Chapter 24 Freddie #2
“She would absolutely shit a brick if she knew her father brought you here,” I say, the thought bubbling up. A laugh escapes me before I think better of it.
Bianca’s eyes light up and she snorts. “Bet the bitch is rolling in her grave.” She dumps an armful of ingredients onto the island counter, examining each label with exaggerated concentration, her tongue poking out between her lips.
“So,” I ask, rolling up my sleeves and washing my hands at the sink. “What have you decided on?”
“Cupcakes.” She holds up a bottle of vanilla extract like she’s discovered buried treasure, her smile widening.
I wonder how hard it was for her at the refuge to give up all her favorite foods. Was it all protein bars, survival rations and squirrel stew? The thought sobers me for a moment.
I move around the kitchen helping, but I can’t stop watching her.
A genuine smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she measures flour, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
She’s fucking beautiful in Weller’s oversized t-shirt with her hair piled on top of her head, loose strands framing her face.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Nothing.”
But that’s a lie. It’s everything. The way she blows her hair out of her eyes every few minutes, still not used to the shorter pieces.
How she occasionally touches the marks we left on her neck, her fingertips tracing them absently like she’s making sure they’re still there.
The sound of her laugh that I’ve been starved of for five fucking years.
She always had this way of making everything lighter.
No matter what shit was happening in my life, Bianca could always make me smile.
Even though I know she despises being here, having her here, replacing the memories with new ones feels like a weight lifted.
Maybe we can carve out moments of goodness here in this fucked-up situation until we figure out how to escape for good.
And when we do... we’ll build her a real home with a real nest. A place that’s safe and warm and actually hers. Whatever she wants.
“Bullshit,” she says, jabbing a flour-covered finger into my ribs. She’s close enough to kiss. But I’m a chicken.
“Remember those cookies we made for Winston’s birthday? The ones we accidentally put salt in instead of sugar?”
Her laugh erupts immediately, her head tilting back to expose the column of her throat. God, I want to press my lips there and feel the vibration of her laugh. What would she do if I did?
“They were awful,” she says, eyes crinkling at the corners. Her scent blooms in the air… warm, sweet, content.
“But he ate two anyway just to make us happy,” I point out, chuckling at the memory of Winston choking them down with a forced smile.
“I miss the shit out of him.” The laughter is replaced by something softer and sadder. “I hope one day things can just be like... normal, you know? We could have him over for dinner or to watch football...” She trails off, lost in thought. “More like it used to be with all of us.”
I catch her hand before I can stop myself, pulling it up to my mouth to press my lips against her knuckles. “They will be,” I promise, though I have no fucking clue how to make that happen.
She doesn’t argue, but her eyes hold mine for a long moment and I think maybe this is my chance…
“Eggs,” she says abruptly, breaking the spell.
“On it.”
We fall into an easy rhythm, working side by side like we used to.
After she snapped at me during her heat, I’ve been trying to give her space, to dial back my tendency to hover.
But I miss her. I miss how easy things used to be between us, before Whitney, before her disappearance, before all the trauma hardened us both.
We’re still us underneath it all, just more complicated versions, trying to navigate around each other’s new edges.
“Let’s make the frosting,” she says, licking a smudge of batter from her thumb.
I drag my attention away and grab the mixer from the cabinet, setting it up while she measures powdered sugar. Working together, we whip up a cream cheese frosting.
“You’ve got a little...” She trails off, reaching toward my face. Her fingertip brushes my cheek, collecting a dot of frosting, then she surprises the hell out of me by popping her finger into her mouth. “Mmm. You taste good, Frederick.”
Fuck. My cock twitches in my pants. The way she says my name in that teasing tone makes me want to pin her against the counter and forget about the food.
Since we have the ingredients, we decide to make a lasagna while the cupcakes bake. We split up the tasks and she hums while she works. What was her routine like at the refuge? I’ve barely had time to ask her about when we were apart but there’s so much I want to know.
I’d give anything to pause time right now. To live in this little bubble with her where it’s just the two of us. Maybe it’s greedy, but having Bianca all to myself is going to my head. She’s dropped the attitude she has around the others and she just seems so… Bianca.
