Chapter 12
I wake up with a stretch, feeling Zach’s arm draped across my waist. It’s still dark, and I have no idea what time it is, but I don’t care. For a moment, I just lie there, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the warmth of his breath against my back.
Home.
That’s what I called this place last night.
It’s what it feels like right now, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because when I’m here, I don’t have to think.
I don’t have to worry about my major or my father’s expectations or who might or might not be taking advantage of me.
I can just exist in Zach’s orbit. It’s nice…
for a while. Until that voice in the back of my head comes to the front of my mind making me feel so insignificant and small.
It’s not Zach’s intention, but sometimes it’s inevitable when he’s so big.
His presence, his determination, his ability to make everything look easy.
It’s hard to explain the feeling I get, and even worse because Zach doesn’t see it.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but his arm tightens around me reflexively. Even in sleep, he wants to protect me. When his arm relaxes, I slide out of the bed and grab his shirt from last night, pulling it over my head. The faint smell of Hail Mary’s washes over me.
I sigh just thinking about last night, and my anxiety roiling in my stomach at the memory of Zach interrogating Jenni in front of everyone.
The way her face went red. The way the entire table went silent.
I know he was trying to protect me, but God, it was humiliating.
For both of us. Jenni's my friend—my only real friend besides Olivia who's states away—and he treated her like she was some kind of threat, and I'm too naive to see she’s using me.
Maybe I am naive. Maybe that's what everyone thinks.
Poor little Honey Sanderson, so desperate for friends she can't see when she's being played, but Jenni defended me that first day.
She didn't even know me, and she stood up for me.
That has to mean something, right? And last night, even after Zach embarrassed her, she was still sweet.
Still texting to make sure I got home safe.
I hate that there's a tiny part of me—a part I don't want to acknowledge—that wonders if Zach saw something I didn't. If his instincts about people are better than mine because he's had to deal with so many users and clout-chasers.
But I can't think like that. I can't let his paranoia become mine, or I'll never trust anyone.
I'll never have anything that's just mine.
I pad over to his dresser looking for a hair tie, trying to push thoughts of last night away.
The top drawer is slightly open, and as I push through Zach’s white socks I find a piece of paper there, noting the distinctly feminine handwriting.
It’s probably another note from one of the girls who leave footballs at his door. Let’s see what it says.
Z,
Don’t forget Saturday 2 p.m. at the shop. Eat before as I’m going to need you all afternoon.
H.
My stomach drops because that’s not what I was expecting to read. Who the fuck is H, and why is she meeting Zach on Saturday?
“Honeycomb?”
I jump, spinning around to find Zach propped up on one elbow, his hair mussed and his eyes still heavy with sleep. “What are you doing?”
I hold up the note. “What's this?”
He sits up, running a hand through his hair, and his expression shifts for just a second before he realizes what I’m holding. “Just a note.”
“From who? Who's H?”
“No one you need to worry about.” He crosses the room in three strides, takes the note from my hand, glances at it, then crumples it up and tosses it over his shoulder like it's nothing. “Seriously, babe.”
“A surprise? From another woman with really pretty handwriting?”
His lips quirk. “You think her handwriting's pretty?”
“Zach.”
“Honey.” He cups my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “Do you trust me?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything from last night. I asked him to trust my judgment about Jenni. Now he's asking the same of me.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “But—”
“Then trust that everything I do is for you.” He dips his head, his lips brushing my ear. “Let me remind you how much it drives me crazy when you wear my clothes, and why I want you here with me all the time.”
His hands slide under the hem of the T-shirt I'm wearing, and I should push back, should demand answers, but the way he's touching me makes it impossible to think about anything else.
He walks me backward toward the bed, and when the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I let myself fall. He follows me down, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the sheets in a way that makes me feel safe and trapped all at once.
“Honeycomb,” he murmurs against my neck, his hand sliding between my thighs. “Fuck. I love you like this.”
“Zach,” I whisper.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me. “You’re thinking too much,” he says quietly. “Let me help you with that for a minute.”
He pulls the T-shirt off me, and I let him. I always do, because when he touches me like this it’s impossible not to feel wanted.
He presses a kiss between my breasts, then another along my ribs. “You know I’m yours,” he murmurs. “Right?”
My throat tightens. “Zach…”
“I am,” he insists softly, lifting his head to meet my eyes. “No matter what’s in your head. No matter what you’re afraid of. I’m right here.”
He slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them just the way I like it.
I arch into his hand before I can stop myself, a soft, helpless sound slipping out as his fingers move with that slow, knowing rhythm that always unravels me. He watches my face the whole time, eyes dark and focused, like he’s memorizing every flicker of pleasure that crosses it.
“That’s it,” he breathes against my skin, lips brushing the underside of my breast.
He adds his thumb, circling my clit with the perfect amount of pressure, and my hips jerk. My hands find his shoulders, my nails digging in as I try to anchor myself, but he’s already everywhere—inside me, over me, surrounding me.
