Chapter 21 #2
He leads me through the streets of town, nodding or offering a smile in response to someone calling out, while I wave.
All patrons of the bookshop, I note. Of course, those same people will note that we’re together and tongues will be wagging before long.
It’s lovely, though. However Flint came to be in my life and in this town, he’s making relationships, friendships.
It’s nice to see. Maybe he’s setting down roots.
This gives me pause, and causes me to stumble over a crack in the sidewalk. Flint cuts his eyes towards me, as if to check that everything’s okay. I offer him a small smile and he squeezes my hand in return.
We’ve never talked about the permanency of our situation. He just showed up one day a few months ago, and now he’s a constant fixture in my life. We’ve never talked about where he’s planning to go, much less tried to define this budding relationship or where we are hoping to go.
Shut up, I tell myself. Today is not the day to start dreading and nitpicking and doing your downward doom spiral.
The sun is shining, it’s absolutely beautiful outside and you have the hottest man male you’ve ever seen leading you toward a surprise.
One he is next to giddy about. Let it go and take the moment, Cas. Fuck.
I put all my negative thoughts and could be’s into a mental pirate chest and slam the lid. Therapy taught me very little, but that one skill I’ve got down pat.
When I pull my attention back to the present, I realize that Flint has led me through town and to the local park.
The park has been one of my favorite places since I arrived in town.
Lush grass covers almost the full acre, with winding paths for walking or cycling that lead into the thick cropping of trees.
There’s a small play area off to one side and I can hear the giggles of happy children as we pass.
There are beds with riots of flowers growing, an explosion of color and scent.
There are plenty of established trees, throwing shade that would be perfect for napping or reading under.
I’ve done both plenty, although my napping in a public park did cause quite a ruckus so I try to just stick to reading.
Flint continues to the very edge of the tree line, where the denseness of the forest halts against the bright green of early summer grass.
Finally, he puts down the bag he’s lugged across town.
Opening it, he pulls out a giant throw and spreads it out before us on the grass, then pulls out two pillows and tosses them down.
He holds my hand for balance as I slip off my sneakers, and motions for me to take a seat.
Willing to oblige, I plop my butt on one pillow and watch as he finishes unloading his surprise.
A picnic basket. One of those old-timey ones made of brown wicker.
He sets it aside. A giant bottle of water follows, as does one small, personal pan sized pizza.
Another, smaller blanket. A portable speaker.
A book that looks familiar, but the cover is hidden by his large palm and he set it next to his thigh, where it’s out of my view.
Finally, he pulls out a single lily, so dark it appears almost black.
Sir.
I swallow thickly and reach out to accept the lily. It’s perfectly formed, it smells sweet and light. I can’t resist sniffing before brushing the petals against my cheek.
“Thank you. It’s perfect,” I say, softly.
His eyes are warm as he takes my other hand in his and brings my fingers to his lips. “So are you.” he replies, brushing his lips against my knuckles.
While I unravel all that just did to my thoughts and my insides, he releases my hand to finish setting up.
My stomach has that warm, knotted up sensation because could he be any sweeter?
I’ve read many, many books and I don’t think any of the romance authors I’ve filled the shelves with at home could have written a sweeter, more perfect man.
Sorry, male. Male. I need to keep reminding myself that he isn’t just a man, despite no real evidence to the contrary — other than the fact that he came into my life with a lapdog sized dragon.
More than his physical attractiveness (although — boy, howdy — is the male perfect in that regard), is his ability to pay attention.
He listens when I talk. Rather than trying to fix something that might be wrong, he’s willing to just sit and listen while I express my thoughts or my feelings.
He takes care. He notices things and does them, without having to be asked.
He notices me, pays attention to me, and gives me care and consideration like I’m the only person he cares about.
I’m sure that’s not true. While we’ve stayed away from conversations about our families, specifically because trying to explain my situation is painful, I’m sure he has family out there, somewhere. But he treats me like I’m the center of his existence and we aren’t even a couple.
