Chapter 33 Monk
THIRTY-THREE
Monk
When the doorbell rings, I force myself to walk at a normal pace, but the measured steps are at odds with everything else.
My blood surges like a hot spring. My mouth goes dry with anticipation.
And my heart is racing like I’m some horny pubescent kid.
When I reach the door, I pause with my hand on the knob and give myself a second to put this in perspective before I take this step with Verity.
Casual and open.
That’s the agreement. Not feelings. Not jealousy or possessiveness. Not monogamy. None of that.
Lust. Fling. Bang and bounce.
Don’t forget that shit, Bellamy.
I open the door and Verity stands there, looking unsure of her welcome. Of me. Like maybe since we last saw each other, I’ve changed my mind. For some reason, that settles me because I haven’t changed my mind. And I’m glad to see her. Despite my reservations, I can do this again on my terms.
“Hi,” she says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Hey.” I step back and gesture her inside. “Come on in.”
I hug her as soon as the door closes behind us.
She stiffens, but then relaxes and winds her arms around my waist. Her warmth and softness and scent—all familiar.
It feels good to hold her with the air clear.
The past is behind us and we can’t go back, not even to what was good.
This is something different, but I want it bad. I want her badly.
I pull back enough to peer down at her. Her curls are caught up in a knot and her makeup is minimal. There’s nothing provocative about the simple mauve dress she’s wearing that falls past her knees, but she could show up in a burlap sack and she’d still be sexy as hell to me.
She looks beyond me into the house. “Wow. Your place is beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
I glance around the foyer, trying to see through her eyes the mid-century modern house it’s taken years to restore.
There’s a warm ambience created with natural textures and materials like the teak and bronze for the overhead light fixture and surrounding the fireplace.
It’s a palette of subtle colors, like gunmetal gray, russet, and espresso.
I walk ahead and lead her into the living room.
“I can’t take the credit. My designer did all the work. I can give you the full tour later if you want, but first are you hungry?”
She touches her stomach and grimaces sheepishly. “How’d you know?”
I chuckle and press my hand to her lower back, guiding her toward the kitchen. “Lucky guess.”
We walk deeper into the house with its open floor plan that flows easily between the kitchen and the living and dining rooms.
“You have great taste,” she says, running a hand over the basalt countertop and the teak cabinet. “Or your designer does.”
“Let’s call it a collaboration I basically only paid for.” I grin and open the refrigerator to browse an arrangement of neatly stacked containers. “We got a chicken and rice pilaf thing. There’s a steak thing and some salad with that. And a grilled swordfish thing.”
“I’ll take the chicken thing. Did you cook any of this?”
“Hell no.” I take out two containers. “I have somebody who cooks for me. My time is precious, Vee. Don’t you know I’m a famous musician now?”
She settles onto the stool and sets her elbows on the counter. “Oh, I’m very aware, Mr. EGOT.”
“Not yet.” I shrug and turn on the oven to preheat. “Got the Grammy and the Emmy. No Oscar or Tony yet. It’s harder than it looks, or more people would do it.”
“You’ll do it. Only a matter of time. Maybe Dessi will deliver your Oscar.”
“I’m not pressed. Something to drink?”
“Just water.”
I get a glass of water and pull down two plates to set on the counter. “We’re pretty early in the film for me to even be thinking about awards season. Let’s get it made first.”
“Have you written much for it? Besides what I’ve already heard, I mean.”
“Yeah. There’s a song called ‘Walk Away’ I wrote for the riviera scene when Dessi finds out Tilda got married.”
“What a way to get dumped. Poor Dessi opening that letter from Tilda and it was her wedding announcement?”
“Sorry for her.” I waggle my brows. “But makes a great story for us.”
“That it does,” she says, smiling ruefully. “How was Thanksgiving? Your family okay?”
“Yeah, I ate dinner with my mom and stepfather. My brother and sister always split their time between the parents, but they ate with us.”
“You didn’t see your father?”
“He dropped by. We chopped it up.” I don’t mention how much of our conversation we devoted to her. “Things are a little better than they were when I was at Finley, when everything he did was pretty fresh, but I’m not sure we’ll ever be close again.”
“It’s been hard to forgive him.” She states it, doesn’t ask.
I nod, pop the pan of food into the oven, and set the timer.
“My therapist draws a straight line from my parents’ failed marriage to my resistance to a committed relationship. He theorizes that I wanted that white-picket-fence fairy tale like I believed they had, and once I saw theirs crumble, I gave up on commitment altogether.”
“Have you given up on commitment?”
“I didn’t think I had, but he pointed to a clear lack of longevity in my relationships since, so…”
I let the words trail off because if I keep talking, I might reveal that her betrayal disillusioned me as much as my father’s. And tonight is not for regret or resentment or recriminations.
Tonight is for fucking. No-strings, through-the-mattress fucking.
