Chapter 33 Need Your Love So Bad #2
and whatever was on his face
dies the second he sees me.
He stares too long,
taking me in like a slow drug:
me wearing his clothes,
damp strands sticking to my neck,
makeup gone.
And he’s wearing a stupid, ruinous look,
his heart spilled all over his face.
He stares back down at the counter, jaw tight,
arms half-raised and confused.
“Wait—nah, you messed me up just now.
“What the hell was I doin’?”
I ease onto the counter.
The cold’s seeping through the kitchen window, air crisp enough to pierce through the glass and sneak up my back.
I tuck my hands under me for warmth,
nodding toward the mixing bowl.
“You’re baking?”
He snaps his fingers,
then grabs the eggs and gets to work,
cracking them one by one.
Eggshells split in his hand,
whites slip like silk.
“Zabaglione,” he says.
I blink. “Scusami?”
His laugh rumbles low,
and he shakes his head as he dusts sugar in.
“It’s an Italian custard.”
He sets the bowl on top of the pot.
“My little holiday flex.”
And I can’t stop watching the way his forearm pulls with each flick of the whisk, blue veins popping, lean muscles crawling up to his biceps.
“After dark—
“when the house shuts up
“and nobody needs me for nothin'—
“I get, y'know, a minute to just...
“do somethin' for me.”
I watch as the custard thickens,
turning golden and glossy.
Then he leans over,
pops four slices of bread into the toaster.
“Now you ready for your life to change? ‘Cause I’m about to hit you with the good shit.” He lifts the whisk, eyes on me. “And if you tell Ma I make this fluffy-ass magic, I’m callin’ you a liar.”
I smile, small and stupid.
The toast pops up.
He stacks them on a plate,
then cuts the stack into four strips.
Sixteen golden sticks, crunch on the outside,
hot enough to melt the roof of your mouth.
He sets the custard and toast on the counter next to me, dips a strip into the warm mixture, and coats the bread in thick, golden ribbons.
Then he holds it out, an offering.
I reach for it—
But then he pulls back,
stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.
I scoff, stunned.
“Hey—” I smack his arm. “That was my bite, you thief.”
He shrugs, licking custard from his thumb.
“Had to see if it was worthy of your tongue.”
He says it around a mouthful.
Then smirks.
“It is.”
A short laugh leaves me.
“Unbelievable. Hand it over.”
“Ehh… I dunno, Sonny,” he says,
slow and cocky, dipping another.
“Didn’t really back your boy up today.”
He’s grinning, holding it up between us,
waiting for me to bite.
I narrow my eyes and inch forward.
Closer.
Closer—
He teases it back.
My trapped breath punches out of my throat,
shoulders dropping.
His smirk is pure evil. “What?”
I glare. “You know what.”
He leans in,
close enough to let the heat spill off him.
“You want it?” his voice drops,
dangerous and filthy.
The strip glistens in his hand, dripping sweet.
The words sink inside me as heat climbs up my neck.
He’s watching, waiting.
He wets his bottom lip,
then tips his head with a smirk,
all smug, arrogant, begging to be slapped.
I grab his wrist before he sees it coming,
bringing his hand to my mouth,
tilting my head, parting my lips,
taking it from his fingers, tongue first.
His breath stumbles,
eyes locking on my mouth,
watching the way my lips close around it.
How my tongue brushes his fingers when I pull back.
Sweet, rich, warm, the flavor fucking melts.
I sit back,
licking a stray drop off my lip,
holding his gaze.
The kitchen stirs warm.
Then hot.
Andrew blinks,
breathes,
chest rising to say—
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Allison.”
I lick my thumb with a slow grin. “What?”
He drags a hand through his hair.
“You,” he mutters. “You are actual fuckin’ danger.”
I reach across the bowl
and snag another toast stick.
“This is actually fuckin’ danger.” I grin, dragging my toast across the custard. “No joke—you’re stuck now makin’ this every holiday.”
I take a large bite over the bowl,
tip my head back to catch the custard.
And then I freeze at the words that just fell out of me—
mouth full, tongue pressed dumb against the roof of my mouth.
Every holiday... Jesus.
What's in this custard—hope? Alcohol?
I finish chewing,
like he’s not staring at me with a smirk that could ruin my fucking life.
His warm fingers find my knee,
then his thumb drags in circles—
absent-minded.
I lift my head,
and his eyes are already on me, burning.
He reaches for another stick.
“Nonno came once, all the way from Italy—Ma’s dad.
” He rolls the bread in the bowl. “Guy spoke straight Italian—no English. I was a kid. Don’t remember how old.
Didn’t know Italian at the time. Couldn’t sleep one night, found him in the kitchen.
We didn’t talk. But there we were. Up in the middle of the night.
Making zabaglione together.” He smiles into his toast. “One of those memories you don’t realize is a memory until you’re older. ”
Then his eyes lift to mine.
“This feels kinda the same.”
I stop chewing.
This isn’t just custard and toast at midnight.
This is a moment.
An Allison and Andrew moment.
A ‘remember when…’
I grab another stick. Dip it. Shove it in my mouth. “Well, now I feel like I interrupted a special moment between you and… you. Like I shouldn’t be here.”
He moves in closer, settles between my knees,
fingers ghosting slow down the side of my thigh.
