Chapter 31
brIELLE
I bite my lip and take the clean, sudsy plate from Roman’s extended hand. The dishwasher sits unused a few feet away, empty and rejected.
“Do you have something against dishwashers?” I ask, rinsing off the plate.
He steals a swift glance at the dishtowel in my hands before speaking. “When’s the last time you cleaned the filter?”
“The filter?”
“Yes, Brielle. The trap at the bottom of the dishwasher that collects bits of food over time.”
I slowly turn my head, eyeing the dishwasher like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it. “Isn’t it supposed to do that itself? Shouldn’t it just get washed with the dishes?”
“It should, but doesn’t. I prefer handwashing.”
“I’m quickly learning the appeal.”
His body heat keeps me warm at his side as I finish drying the plate and set it on the second towel he’s laid out on the counter.
It feels so damn mundane doing this. Like we’re not just two people having sex and instead are .
. . a couple doing regular couple things.
Even when I remind myself that he’s just being a gentleman and cleaning up after himself.
This is just yet another reminder that Roman is so, so freaking different than the typical dudes I bring home.
“Plus,” he starts with a rough clearing of his throat. I look at him, watching his jaw work. “It takes more time.”
I nod, fighting a smile. “More time. Right. And that’s a good thing?”
“It can be. When you want the job to take longer.”
My belly fills with fiercely flapping wings. “It’s already late.”
“It is.”
“Where’s Evie tonight?”
His huge hands flex when they dive back into the water and begin scrubbing the pink pan we used for our grilled chicken. “She was at her studio, but I expect she’s at home sleeping now. She’s been putting in long hours there these last few weeks. We had dinner together earlier.”
So that’s where he was.
“She’s really passionate about her work. I like that about her.”
“I don’t remember a time when she was pursuing something that she wasn’t passionate about. My sister raised her to follow her dreams, no matter what they cost her.”
I hold off on replying for a moment, considering my next words carefully. “Your tattoo is for her, right? Your sister?”
His right hand escapes the hot water for the briefest moment, just long enough for me to see the butterfly that spans across the back of it and the initials beneath its wing before sinking back out of view.
My chest pinches as I register the pain in his expression and the ghosts that follow, finding refuge in his eyes.
“Do you talk about her much?” I murmur, tugging free the fork he’s scrubbing furiously and dipping it into the clear water.
“Not enough.”
“I won’t pretend to know what it’s like to lose a sibling, but is it alright if I still tell you that I’m sorry that you do?”
Silence pulses between us. It’s tense, but despite how long I wait for him to snap at me to mind my own business, no anger appears. No, when he turns his head, his eyes are too sad to be mad.
The bubbles in the sink pop around his fingers when they flex. “That’s fine, Brielle.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, twisting and grabbing his hand, letting the bubbles crawl up my wrist. “For your loss, but also Evie’s.”
“She’d appreciate that,” he says, tone so rough it sounds painful.
“And you?”
The corners of his mouth lift, but there’s nothing happy about the grimace that appears. I tighten my grip immediately, not risking him pulling away.
“So do I.”
“Then why don’t I believe you?”
“Leave it,” he says, almost pleading.
Frustration gnaws at me while I nod and shut myself down before I misstep.
I’ve never had problems speaking my mind and pushing when I want to learn more than I’m being offered.
Clearly, from my efforts to get Roman to the point he can even stand here in my kitchen with me, that’s been to my benefit.
Up until now, I’ve had no issue continuing to dig and poke.
This isn’t the same.
I know that if I did the same thing in this moment, he’d run.
“Come with me,” I tell him while tugging on his hand.
Water drips from our knuckles to the kitchen tile as I pull him away from the sink and into the living room. He doesn’t fight me, and for some reason, that makes me happy. His discomfort may be causing him to pull back, but he’s still here, and that counts for something.
The black leather photo album on the coffee table is the same one I brought home with me from his house.
It’s full of the very same nearly naked photos of myself that I’ve stared at a million times.
I’ve debated on blowing my favourite one up and hanging it on my bedroom wall, but the thought of having my brother stumble upon it made me toss that idea in the burn pile.
Instead, the album stays on this table with a sticky note that reads For Everyone But Wes + Dad’s eyes.
“Sit, Rome.”
His tongue skates across his teeth while he does as I say and sinks into the couch. The wide spread of his long legs looks mighty inviting. I suck in a sharp, head-clearing breath and turn away, reaching for the album.
“I doubt Evie showed you the photos we took, but if you’re up for it, I’d like to do that now. They’re really incredible.”
“Are you sure?” he rasps, staring at the book trapped in my grasp.
“Very. I know that you’ve seen more of her work than I have, but these are different.”
He tips his chin and slowly wraps his fingers around mine on the edge of the album. They linger there, strong and steadying despite his drawn expression. That’s . . . him.
Always strong, dependable. The guy who holds everyone up despite his own problems.
That’s great most of the time. But what about the days when it isn’t? Who takes care of him when the weight of everyone else’s shit gets too heavy?
I let that thought go before I get too angry for this moment and release the book. Instead of perching on his lap like I’d love to do, I take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me and watch as he pries the album open.
Evie didn’t pull punches with her layout of my photos.
The first page features two photos, including a zoomed-in shot of me on my back, the studio floor covered in a thin white sheet beneath my posed body.
My black lingerie cups my boobs and holds them higher than they’d sit otherwise.
I have my fingertips teasing the band of my panties, with two tucked beneath it.