Bang and bounce, Bellamy. Bang and bounce.
“Can I say something?” she asks, shooting me a cautious look.
“Sure.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “Go for it.”
“I know your father did some shitty things, and it hurt your whole family, especially your mom, but time is one of life’s greatest gifts, and it’s not always guaranteed. I only had eleven years with my parents.”
Her throat works with a swallow, and she lowers her gaze to the counter’s shiny surface. “I always ask folks what they’d save in a fire, but I know exactly what I would have saved in ours.”
She looks up, a depthless sadness in her beautiful eyes.
“Them. I’d have saved them. I’d give anything to have a little more time with my parents, Monk. I don’t want years to go by, or, God forbid, time with your dad to be cut short, and you regret not truly trying to repair your relationship with him if that’s possible.”
I stiffen, as much because of my father’s words echoing in my ears as the ones she’s saying to me now.
You don’t forgive easily when you love.
“He didn’t love your mom the way she deserved,” Verity goes on, “but it sounds like he loves you a lot. You aren’t betraying her or condoning what he did if you find a way to have a relationship with him.”
“I know that,” I say, my brows lowering into a frown.
“And forgiveness isn’t always for the person who wronged us. I would argue it’s more for you. What you’re holding on to could be holding you back. Your relationship with him doesn’t have to be perfect, but it can keep getting better.”
I let her words sink in and manage a slit of a smile. “You on some Yoda sage shit, huh?”
The comment does what I hoped it would, lightening the atmosphere in the kitchen and prompting her to offer a sly smile of her own.
“Lots of therapy.” She rests her chin in her hand and widens her eyes innocently. “But working in Hollywood, I do have a ton of experience with perfectionists.”
“I am not a perfectionist.”
“Are you kidding? The only person I’ve met who is more of a perfectionist than you is Canon Holt, and y’all are kinda neck and neck.”
“I’mma need you to take that back.”
I cross around to her side and stand between her knees, spreading her legs slightly. Her breath catches and she leans back, elbows propped on the counter behind her. The deep brown bourbon swirled in her dark eyes is intoxicating. I get drunk just looking at her.
“Make me, Monk.”
I grab her chin and tilt her face up to capture her lips in a kiss.
It’s supposed to be light and quick, but as soon as our mouths meld, that same fire that always seems barely banked, explodes.
The kiss extends, turning desperate and ravenous.
She sucks my tongue and I nip at her lips.
Gripping my neck, she brings me closer, and the feel of her unravels a little more of my resolve.
I shove her dress up and grip her thigh with one hand and her ass with the other.
“Monk,” she gasps, spreading her legs wider, pressing her breasts into my chest.
“I got you, baby.” I trace up her inner thigh to the apex, stroking and pinching her through her damp underwear. “That’s good?”
I can’t believe how deceptively steady my hands and my words are when it feels like my insides are collapsing. Like every wall I’ve raised to keep this woman out is falling at the first touch.
“So good.” She rolls her hips, needy whimpers slipping past her lips and into my mouth. “Touch me, Monk.”
“I am touching you.” I grin into the kiss and pass my index finger over the silk again. “See?”
“Fuck you,” she growls, and reaches between us to pull her panties back so I’m touching her there.
Flesh on flesh with nothing separating us.
She’s hot and slick and my mouth waters at the memory of her taste.
On my deathbed, I’ll manage one last hard-on thinking of how wet and sweet she was for me.
I lift her onto the counter and guide the dress over her head in one frantic move, leaving her in nothing but pink lace.
“I should fuck you right here in my kitchen,” I groan at the curve of her throat.
“What’s stopping you?”
She undoes the front clasp of her bra. Her breasts spill free, bounce a little, the brown nipples piqued and velvety. I lower my head, ready to take my fill, when the oven timer goes off, blaring and shattering the moment.
“Dammit.” I drop my forehead to hers. “Food’s done.”
I send her a frustrated look and she giggles, biting her lip to cut off the sound.
“Sorry,” she says, sobering with lips still trying to twitch. “It’s just… funny.”
“Funny? I’m ’bout to bust, and you laughing.”
“Feed me first?” Her smile is much too sweet, considering she’s sitting on my counter with her titties out.
I retrieve the dress from where I tossed it and hand it to her. “Okay, but you gotta put some clothes on if you expect me to wait.”
When I march over to the oven to silence the timer, she doesn’t bother snapping the bra back into place, but lets the straps glide down her arms and fall to the counter behind her.
Her breasts sit high and proud and bare until she ruins it by pulling the dress over her head to cover the glowing brown skin.
“Satisfied?” she asks, her voice sultry and taunting.
“No.” I walk back to her and slip my hand inside the dress to squeeze her breast. “But I bet you not leaving this house till I am.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Wright Bellamy.” She laughs huskily, hopping off the counter and sauntering over to take the food from the oven. “Let’s eat.”