Well, shit. Maybe we are, especially since he’s spent every night since our fateful night out at the bar both in my bed and me. But we’ve never defined it.
Not that I’d be opposed to the idea, I muse, eying the growing spread before me. To love and be loved by him, even if it’s only temporary? I have a feeling, from the depth of my being, that that would be a gift, so precious that it feels wrong to even consider it.
And yet everything inside me yearns.
Flint’s voice jars me back to the present, as he waves his hand to gesture to the meal.
He’s, somehow, brought all of my favorite things — fresh fruit, yogurt.
I spy a bowl of candy and, oh my fucking Gods, he also has a carafe of coffee and a small container filled with crisp bacon, cooked just the way I like it — one degree south of burnt to a crisp.
Putting away my daydreams, I refocus my energy on the moment. If nothing else, I will be grateful for this time and this man.
I put on my sternest expression and reach for a piece of bacon. I almost lose it when I see Flint’s face fall. Struggling to keep my expression schooled, I crunch into its salty perfection.
“How?” I ask, keeping my tone level as my tastebuds water.
“How what?” He genuinely appears perplexed.
I swallow the food and smile. “How did you plan something so perfect?”
The tension leaves his shoulders and his smile returns, lighting up his eyes. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure and, given everything that’s happened… I just thought you could use a break. Some bright, happy.”
He fixes me a plate, making sure I’m settled before starting on his own.
I’m filling my mouth with creamy yogurt and tart strawberries when he swears softly under his breath and sets his plate aside.
“What’s wrong?” The words come out thick, through the yogurt I didn’t quite finish swallowing.
He seems to consider it, sitting on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs. Then he smiles again and says “Just watch.”
He closes his eyes, and I feel the air around me stir.
Gently, the barest hint of a breeze. He raises his hands and cups them together, then slowly expands them until they are chest width apart.
Opening his eyes, he moves his hands until they are hovering over the small pizza I had forgotten about, then lowers them to the ground.
A weird sensation flows through me, almost like a faint strike.
Before I can comment on it, he sits back and softly calls “Calida?”
‘PRESENT,’ she all but shrieks into our minds. I put a hand to my forehead to block the sun as I scan the trees at our back. I see a glint of sunlight reflecting off blue scales.
“Ah, so you are. Your lunch is ready.”
Calida drops to the ground, and streaks towards the blanket, a shot of sapphire cutting through the swath of emerald. Just when she reaches the pizza, she disappears from sight.
I sit up abruptly, as Flint settles in and picks his plate back up.
“Where did she go?”
‘I’m here,’ she announces, but it definitely sounds like her mouth is full.
“Just a sight shield,” Flint explains, nibbling on his own bacon. “She wanted to be part of today’s activities, but I figured with the other people here, this was the safest way.”
“A sight shield?” I repeat. Seriously? He’s never done any magick around me before.
He nods, swallows. “Simple, just asking the light and the air to work together to keep her from sight.”
I sit back on my ass, hard. Despite everything, despite the damn dragon who lives in my apartment, part of me hadn’t believed Flint had magick. Having such a low-key display of it in such a nonchalant way is… so fucking cool.
“Amazing,” I whisper.
‘Thanks,’ Calida says.
I smile. She’s amazing too, so there’s no need to correct her.
The longer we spend in the sun and the air, the more I can see Ash relaxing, bit by bit.
I think she often underestimates how much tension, worry, and stress she carries with her during her day to day.
I can’t imagine how much worse that pressure would be if she knew the truth, both about home and about me.
When I went to Annemarie and Betsy with the vague notion of a plan for a surprise, they were all too happy to help me in my plans and preparations.
Anne was able to help with the food preparations and gave suggestions for what would travel well and keep inside a picnic basket.
Betsy helped me find a flower for what I wanted to say as sadly, plant life and I have never gotten along very well.
My mother despaired of my lack of gardening abilities and, eventually, barred me from helping her in the garden.
Even Calida was quick to volunteer, flying and scoping for the perfect location for today’s picnic.
