I don't know why. It's not you—they were delicious. Thank you, by the way."
Hawk chuckled, taking the plate and finishing them off. "No, he wasn't wrong. A firm hand was absolutely a good thing. And I've come to rely on Harriet in just about every way. So, when she said she needed to talk, I reserved us a table at my favorite place in Little Italy, got a bottle of wine and some good pasta, and told her to make her case."
"Which consisted of 'maybe stop banging your PAs?'"
“More or less, yes." He took the plates to the sink and hand-washed them while speaking, and my lord, a man who does the dishes? Girl, I'm D-O-N-E, done. "She came with fucking charts and graphs, Delia. See, apparently, there was a pattern. I’d hire a new PA, I'd spend her first week seducing her while Harriet tried to train her, and then we'd start fucking, and it would be all—what did you call it earlier? Hot monkey sex?—for a few weeks, maybe two months. They rarely made it past eight weeks. Usually, according to Harriet's fucking PowerPoint presentation, around the six-week mark is when things started to go sideways. I'd get bored of whoever the latest flavor was, and she'd get annoyed that my attention was slipping away from her and back to, you know, work, and she'd start bitching and whining and acting like a jealous, clingy girlfriend." He put the plates and forks in the drying rack and put his butt to the counter to look at me. "And look, I set things out very fucking clearly. I had a whole spiel."
I rolled my hands toward myself. "Hit me with it."
"The spiel?" he said.
"Yes, the spiel. Pretend I’m your latest PA. Hit me with it."
He sighed. "Hmmm, let's see if I can remember it. I haven't given it in a few years." He shrugged. "I still give a version of it to whoever I’m seeing, I suppose. Um. Okay, here. It went something like this.” He cleared his throat, smoothing his face into a blank, expressionless mask, and then adopted a very convincing smile that communicated decency and honesty. “I really enjoy spending time with you, Delia. You’re a very lovely girl, and I like you a lot. I’d like to keep spending time with you the way we have been, but I probably need to make sure we’re both on the same page. I’m just not at a place in my life where I’m looking for a serious, committed relationship. What we have, it’s fun. It means something to me; truly, it does. But I can’t commit to you. I can promise you that while we’re spending time together, there won’t be anyone else, and I hope you’ll promise the same thing. While we’re spending time together, the only thing I’ll ever ask of you is that you don’t speak to the press, do not distribute, sell, or share photographs or videos of us together, and that you do not treat me like a sugar daddy. This is a relationship, albeit a temporary one. I will spend money on you, gladly, and a lot of it. But it is not transactional. As long as we can agree to those terms, we can have all the fun in the world together."
I stared at him, absorbing what he'd just said. "Wow. I…um. Wow."
He sighed heavily. "I hope you understand that I wasn't, you know, saying that to you. You asked for the spiel, so I delivered it as if I were giving it to you. But I wasn't."
I laughed. "Yes, I got that."
"I thought I was being fair. Magnanimous, even. I never had anyone sign NDAs, despite my lawyer's advice that I should. And honestly, it worked. Until it didn't. The second the girl started to act like she had some sort of…I dunno…input in or claim to my life, my business, or my time, it was over. If she got too clingy, it was over. If she started thinking she was more than the PA I was having sex with, it was over. And it always, always , ended up being one of those things."
I blew a sarcastic raspberry. "Gee, Hawk, I wonder why? Hmmmmm." I couldn't have been any more sarcastic if I tried.
“Yeah, yeah." He waved a hand. "What Harriet pointed out with her graphs is that in the two, three weeks I always had between PAs, revenue and efficiency increased. When I was dallying, as Harriet put it, everything dropped off a cliff."
"She appealed to your pocketbook," I said. "Smart lady."
"To my pride, really. I had lofty ambitions, especially back then. I was still making my mark on the business world, and I had a chip on my shoulder about it. I was determined to prove that despite my privileged upbringing and the rank nepotism that got me my start, I was going places. I was young and ambitious. Stupid. Thinking with my dick. And my work was suffering for it. So, Harriet told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to succeed, if I wanted to make my ambitions a reality, I’d have to separate work and personal life. Personal assistants were there to work, not play to my ego and pander to my out-of-control sex drive. As long as I dallied in the workplace, I was hamstringing myself and everyone who worked for me. She would be glad to arrange things for me outside of work if I wanted, but she wasn't going to continue working for someone who wasn't serious."
I made an impressed face. "It took ovaries of steel to confront your rich and important boss with something like that."
"Absolutely. Meet Harriet and you'll understand—that's what she did. She did that for men who saw combat, men who led thousands of soldiers, men who were in charge of the safety of the entire country. Confronting a selfish, self-important, horndog boy with more dick than sense? I doubt she lost even a second of sleep over it."
“And that was that, was it? No more workplace dalliances?" I asked.
"Correct. I put her in charge of hiring my PAs from then on and resolved that when I was at work, it was work only. I have not had a personal or sexual relationship with anyone connected to my business in five years."
"So this assistant…"
"Elara."
"Elara. Right. She, what? Came here and personally stocked your fancy new Alaska home?"
“More or less. She didn't come here, but she was in charge of the whole process. The fridge, the pantry, my wardrobe, everything. I just showed up here." He shrugged. "Why? Did she miss something?"
I laughed. "God, no. The opposite. I was convinced it had to be your wife or girlfriend because the attention to detail is impressive. There was everything a girl would need." I arched a wry eyebrow. "I suppose she was foreseeing exactly the situation that occurred, however."
