Chapter 14
tovek
Three days later, I watch from the bedroom doorway as Mei attacks my sock drawer with the kind of righteous fury usually reserved for war crimes and people who don’t return their shopping carts.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that somehow makes her look both adorable and vaguely threatening, a few strands falling loose to curl against her neck as she bends over the open drawer.
She’s muttering to herself about “systems” and “basic organization” and “how does anyone live like this?” in a tone that suggests she’s genuinely questioning my fitness as a human being.
Fair, honestly.
My chest does that stupid tightening thing.
It’s been happening for seven months. The one that makes me feel like a romance novel hero having a feelings moment.
Which is ridiculous because I’m standing in my own bedroom, watching my girlfriend move in, and panicking about where to hide an engagement ring.
Well. Not just the ring.
The golden whisk is in the box she’s currently unpacking. The trophy from the cook-off. Solid gold, engraved with our names, and surprisingly heavy. She wants to put it somewhere visible. Somewhere that says this is ours. That we built this together.
The ring is currently in my nightstand drawer, wrapped in a handkerchief and shoved under a stack of takeout menus I haven’t looked at in months.
I’m so fucked.
“This is a disaster,” she announces, holding up the whisk and looking around the bedroom like she’s trying to solve a spatial puzzle. “We need a proper display. Something that doesn’t look like we just shoved it on a shelf. This is a first-place trophy. It deserves respect.”
“Could put it on the mantel,” I offer helpfully.
She whips around to glare at me, and I’m struck by how unfairly attractive she is when she’s judging my interior design choices. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you question my entire decorating philosophy.”
“You don’t have a decorating philosophy,” she corrects, turning back to the box with renewed determination. “You have a ‘put things wherever they fit’ approach. This is about intention. This is about creating a space that reflects who we are. Together.”
“Can’t I just be a guy with stuff?”
“Tovek.” She doesn’t even look at me, just pulls out a framed photo of us at the cook-off. “I’ve seen your spreadsheets. I know you can organize things. Which means this,” she gestures at the bedroom like it personally offended her, “is a choice. A bad choice.”
I should be annoyed. Should point out that I’ve been living here for years without her particular brand of micromanagement. Should maybe mention that my bedroom is my business and if I want to live in minimalist chaos, that’s my right.
But there’s something about the way she gets completely absorbed in even the most mundane task. Like creating a home together is a personal mission from God. It makes my chest tight.
Also, she’s wearing those shorts. The ones that should be illegal.
I move into the room, coming up behind her to wrap my arms around her waist. “The mantel works,” I say against her ear, my mouth finding that spot just below her jaw that I know makes her brain short-circuit. “Right next to the dragon figurine. So everyone can see it when they walk in.”
She leans back into me despite herself, her hands stilling on the trophy. “That’s what I said three days ago. You’re just agreeing with me now to distract me.”
Shit. She’s right. Because three days ago I was too busy panicking about where to hide the ring to actually listen to her very reasonable suggestion about trophy placement.
“I’m a slow learner,” I say, which is both true and complete bullshit.
“You’re a disaster.” She turns in my arms, one eyebrow raised in that way that means she knows I’m full of it but hasn’t figured out the specifics yet. “But you’re my disaster now. Officially. My stuff is in your closet. Our closet.”
“Our closet,” I repeat, and the word does something complicated to my chest.
“You like that,” she observes, watching my face.
“I love it,” I correct. “You. Here. Your things mixed with mine. Building something permanent.”
“Permanent,” she echoes, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression. “You mean that?”
“Every word.” I kiss her neck, my hands sliding up from her waist to just below her ribs. “This is ours now. The bedroom. The closet. The space we’re making together.”
“Good,” she says, but her voice has gone slightly breathless. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even when you’re being weird about furniture placement.”
“I’m not being weird about furniture placement.”
“You’ve been staring at the nightstand for five minutes,” she points out. “Like it personally offended you. What’s in there that’s got you so jumpy?”
Heat floods my face. “Nothing. Just. Takeout menus. Old receipts. The usual junk.”
