Chapter 18 Soup for the Soul #2
Brooks takes it from me, our fingers brushing in a way that sends electricity shooting up my arm. “Thank you,” he says, and I know he’s not just talking about the soup. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“I know.” I unwrap my scarf, suddenly too warm. “I wanted to.”
The simplicity of the admission hangs between us, weighted with implications.
Brooks moves to the kitchenette, finding a pot for the soup.
I take off my coat, laying it over the back of a chair, then heading to the refrigerator to put in the cheese sticks I brought.
Since Maisie said there wasn’t food here, I brought my snack specialty: Cheez-Its with melted string cheese, a two-minute makeshift nacho recipe that’s not bad.
Then I drift toward the fireplace. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable—more contemplative, like we’re both trying to find our footing on this new terrain.
“I’m sorry,” Brooks says, his back still to me as he pours the soup. “For what I said at the lake. Bringing up that slumber party... it was a dick move.”
“Why did you do it?” I turn to face him. I know the answer, but I want to hear him say it.
He’s quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then he sighs, setting the pot on the small stove. “Because I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of this.” He gestures between us. “Of whatever’s happening here. It doesn’t feel fake anymore.”
The confession hangs in the air, raw and honest in a way Brooks Kingston rarely is.
“It scares me too.” My voice is just above a whisper. “But pushing me away, hurting me on purpose... that’s not the answer.”
Brooks crosses the room until he’s standing in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. “I know,” he says softly. “I’m not good at this, Syd. At letting people in. At being vulnerable.”
“You think I am?” I smile, but it’s a painful one. “I’ve spent years building walls. Pretending I’m tougher than I am, that nothing gets to me. We’re not so different.”
His expression softens in recognition. Without warning, he steps closer, pulling me into a hug that feels like coming home.
His arms wrap around me, strong and secure, his face buried in my hair.
I freeze, surprised by the sudden vulnerability, then melt into him, my hands sliding up his back to clutch at his shoulders.
We stand like this, just holding each other, for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. His heart beats against my cheek, steady and strong. His good hand traces circles on my back, soothing and igniting me at the same time.
When I pull back to look up at him, the emotion in his eyes takes my breath away. Before I can overthink it, before either of us can retreat behind our walls, I rise on tiptoes and press my lips to his.
For one terrifying second, he doesn’t respond, and I think I’ve miscalculated horribly.
Then something breaks loose in him—a dam bursting, a wall crumbling—and he’s kissing me back with an intensity that makes my knees unsteady.
This is our “practice” kiss on steroids—raw and primal, his hands threading through my hair, tugging gently in a way that sends shivers rocketing down my spine.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy with it. We stumble backward, our bodies pressed together from chest to knee, until my back hits the wall beside the fireplace. The heat from the flames is nothing compared to this.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, skimming my sides, cupping my face with a tenderness that contrasts the roughness of his kiss. I’m not passive, my own hands exploring the solid planes of his chest, the strong muscles of his back, the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.
When we finally break apart, both gasping for air, his eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide. “Sydney,” he breathes, my name a question.
Fuck it.
“I want this,” I tell him in a way that leaves no room for doubt. “I want you.”
That’s all the permission he needs. His mouth claims mine again as his hands find the hem of my sweater, sliding underneath to touch bare skin.
I shiver at the contact, my own fingers fumbling with the buttons of his henley.
There’s desperation in our movements now, a burning need to get closer, to remove the barriers between us.
Clothes fall to the floor in a haphazard trail—my sweater, his shirt, my jeans, his sweatpants—until we’re down to just underwear, skin flushed and glowing in the firelight.
Brooks pauses, his gaze sweeping over me with such heat and appreciation that I feel beautiful, powerful, desired in a way I never have before.
“You’re stunning.” His voice is rough with want. “So fucking beautiful, Sydney.”
No one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m a miracle, a revelation, something precious and rare. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and I pull him back to me, needing his mouth, his hands, his body against mine.
We sink to our knees on the plush rug before the fireplace; the flames casting our shadows against the far wall. Brooks hovers over me, supporting his weight on his good arm, his injured shoulder clearly still a concern even in the haze.
“Sydney.” His voice strains with the effort of restraint. “You have to understand this. I can never give you a real relationship.”
“I know, and I don’t care.” I touch his face, tracing the stubble along his jaw. “I’ll regret it if I don’t get to experience all of you, even if we know this can’t last.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize the taste of me. Then he’s moving away, heading to the bedroom and returning with a condom in his hand.
The interruption allows reality to creep back in—we’re crossing a line here, one we can’t uncross. This isn’t part of our arrangement, our fake relationship. This is real, and terrifying, and disastrous.
But as Brooks returns to me, his eyes locked on mine, those concerns fade like mist in sunlight. This man—this complicated, frustrating, beautiful man—is looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted. And in this moment, he’s everything I want too.
When he slides off his boxers, his hardness springs loose, and I gasp at his size. My god, he is The King.
“We’ll take it slow,” he says as he rolls on the condom. “It’ll fit.”
He slides his hand down my core, his fingers finding my G-spot instantly, adding pressure exactly where I need it most, which annoys me. How is he so skilled at this?
Never mind—I know the answer, and I’m not letting my thoughts go there. A wave of heat rolls through me, and I shudder. He keeps going until he stops and growls, “God, you’re so wet for me.”
Then he settles between my legs, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, careful of his injury. “Let me,” I whisper, gently rolling us so he’s on his back and I’m straddling him. His eyes widen, then darken with approval as I take control, positioning myself above him.