"Meaning?" he said, a leading statement.
"Meaning, a dalliance. She was making sure your guest room was stocked with whatever your flavor of the week might need while you're here."
Hawk pushed off the counter and stalked toward me. Braced his hands on the counter opposite me and gave me a hard, steely glare. “Let’s get one thing straight, Delia. Whatever this thing between us is, it’s not a flavor-of-the-week situation. If it was, I’d say so. The fact is, I don’t know what the fuck it is. I’ve never met anyone like you, and I honestly don’t know what to do with you or how to feel. When I decided I was coming here, I told Elara to pick a house for me to stay in and see that it had everything I’d need. I left it at that and never bothered to check her work. If there was something missing, I’d get it myself or call her. I had no idea she’d stock a guest bathroom I’ve never even set foot in with everything a girl might need. I’m glad she did because you were able to take a shower and have what you needed. But it was not a premeditated act.” He leaned close. “We clear on that?” His voice dropped to a growl.
"Clear," I whispered.
Why did I whisper? I'm not easily intimidated—see also my father, my seven giant, scary, successful uncles, and my three whatever-an-uncle-cousin is called, and the five uncle-cousins-in-law. No one scares me. No one intimidates me. No one. Ever.
But something in Hawk's eyes, something in his voice…he wasn't fucking around.
Also, why did that growl make me all squishy and hot in my nether bits? Why did I answer so meekly?
Sorcery.
It's the only possible explanation.
Somewhere in the distance of this magnificently oversized house, the dryer sang a cute little digital song, announcing the completion of the drying cycle.
"That's your clothes," Hawk said. "Be right back."
He swaggered out of the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with my clothing in a neat, folded stack—jeans, shirt, socks, underwear, and bra. "I didn't wash the bra because I wasn't sure what the deal was there. I just know the few times I’ve had anyone stay over at my place for more than a day or two and she did laundry, she didn't wash her bra."
I can't help a grin. "That's fine and very thoughtful, Hawk. Thank you.” I took the stack of clean, warm clothing from him as I stood up from the counter. "Well, as lovely and domestic as this has been, I probably should go home so my parents don't think I was kidnapped."
Hawk frowned at me. "You live with your parents?"
I sighed. “Yes, Hawk, I still live with Mommy and Daddy. Because why not? I could get my own place, but I'd rarely be there. I'm only ever home to sleep. I'll have a meal with the family now and then, but I live my own life. I'm a fucking adult, okay? It's just easier, cheaper, and more convenient to stay there. I've got no one I'm trying to impress, especially not with something as trite as 'Look, I’ve got my own place like a big girl.'" The last part I said in an obnoxious, breathy, high-pitched voice, the one I thought of as my influencer impression.
Hawk held up his hands, palms out. "I wasn't judging."
I snorted. "Okay, buddy. Yes, you were."
"Okay, fine, I was a little." He ran his hands through his hair. "I know you're not supposed to ask this, but…how old are you, anyway?"
I had to, okay? It was too good an opportunity to pass up. And he was setting himself up for it. "Seventeen. Almost eighteen."
He stared at me. Hard. "Bull-fucking-shit."
I blinked at him, wide-eyed, doe-eyed. My eyelashes all but went "tink...tink…tink."
"I am! I'm not supposed to be behind the bar, legally, but as long as no one reports me, it's fine. Right?"
Hawk's jaw clenched. "Delia, do not fuck with me on this. Please. I could call Harriet right now, and in fifteen minutes, I'd know more about you than you do. I asked an honest question. Please do me the most basic favor of answering honestly."
I shook my head, snorting. "Jesus, so serious. I'm twenty-two." I couldn't help a laugh. "Worried you were gonna catch a case?"
"I knew there was no way in hell you were a fucking minor. But yes, that is a concern." He still wasn't laughing.
I sighed, rounding the island to pat his beefy bicep. "You're okay, Hawk. I'm legal and then some. And if you knew anything about me or my family, if I was underage and we'd been dallying , if I was you I'd be more worried about my dad and my very many, very big, very scary uncles."
"You have many big scary uncles?"
"No. I have very many, very big, very scary uncles. And they're very protective."
"I see. And I should be more scared of them than the law?"
"Well, yeah. Because in order for the law to handle the case, there'd have to be enough of you left to prosecute. You may be rich and important, Hawk, but around here, we do things a little differently. If you fuck me over, it's them you'll answer to. And trust me, buddy boy, you do not want that." I grinned up at him, lifting on my toes to kiss his cheek. “That's not a threat, by the way. Just letting you know how things stand."
And with that, I went back to the guest room to get dressed. Hawk drove me back to the bar—a short, quiet drive.
Before I got out, I took Hawk's hand and looked at him. "Truly, Hawk, thank you for taking care of me last night. And this morning."
"You're welcome." He frowned thoughtfully. "About last night and this morning—"
"Nope," I interrupted. "We can talk about that another time. That's a whole conversation by itself, and I very honestly do not have the time right now."
He sighed, nodding. "Got it."
"You know where to find me, though." I winked at him. "Let's just say that a good time was had by all, on my end at least, and I'm definitely not ruling out some additional…dallying."
A grin spread across his face. "Delia, you're something else, you know that?"
I got out of his truck, paused in the doorway, kissed my fingertips, and blew it at him. "I know."