Yearn

Chapter 17

Chapter seventeen

My Family, My Hunger

Dominic

The next morning, we overslept.

Two alarms bleated and then gave up on us like exhausted nurses at shift change.

Morning light pressed through the curtains in slow bands, and I woke with Teyonah tucked into me, her hair damp against my jaw from the shower the night before, her back curved to my chest.

Fuck. I’m here. She’s here. This is really happening. Finally.

For three breaths I let myself think about rolling her beneath me, about letting the night finish what it had started in steam and vow. But I didn’t want our first time to be rushed, before the panic of toast burning and backpacks half-zipped.

I wanted to make love to her like a long surgery done right—intentional, skillfully, no shortcuts, no mistakes. So I squeezed my eyes shut and memorized the way her hair brushed my face, the soft weight of her hand over mine, the tiny sleeping sounds she made.

Fuck. The way she moaned when she came last night. . .I wanted to spray her face with cum. And her fully naked. . .how did I keep my cock in my pants?

I hoped she noted my ability for great restraint because I’d battled with myself to be a gentleman.

Last night, I knew I had to take my time with her.

Scott had done his best to break her—years of neglect, cruelty, cheating, emotional abuse, and making her doubt her own worth.

The man had left scars on her heart that I could clearly see. I caught that in the way she’d almost allowed shame to interrupt her pleasure too many times.

And last night wasn’t about me proving anything.

It wasn’t about conquering her body.

It was about stitching her back together with my mouth, my hands, my soothing patience.

That first night had to be hers.

I wanted her to know I could be the one place she didn’t have to shield up, the one man who wouldn’t flinch from the mess of her breaking open.

But Christ, the restraint it took.

Because underneath all that tenderness, my hunger for her was fucking rabid.

My cock had throbbed against her all night, begging to bury itself inside her wet pussy, to fuck her until my name was the only word she remembered how to say.

My mouth had watered imagining spreading her thighs and my tongue pushing past every inch of shame Scott left behind.

I yearned to take her in ways she couldn’t deny.

And soon, I would.

I planned to devour her slowly, bite by bite, until she forgot what it felt like to be unloved.

She probably thought last night was intense.

That was just the beginning.

Soon, I’d stop holding back.

And when I did, she would finally know what it meant to be consumed.

“Mommy!” Oliver hollered from the hallway. “I can’t find my Bushy Bear socks!”

Teyonah groaned.

“Mommy.” Oliver knocked on the door.

She yawned and yelled back, “Finish getting dressed Oliver. I’ll help you find the socks soon.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

“Do you want me to help?”

“No. I’ve got it.” She slowly sat up and turned to me. “But. . .I don’t want the kids to know you slept here. We’re still figuring this out.”

I didn’t like the secrecy, but I understood.

She wasn’t wrong.

If Oliver or J ran in and found me here, and naked in their mother’s sheets, the confused questions would come too fast, and her answers weren’t ready yet.

While I knew what I wanted, Teyonah and the kids needed time, space, the careful stitching of our love into their lives instead of a tear that ripped through all at once.

I told myself it was like medicine. One didn’t rip the bandage off before the wound has sealed. You protected it, kept it hidden until it could withstand air.

“That’s fine.” I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, let my thumb linger at her jaw for a heartbeat longer than I should have, and whispered, “Okay. I’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast.” I slid out of the bed.

My feet hit the floorboards with a quiet thud.

Next, I gathered my damp clothes. The absence of her warmth was immediate, a cold I carried as I snuck down the stairs.

Next, I eased the back door open and slipped through.

The dawn air bit cold against my neck.

I had just started down the path toward the basement when I froze.

Mrs. Patterson stood in her yard like she’d been waiting all night for me to come out.

She had on a green and black floral housecoat and a Bible clutched to her chest with one hand. The other had flapped at three cats that prowled near her porch steps. “Shoo now! Get out of here!”

The cats scattered in three directions.

Then she turned and spotted me. Her face softened into a smile that didn’t seem like it was really a smile. “Morning, Dr. Dominic. I’m out here doing the Lord’s work. Demons come in all types of shapes.”