“Sauce,” she says suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. “We need sauce.”
“Cabinet next to the stove,” I tell her, watching as she crosses the kitchen.
“Shit!” she curses as she opens the jar and the sauce splatters, red droplets flying all over the white shirt she has on.
The two of us pile the lasagna ingredients in the pan with no real rhyme or reason. It’s not pretty but I’m sure it will be delicious all the same.
“This is Weller’s shirt. I need to put stain stuff on it. I’m sure he’s anal about shit like that.”
I’m pretty sure Weller wouldn’t care if she threw the damn thing in the fire, but before I can say anything, she grabs the hem and pulls it up over her head in one smooth motion.
And she’s not wearing anything underneath. Not one single thing. How did I not know this?
Holy fuck.
My brain blanks out at the sight of her. I’ve seen her naked a few times now, not that it ever gets old, but this feels different. Just the two of us, alone, her bare skin exposed to me under the kitchen lights.
“Bianca...” I try not to stare at the scars that map her body—some old, some new, all of them proving the uncomfortable reality that she was hurt. But I push it away, focusing instead on having her here. Alone. All mine. No sharing with the others. All her attention on me for once.
“See something you like?” she teases.
“Like is far too simplistic.” I close the distance between us, my hands finding her waist like they belong there.
Her skin is warm under my palms and unbearably soft.
I lean closer and breathe in her sweet scent that drives me wild.
I trace my thumbs over her ribs, watching goosebumps rise in their wake.
Her breath hitches, a small sound that goes straight to my cock.
“Every inch of you is beautiful,” I murmur against her neck, pressing my lips to the pulse point there.
“Even this?” She guides my hand to a scar on her side, a raised line about three inches long.
I bend down, pressing my lips to the damaged skin. “Especially this,” I murmur against her. I move around her body, finding each mark the world left on her, kissing each one. “You went through hell but then you came back to me.”
“Freddie...” The way she says my name, soft and breathless, has me grabbing the bowl of icing we made for the cupcakes, dipping my finger in and drawing a line from her collarbone to the curve of her breast. The white cream stands out against her skin, and I swirl it around her nipple, watching her eyes grow heavier.
She shivers as I lower my head and lick the sweetness from her skin, groaning against her.
She gasps, her hands flying to my hair, holding me close. I lift her onto the counter, settling between her spread thighs, and continue my path downward. Her body heaves under my mouth, breathy little moans escaping her lips.
“God, Freddie,” she pants. “Cooking with you is my new favorite hobby.”
Mine too.
Each touch draws a whimper from her throat, the sounds and feel of her have me impossibly hard.
“I was waiting, Bianca,” I murmur against the curve of her hip. My voice sounds wrecked even to my own ears. “And hoping like hell you’d want me too. I wasn’t with anyone else before...”
I feel her stiffen under my hands, the subtle tension rippling through her muscles.
When I look up, there’s something like grief shadowing her eyes, turning that brilliant blue into something stormy and troubled.
“Hey,” I say softly, sliding up her body to cup her face between my palms. “What’s wrong? ”
The words float between us, and I can see her wrestling with something dark behind her eyes. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say.
She seems to shake away the sadness, her fingers reaching up to trace the line of my jaw with such tenderness. The gentleness in her touch undoes me completely. “Show me,” she says softly, her eyes finding mine. “Show me how you would’ve touched me.”
Jesus Christ. I pull back just enough to tug my shirt over my head, desperate to feel her skin against mine without any barriers between us. When my chest presses against hers, we both gasp at the sensation.
I kiss her deeply and my hands can’t stay still, exploring her body while my tongue explores her mouth. The soft, heavy weight of her breasts in my palms has me damn near humping her.
“I’m the luckiest man in the goddamn world,” I murmur against her lips, feeling her smile.
She laughs softly. “You always were a sweet talker.”
“Not sweet talk. Truth.” I trail kisses down her throat, meandering and slow making her wriggle against me.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting into my skin as she urges me lower. The tiny sting of pain only heightens my arousal. I oblige her silent demand, and when I take one perfect nipple between my teeth, she arches against me.
“Yes,” she breathes, her head falling back. “More of that.”