She studies me for a long moment, then apparently decides to let it go. “Okay,” she says. “But eventually you’re going to have to clean it out. Make room for my stuff. That’s how cohabitation works.”
“I know how cohabitation works.”
“Do you?” She’s smiling now, that particular smile that means she’s about to say something that will either make me laugh or make me want to kiss her. Possibly both. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re panicking about sharing drawer space.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re definitely panicking.” She reaches up to cup my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone. “It’s okay. This is new. For both of us. We’ll figure it out.”
The trust in her expression makes my throat tight. She thinks I’m nervous about her moving in. About sharing space. About the vulnerability of letting someone into every corner of my life.
She’s not wrong. But she’s also not entirely right.
“Come here,” I say, and kiss her before she can ask more questions.
She melts into me immediately, her hands sliding up to tangle in my hair. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. My hands find the hem of her shirt and she makes that sound. The one that’s half-surprise, half-desire, and fully my favorite thing in the world.
“Tovek,” she says against my mouth. “I’m trying to unpack. This is important work. Making this space ours is a legitimate project.”
“The unpacking has been a project for three days,” I point out, my teeth finding her earlobe. “Another hour won’t make a difference.”
“An hour?” She pulls back slightly, her expression doing that complicated thing where she’s both amused and genuinely interested and maybe a little competitive. “That’s ambitious.”
“I’m feeling motivated.” I walk her backward until her knees hit the bed, and the cardboard box tips over, spilling packing paper everywhere. “All this talk about permanence and building a life together. It’s very inspiring.”
She laughs. That bright, unexpected sound that makes my stomach do acrobatics. “You’re ridiculous. I’m trying to find a place for our trophy, and you’re—”
The words cut off as I drop to my knees in front of her, my hands already reaching for the button of her jeans.
“Oh.”
“I’m what?” I ask, looking up at her as I slide the denim down her legs. “Being ridiculous? Not appreciating your organizational skills? Not properly grateful for your unpacking intervention?”
“Being distracting,” she manages, lifting her hips so I can pull her jeans free completely. “Very, very distracting.”
“Good.” I kiss the inside of her knee, then higher, my mouth tracing a path up her thigh. “Because you’ve been distracting me all morning. Walking around in those shorts, bending over boxes, talking about ‘our space’ in that voice.”
“What voice?” she protests, but her legs are already spreading to make room for my shoulders.
“The one that makes me want to prove we belong together,” I say, my breath hot against her inner thigh. “The one that makes me want to mark every inch of this room as ours.”
“That’s not—” The words dissolve into a gasp as my mouth finds her through the thin cotton of her underwear, my tongue flat against her center. “Tovek.”
I don’t answer. Just hook my fingers in the waistband and pull the fabric down and away, leaving her completely exposed. She’s already wet, already responsive, and the sight of her makes my cock throb painfully against my jeans.
“I’m going to take my time,” I say, my mouth hovering just above where she needs me most. “Make you forget about unpacking. Make you forget about everything except this.”
“That’s not—oh god—”
The protest cuts off as my tongue makes first contact, flat and broad against her center, then pointed as I slide lower. She tastes like salt and heat and something uniquely her, and I groan against her skin.
“Fuck,” she gasps, her hand finding my hair and holding on. “Your mouth. God, your mouth.”
I work her slowly, methodically, learning what makes her breath catch and her hips move. Circle her clit with my tongue, then lower to push inside her. Back up to suck gently, then harder when she moans. Her thighs tremble against my shoulders.
“Tovek,” she says, my name breaking on the syllable. “I need. Please.”
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that makes her back arch. My tongue stays focused on her clit, steady pressure and rhythm. She’s close. I can feel it in the way she tightens around my fingers, the way her breathing goes ragged.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her. “Let me feel it. Let me taste it.”
She comes with a cry, her body clenching around my fingers, her hand tight in my hair. I work her through it, gentling my movements as the aftershocks fade, until she’s pushing at my shoulders with a breathless laugh.
“Enough. God, Tovek, enough. I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” I ask, kissing my way up her body. My knees protest when I stand, but I ignore them. “Can’t handle more? Can’t take what I want to give you?”