I blinked, not sure if she was talking about the cats or me. “Uh. . .right. Morning, Mrs. Patterson.”

She tilted her head, studying me with that sharp, church-lady squint that could slice through drywall. “Mighty early to be coming out the house right now. You usually head in there about an hour later for breakfast, don’t you?”

I nervously glanced at my watch. “Yeah, I guess it is. I had a test. Wanted to grab something from the kitchen.”

“Uh-huh.” The “uh-huh” carried centuries of side-eye and intercessory prayer. She hugged her Bible closer and smirked. “I may miss things, but God sees everything.”

“Awesome.” I gave her my best polite smile and walked off, resisting the urge to sprint.

Something is very wrong with that woman.

Once I got to the basement, I washed up and dressed in clean scrubs.

But under it all, I held the memory of her skin pressed to mine, her voice soft in the shower filled with both fear and want, and the knowledge that even if I had to slip away now, I’d be back.

Because some truths didn’t need the kids’ questions to make them real.

Thirty minutes later, we all scrambled in the dining area.

No pancakes this time.

It was cereal, toast, bananas, and Teyonah quickly signing zoo field trip slips.

The kids never clocked that we’d come from the same bedroom. Oliver was too intent on catching her up about some cool cartwheels he learned how to do in the playground yesterday and J was stressed about a spelling test today.

Minutes later, we flew out the door.

Lunches.

Kisses.

I called over my shoulder. “Don’t forget your water bottle, J.”

“Got it, Dom.”

I looked to my side. “Did you pack your sketchbook, Oliver?”

“Sure did.”

“Excellent.”

When I shut the front door behind us, my chest felt terrifyingly, beautifully full.

This is my family.

That morning Teyonah took the kids to school.

At the hospital, the day came at me hard.

Final week of medical school meant no one was sentimental about sparing us. Pre-rounds at seven, case presentations at eight-thirty—cardio first, then the inpatient heme-onc list that never got shorter.

I scrubbed for a short procedure afterward, gloved and gowned, retractors biting into the webbing of my thumbs while the attending narrated in a dry voice.

Between cases I hunkered at a computer terminal and checked labs, charted, fielded a resident’s raised eyebrow when I smiled—apparently against protocol on a week like this.

Noon turned into three, then five.

I ate standing up, a granola bar that tasted like cardboard.

My brain ran two tracks at once: the rhythm of medicine, precise and merciless, and the quieter beat of domestic tasks waiting for me in the evening.

I needed to prove myself to Teyonah and show her that I wanted a real relationship. Not just her jacking me and my getting her off.

If I could hold a scalpel steady for eighteen hours, I told myself, I could hold a bedtime steady for two cool kids every night.

Then, rounds came again.

Someone’s oxygen dipped and came back.

I kept my mouth shut and my ears open.

When a nurse handed me a baby to weigh and the tiny body settled against my forearms with complete trust, something in me knotted and loosened at the same time. I thought of Oliver’s hand slipping into mine at crosswalks, of J’s quiet voice when they asked a big question like it was a secret.

We’re going to make this work.

Finally, the hospital clock ticked.

I chased it to the door.

Later that evening, when I returned with the kids, I slowed the car as I came into the driveway.

I checked Mrs. Patterson’s house. The curtains across her windows were drawn with no glow behind them, and for once I thought maybe she had gone to bed early.

Thank God.

But as the kids and I got out of the car, I saw her at the far edge of her yard.

Still in that same floral housecoat from this morning.

However, this time she had a small shovel and was digging a hole. No bucket, no plants, no purpose I could see—just a neat, slow rhythm of metal biting dirt.

What the hell is she burying or. . .digging up?

I didn’t linger to find out and herded J and Oliver inside.

Whatever she was burying, I decided it was between her and God.

Hours later, warm lamplight pooled in the living room.

The dishwasher hummed a soft mechanical lullaby.

In the kitchen, my jazz playlist purred low, more breath than brass.

