Chapter 15 Keeley #2
That’s a statement. A very intense one that definitely shouldn’t make my stomach flip like that.
I don’t have chance to reply because he skims his lips over mine. This kiss, like the forehead one, starts soft. It only lasts a heartbeat before it deepens into something more certain.
I cover his hands with mine when he cups my face, holding him there, refusing to let him pull back. Suddenly, I don’t care if this isn’t forever. Not right now. Not when he’s claiming my mouth like he’s memorising every part of me.
The toast pops, and I flinch at the sound. It’s louder than a gunshot in the quiet of the room. Nic pulls back slowly, like he has all the time in the world.
The smell of burnt bread fills the air.
“You can add chargrilled toast to your cooking skills now,” I whisper.
His mouth tugs into a lazy smile. “I’ll make more.”
Of course that’s his answer. “You’ll burn that too,” I accuse.
“Don’t care.” His hand drops to my nape and that spot that’s starting to feel like his.
“You ain’t a complication,” he says softly. “Don’t ever think that.”
My breath shudders out as the words sink in. I don’t know if I deserve someone caring this much, but I hold on to it anyway.
The girls said he was obsessed. I didn’t believe them.
But the way he’s looking at me—that’s not a man who is searching for a good time. I feel like he sees all the parts of me I try to hide. It’s almost too much, and yet not enough.
I’ve never had this with any other partner. Not my first love. Not the one I thought would be forever and wasn’t.
No man has ever made me feel lightheaded just by standing in front of me.
He’s holding all my breakable parts in his hands and he hasn’t dropped a single one.
No one has ever been here for me like this. Not my parents or my brother. Not friends or family.
And that scares the shit out of me.
I’m still not sure I’m allowed to want this. I’m not even sure I’m what he needs. I’m a fucking mess. My life is too. But right now, in this small chapter of my story, he’s the entire plot line.
So I let myself have this. I fall into it because I need it.
I want it.
Even if it doesn’t last. Even if it’s not real. Even if he forgets about me the moment this is over.
I force myself not to analyse every look, every touch, every concern.
And I let him look at me like I’m all that matters just for now.
Nic steps back, his eyes locked on me until he sees I’m not going to crumble. He gives me that searching look, the one that asks if I’m good.
“You owe me unburnt toast,” I remind him.
He huffs a laugh and moves back to the toast.
I hop up onto the counter and watch him. Neither of us tries to fill the silence this time and when he finally hands me the plate, his fingers linger over mine. My stomach flips.
“Eat,” he orders.
“Bossy,” I mutter around a smile.
I’m not hungry, but he doesn’t move until I’ve taken a bite. Only then does he clean up the mess on the counter. There’s a quip or joke there somewhere, but I don’t feel the need to say it and there’s something comforting in the simplistic domesticity of all of this.
For a second, the world stops spinning long enough for me to feel normal and safe.
And that’s because of him.
Nic washes his hands and leans against the counter next to me. Then he watches me eat fucking toast like that’s all that matters.
When I finish the last mouthful, he takes the plate off me and brushes over my lip with his thumb, wiping the crumbs away.
Oh, fuck me.
I sit perfectly still, pretending my heart isn’t detonating in my chest from that one touch. Then he steps back, his lips twitching into a knowing smile.
“You full?”
“Yeah.”
“I hate to feed you and run, but I got shit to take care of.” I hide my disappointment. What did you think he was going to do? Spend all day just eating and talking?
It eases something inside me that seems pained by the idea, and has to take a step back, as if he needs the distance so he can leave.
“Okay.”
“I’ll check on you later, yeah?”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to sound needy or desperate, even though I want to wrap my fingers in his shirt and hold him here. “Go do your biker stuff.”
His brow kicks up alongside the corner of his mouth. “Biker stuff?”
“Yeah, you know? Order vests, patches, rescue women out of cages—stuff?”
“Kuttes, not vests.” He backs up another step like it kills him to take it. “I’ll check on you later.”
He pauses at the door, like he doesn’t want to leave, and then he’s gone.
The kitchen feels smaller and colder without him in it. I stay on the counter, my legs dangling, and stare at the empty space he was just standing in.
My lips feel swollen and soft, his mouth imprinted there. I skim my fingers over where he touched me and swallow.
People kiss all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except it meant everything, and that terrifies me. Because when something matters, it can be used against you. It can be taken away.
Lost.
I don’t know how to go back to the version of Keeley who hadn’t kissed Nic yet. Who didn’t know how it felt to be touched like that.
Wanted like that.
And that’s dangerous. More dangerous than whoever my brother made that deal with.