With a hefty dent made in the food and coffee, Ash helps me pack away that debris before stretching out in the soft sunshine, laying her head on the pillows I brought. She squints at the sky through the canopy of leaves and sighs, contentedly.
“I needed this. Just this. The air, the sun, good company,” she glances towards where Calida is snoring softly in her shields, sleeping off a pizza coma.
“We aren’t done yet.”
My heart picks up its pace until I feel it galloping in my ears. I had been simultaneously terrified and hopeful that this picnic, this nod to our special place and our past, would light a fire of remembrance in Ash. That it could encourage her memories to the surface.
I pick up the book of fairy tales I’d tried to keep out of sight until now. When her eyes light up at the cover, I have a moment of intense hope.
“I love those stories!” She sits up, taking the book from me. She flips idly through the pages, tracing some of the breathtaking illustrations with the tip of one finger. “This book is almost seventy years old. I can’t imagine creating something that would last that long and touch so many people.”
I tug the book away from her, leaning my back against the tree and opening it next to me on the ground.
After studying me for a moment, she moves her pillow closer, then lays her hip against it, letting her body slowly relax until she’s tucked against my chest. I wrap my arm around her waist, letting my finger tips linger on the exposed skin where her shirt has ridden up.
With my fingers brushing against her soft skin, I hear her contented sigh as I turn to the first story and begin to read.
Later, she’s lying back on the bed, legs bent, head tilted to the side with a soft, dreamy smile on her lips. The room is dark save for the soft glow of lamplight. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, no bra, no panties. It hangs loose over her thighs, teasing the edges of what’s already mine.
I kneel between her legs, shirtless, my hands slow, deliberate as I smooth up the outside of her thighs. Her breath catches when I hook my fingers under the hem of the shirt and it begins to lift.
She raises her arms, arching up, letting me peel it away. When it’s gone, I stop and marvel at what’s before me. It seems like miles of skin, dusted softly over long, lean muscle.
When the barrier is gone, she’s bare to me, flushed and waiting.
“I love looking at you,” I murmur, voice low, gravelly. “You don’t know how many nights I’ve dreamed about this.”
Her brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t ask. Not tonight. Not with the way I’m touching her — like worship, like a man who’s missed something he thought he’d lost forever. As I am.
I bend forward, kissing the inside of her knee. Then higher. And higher still. She squirms, breath catching in anticipation.
When my mouth finally brushes her inner thigh, she gasps — a soft, startled sound that only makes me groan against her skin. I part her legs further, my thumbs resting on her hips as I lower myself completely, face inches from her heat. I spread her wider.
She’s already wet. Already aching. Her hands grip the sheets beside her.
I start slowly, my tongue making a single unhurried pass over her folds. She jerks at the contact, hips lifting.
“Gods…” she breathes.
I hum against her — low and pleased — and do it again, this time flicking the tip of my tongue over her clit with teasing precision. She cries out softly, hips shifting, legs tightening around my shoulders.
But I don’t rush her. I hold her open, lapping at her slowly, thoroughly — tasting her like she’s as sacred as she is.
My tongue moves with purpose — alternating dragging strokes with soft, focused flicks of my tongue against her clit. She’s gasping now, her hips grinding against my face, her hands in my hair, tugging with increasing desperation.
“I—I can’t—” she pants.
“Yes, you can,” I murmur against her. “Let me.”
I suck her clit between my lips, tongue circling it, pressure just right — and she shatters.
Her whole body goes taught, thighs clamping around my head, a loud, helpless moan spilling from her lips. Her back arches off the bed, head thrown back, hands gripping my shoulders as waves of pleasure roll through her.
I don’t stop until she’s trembling, shaking. Wrung out and gasping, thighs twitching on either side of my head. Only then do I press one last, soft kiss to her inner thigh and rise over her.
Her eyes flutter open, dazed and wide.
“You…” she swallows. “That was…”
I kiss her gently, catching her breath with my own. “I know,” I say. “I remember.”