Okay. I think dinner is done.

The smell of roasted chicken threaded the air, salt, rosemary, and lemon, and for half a second, I was shocked that I’d even cooked it.

My childhood had been chefs.

My mother never needed to cook. She had her own medical practice to focus on.

My father had one too.

But here I was. . .cooking for my new family.

My bare feet smoothed along the tile.

My sleeves were rolled up; my forearms were damp from rinsing broccoli.

Okay. This is next. At least that’s what the recipe says. . .

I moved between pots and pans like it was another kind of operating room, mise en place my sterile field, tongs my forceps.

I hope dinner doesn’t taste like shit.

The kitchen knife steadied in my hand the same way a scalpel did—except this time, I was cutting to keep them alive in comfort, not survival.

I think it’s time to get her a chef. I’ll tell her next week.

I wasn’t sure how she would take it. It seemed like Teyonah was not used to accepting gifts from someone who cared about her.

I looked over my shoulder.

Just off the hall, Teyonah’s office door stood ajar.

She’ll have to get used to it. I want to spoil her.

Instead of staying at the firm late, she’d brought home the last stack of filings for her supervisor’s big case and set herself a promise: finish tonight so she could do bedtime herself.

She hated that she missed the kids’ bedtimes last night.

Therefore, I wanted her to get her promise.

But I also knew that paperwork had a way of multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish. Even from here, I heard the crisp slide of pages and the mutter she made when a sentence didn’t behave.

That was why I decided to cook for her. Maybe that could help her get it done faster.

I just hope this doesn’t taste bad.

Several minutes later, I set the platter of chicken on the counter and checked the hallway again, half expecting her to appear in the doorway the way she did in my head all day: pencil in her hair, eyes sharp, tired, and unfairly beautiful.

The sway of her body was the kind of anatomy they never taught in med school—curves mapped for a surgeon who wanted to lose the steadiness in his hand.

Mmmm. We’re fucking tonight. I can’t hold back anymore.

I leaned my hips against the counter and swallowed. If I let myself go where that thought wanted me, dinner would burn.

Concentrate on dinner.

I pulled two sheet pans from the oven and turned the broccoli, making sure the edges were crisp and bright.

Next, I listened for kid-noises—J’s soft footfalls, Oliver tumbling somewhere.

The chicken needed five more minutes. I put it back in the oven.

The rice needed ten.

Alright. I’m getting the hang of this.

I set the table, silverware aligned like instruments before an attending asked for them. When I wiped the counter, I saw a sticky fingerprint I knew wasn’t mine and smiled while I scrubbed it clean.

Hey. If I end up losing my passion for medical studies, I could be a house-husband. Granted, it would be in a mansion with a chef, but still. . .

Smiling, I tossed the rag in the sink, moved toward the hallway, and paused.

How is she doing?

I could see her through the crack of the office door, hunched over her laptop.

A frown line carved between her brows.

I wanted to smooth it with my thumb.

She had a legal pad full of handwriting that made me ache with respect; it looked like a map to a prison break.

Chuckling to myself, I watched as she reached for a statute volume, flipped it open, scanned the pages, and then flipped again.

She rubbed her temple and kept going.

She works so hard.

I thought of the female residents who staggered out of a sixteen-hour day and still charted, still called families, still pulled their hair into ties that had already lost their stretch and went back for more shifts.

I’d seen surgeons collapse after twelve-hour operations.

Meanwhile, Teyonah bested all of them to me, she did the same with motherhood and work, everyday rising up to fight again.

It’s not just her curvy body that has me going crazy. She’s so strong. That’s also why I can’t get her out of my mind.

She was the only diagnosis I craved—symptoms I would chase forever.

The rice popped.

Oh shit.

I quickly returned to the kitchen, grabbed a wooden spoon, stirred, and checked the clock.

If I wanted to give her the bedtime she’d promised the kids, I had to buy her a few minutes.

I plated dinner.

Once done, I yelled out, “Dinner is ready!”

Is this going to be a shit show? Or did I do a good job with the food?