“Zach,” I breathe out. “It feels—”
I can’t get the words out because the second his thumb circles my clit, I’m lost in the haze of tiredness mixed with want. I sink into the mattress just as my thighs start to tremble, and I can feel his focus on me.
He knows I’m close.
I grip the sheets, moaning out his name on a broken, needy cry.
“That’s it, Honeycomb,” he growls against my neck, his voice rumbling through me. “Let me hear you.”
My hips grind against his hand, chasing the drag of his fingers hitting me in just the right spot. When his thumb presses down and circles, the pressure builds to a boiling point. I try to make it last longer, squirming beneath him, but the minute his teeth nip at my neck, I know I'm gone.
The orgasm rips through me, fierce and consuming. My back arches off the bed as I shatter around his fingers, crying out his name until my throat is raw and my vision goes dark at the edges.
By the time I come down, I feel boneless and completely wrecked.
It’s dark, and I have no idea what time it is, but that’s what happens when I come to Zach’s house. I lose my sense of everything.
Still panting, I feel him slowly drag his fingers out of me before sliding them up my body until they’re at my lips.
“Taste.”
My lips part on instinct, and he slides his fingers inside. Our eyes lock as I suck, swirling my tongue over every drop of myself coating his skin. His jaw ticks, his pupils are blown wide, and when I moan around his fingers, he groans low in his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You're gonna ruin me.”
Before I can recover, he flips me onto my stomach in one fluid motion. His hands grip my hips and drag me up until I’m on my knees with my face pressed into the pillow. I’m wide-open, trembling and already undone by him.
That's when I feel the tip of his cock nudging against me. Teasing. Tormenting.
It’s not enough.
“Please…” I whimper.
He leans over me, his chest hot against my back and his mouth against my ear. “Say it, Honey. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you inside me,” I choke out, my voice cracking with desperation. “Now.”
That’s all it takes. With one hard thrust, he fills me completely, and I forget how to speak.
How to think. All I know is him—the way he feels when he’s inside me, the way he moves.
His rhythm is relentless, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body that I can feel all the way to my fingertips.
My second orgasm hits without warning, crashing over me in waves that leave me gasping his name into the pillow. He follows moments later, his groan of pleasure filling the room.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We can’t. It’s too intense.
Zach presses a gentle kiss between my shoulder blades before gently pulling out of me, rolling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.
When he returns, he presses a warm washcloth to my center before massaging me clean. With my eyes closed, I sigh into the pillows, content with the world when I’m here.
I don’t care about anything else. It’s just me and him.
He takes the towel away and I hear him toss it into the laundry basket before sliding back into bed and pulling me close.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the crumpled note on the floor where Zach tossed it. Just a little white ball sitting there against the dark wood
My stomach twists, but I force myself to take a breath.
I need to trust him.
That's what I asked him to do with Jenni, isn't it? Trust my judgment. Trust that I know what I'm doing. And now he's asking the same of me. If I don't give him that—if I pick apart every note, every text, every moment he's not right beside me—then what kind of relationship do we even have?
Zach wouldn't cheat on me. I know that. I know him.
The note is nothing, and I need to let it be just that.
“Your dad's flying out soon, right?” Zach asks quietly, his fingers dragging lazy shapes across my spine.
I blink, pulling my eyes away from the crumpled paper.
“Yeah. Next week,” I say, settling deeper into his warmth.
“He wants me to head to the Indianapolis office twice a month until the summer internship starts.” My stomach sinks at the prospect.
“The good news is, St. Michael's has agreed it counts toward my credits, which means they're flexible with me moving around a couple of my non-compulsory classes.”
“That's great, Honeycomb. What are the non-compulsory classes?”
He asks it so calmly and subtly, it makes me smile even though I know the implication behind those words.
“My major is still undeclared,” I say, feeling small again—that same feeling from earlier creeping back in. “My father wants me to commit to law. I have to decide by the end of the year, but I still don't know what I want to do,” I admit quietly.
He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “That's okay,” he says gently. “You don't have to have it all figured out.”
“But you do. You've known what you wanted since you were, what, twelve? You're going to the NFL. You have a plan. A path. And I'm just...” I trail off.
“What if I never figure it out?” I whisper. It's quiet, fragile, and pathetic, but Zach's the only person I'd ever feel comfortable saying it in front of.
Zach's smile is soft. “Then I guess you'll just have to marry me and be my trophy wife,” he teases, trying to lighten the mood. “Don't worry. I'll buy you all the shiny things and kiss your ankles before breakfast.”
I laugh despite myself, swatting at his chest. “You wish, Evans.”
“Every damn day,” he says, and though his tone is playful, I can see the sincerity in his eyes. “But in all seriousness, Honeycomb. You don't need to know what you want to do just yet. Explore. Figure it out in your own time. There's no time limit for me.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I let myself get lost in his words and touch. There's no time limit. I let him hold me, knowing that his relentless certainty in us is the only thing that's ever made sense.