The sheer fabric features black lace designs that offer just enough coverage for my pussy to stay hidden in the shot.
There’s an intimacy to this moment that I wasn’t expecting.
My stomach jumps to my throat, filling the gap I need to breathe.
Self-doubt rears its ugly, monstrous head when I focus on the collection of loose skin not tucked beneath my panties.
The silver marks that I asked Evie not to touch up or smooth are obvious in the lighting, spreading from where I once had wide, round love handles, across my now-flat stomach and spidering up and out.
I’m proud of those marks and the skin that I once debated having removed. They tell a story that I don’t share often, and I knew seeing them this way would only intensify those feelings. Yet right now, it’s not pride causing my pulse to quicken.
It’s nerves. Fear that Roman’s interest in me—his attraction—could be altered in a way that I didn’t properly prepare myself for. I’ve spent a decade healing and working on loving myself and every inch of skin that’s stretched and shrunk and changed over the course of my life.
One man’s opinion shouldn’t matter to me.
“Say something,” I order forcefully.
His eyes jump from the page. I swallow and blink, struggling to hold such a ruthless gaze.
“Don’t make me be a bad uncle, Brielle.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me tell you that the last thing on my mind while staring at that photo is my niece’s talent.”
I grip my bare knee. “That’s why I wanted to show you them.”
“The skills are hers, but the muse was you. The woman in that photo is you.” The album falls to the cushion, abandoned. I blink at the photo one last time before forcing myself to look at him, lips parted around nothing. “You have stories written over every inch of you. I want to hear them.”
“Is that what we’re calling them?” I whisper, holding my breath.
Roman spreads his legs wide while leaning forward. Dark, rich cologne washes over me as I sway in his direction, hanging off the table. One soft, warm breeze would be enough to have me falling into his lap.
“That’s what they are, sweetheart. The same way my tattoo is.”
“I want to hear yours, too. Whenever you want to tell me.”
His Adam’s apple pulls. Instead of answering verbally, he slides his hands behind my knees and pulls me to my feet. They remain in place as he shifts me between his legs and then slowly, almost teasingly, guides each one over his thighs until I’m straddling him.
He trails his touch up my legs and around to the curves of my ass, squeezing. I gasp, reaching forward and gripping his shoulders. The back of his head finds the couch as he watches me react, his heated gaze travelling over every inch of my face.
“What I want right now is to fuck you, Brielle,” he says, drawing me closer.
I lean down and drop my mouth to his in a soft kiss of agreement. We both know what this is, but if he needs to convince himself otherwise, then that’s what we’ll do. For now, I’ll agree because I’m not ready to speak it, either.
His tongue snakes between my lips, distracting me.
I reach down and begin to pull my shirt up my body before he’s taking my hands and bringing them to his chest instead.
He replaces my touch with a calloused one.
Our lips part long enough for him to guide the fabric over my head before he’s kissing me again.
It’s been hours since he arrived at my place, and there’s a desperation to the way I’m folding myself against his body that does little to convince me that I’m ready for him to leave anytime soon.
I shove my hands up beneath his Havoc sweatshirt and scrape my nails up and over his abs, feeling the coarse hairs that cover them.
Heat blasts between my thighs when he parts my pussy with two fingers. He runs his knuckles through my wet lips before rubbing them in circles over my clit. I glide my lips across his jaw to the space beneath it, sucking hard.
“Don’t mark me,” he groans, but makes no move to pull me away when I carry on instead of pulling back.
His fingers push deep inside me, and my suction fails. I moan into his slick skin, my hips driving forward as I chase the pleasure. He grinds his palm against my mound and works his fingers in a steady, hard rhythm, forcing me to listen to him.
There’s no way I could concentrate enough to give him a hickey when I’m already close to coming.
“I leave in two days, baby. Give me something to think about while I’m gone. Please,” he begs, chasing my mouth when I loop my arm around his neck and lean close.
There’s a needy, pained noise trapped in my throat that I work to keep there. I don’t want him to leave. Not tonight, not tomorrow.
I drop my hands to the bulge in his dress pants and give his straining cock a squeeze before frantically undoing his belt. Once it’s out of the way, I yank on the button and zipper, needing them out of my fucking way. I’m trembling, my fingers too unsteady to pop the button.
Roman’s fingers find mine, stilling them long enough for him to finish and get his pants down.
His shaft rests against his stomach when I wrap him in a tight fist and lift myself just enough to line us up.
Need drives my movements, turning my mind to goo.
I barely notice when he moves us until I’m scrambling for balance on the couch, unable to look directly at him any longer.
He settles behind me, and I reach for the arm of the couch in front of me, digging my knees deeper into the cushion. The stretch of his tip at my entrance reels me back. I hold myself up with my left hand and reach behind me with my right, refusing to let him cut me off entirely.
Our eyes meet, and while he looks like he’s ready to deny me this, he takes my hand and locks our fingers, laying them to rest against my lower back.
A heavy breath falls out of me as I smile, unable to hide it.
He blinks, and then he’s pushing his cock forward, not stopping until every single inch is seated inside of me.
I drop my head forward, letting it hang as he reaches around me and touches my belly.
He keeps his hand there, holding the very part of me that represents years and years of childhood trauma.
The backs of my eyes burn as I grit my teeth and squeeze his hand hard enough that I know my nails must be digging painfully into his skin.
“Beautiful,” he exhales, pulling out and then driving back in. His fingers spread across my stomach, covering as much area as possible. “So fucking beautiful.”
There’s nothing but truth in those words.