“You fit in it, y’know.”
My gaze is stuck on the bowl,
my chewing paused. “Fit in what?”
He’s studying my reaction,
his hand dragging up my leg again.
“This,” he says. “Here. Me.”
I feel those words everywhere.
They take over the room. My body. My chest.
“Drew,” I say, shaking my head. “Stop. You’re gonna fuck it all up.”
A short breath exhales through his nose as he glances down into my lap.
“Nah—you’re gonna fuck yourself up.” He lifts his head, eyes crashing into mine.
“Just bein' real. Don't gotta kill it. Don't gotta make sense of it.
Don't gotta make it mean somethin' more.
We can leave it here, Sonny. It's safe right here. Just... let it stay.”
My heart’s acting crazy, racing up my throat, wants to write his name on the inside of my mouth, wants to taste it every time I lie and say I’m not his.
“Like this Zoom-buglioney.”
He chuckles, dipping the toast,
custard dripping down the side.
It’s halfway to my mouth when he pauses,
smirk tugging.
“Zabaglione,” he says, eyes locked on my mouth, holding it out. “Say it right or you don’t get any more.” Then he repeats it again, slower, smoother, the Italian wrapping around his tongue. “Zah-bahl-YOH-neh.”
I repeat it, lips brushing the word.
His grin falters. His hand stalls.
His eyes hold me as if I just dropped to my knees. “Molto bene, angelo di mezzanotte,” he murmurs, and I open my mouth.
He feeds it to me,
and my lips graze his fingers.
I feel the warm custard dribble down my bottom lip and move to catch it, but he beats me to it.
With a slow, lazy swipe of his thumb,
he gathers it from my lip.
And now I’m not breathing,
not thinking,
not sure if I’m a person
or a puddle on this counter.
And my heart’s no longer racing,
she’s frozen with a knife to her throat again,
whispering—
Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fuckin’ fall.
The space between us shrinks,
and he slides his wet thumb into his mouth,
sucking the pad slow,
smirking slower.
A devastating, cocky,
you-want-it-come-get-it smirk.
He pulls his finger back,
licks his bottom lip,
still tasting me, still starving.
My grip wraps the edge of the counter,
knuckles white.
My thighs twitch to close, but he’s in the way,
so my knees press into his sides.
It stirs in him, and he grabs my hips,
dragging me closer,
pulling me flush to him,
needing me wrapped around him.
His fingers sink into my skin,
his head falling to mine,
where his lips hover open,
breathing rough into my mouth.
“You gonna hate me tomorrow for this?” he whispers.
I sneak my finger into the bowl,
dip it into the custard.
Then I paint his bottom lip—
one golden swipe
across his perfect fucking mouth.
“I already hate you.”
It lands as a confession.
A truth woven in the spaces between.
My smile creeps in.
His shows up right after,
pressed right up against mine.
Like my smile unlocked his.
Then he’s moving slow,
his mouth skimming my bottom lip,
dragging custard with it.
I tilt my chin up for more.
He kisses my top lip,
sucking it soft into his mouth.
Next, my bottom,
teeth sinking into the plump.
Then he catches my mouth full.
And the kiss spreads warm.
I suck the sweet off his lip,
taking him deeper,
He groans, his hand lifting,
sliding up over the side of my neck,
behind my ear,
into my hair, holding me here.
He tastes like Italian custard and coffee.
And then we’re fused everywhere.
Mouth to mouth,
hands clinging skin, holding, keeping.
Just attached. And that’s worse.
Because there’s nothing to hide behind.
Then our mouths fall open,
and his tongue slides in,
dragging heat across mine.
And we both lean in, melt,
breathe out together,
the kiss knocking the fight out of us.
Every part of me dissolves into him—
lips, hips, chest, pulse, breath—
and the kiss doesn’t stop.
It deepens,
holds,
pulls.
Spills into all of me like a slow exhale.
Like opening the front door
to the house I made up in my head.
Like taking off my shoes.
Like laying back in the bed.
His mouth breaks an inch,
breath ragged, lips grazing.
“Fuck—I missed your mouth like a damn fool.” Forehead to mine, he’s panting across my lips—“Almost three weeks. I’m not doin’ that again. I’ll lose my fuckin’ mind.” He drags his lips down mine, groaning against them—“Every day, Sonny. I need this—you—every day.”
His eyes flick up to mine,
back to my mouth.
“Say okay,” he whispers.
I whisper it back—
“Okay.”
Then the kiss breaks opens,
lips parting wider, wetter,
desperation fast, but slow to make it last,
groans muffling between us.
When we break to breathe,
a damp trail is left behind, my bottom lip slick.
He pulls me in and licks it clean,
tongue rolling back inside again,
mouth dragging mine under,
hungrier, kiss full, everything glazed.
I hook my legs and drag him closer.
And then he’s holding me,
lifting me off the counter,
setting my feet on the ground.
He breaks the kiss with a sigh.
“That kitchen’s dead to me.
“I’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.
“I’m tryna get you in my arms and pass the fuck out—heart to heart, no bullshit.”
I lean back on my heels.
Cuddling? In your arms?
Nah.
Cuddling sounds cute. So does oral.
Thought maybe we give me an orgasm,
then just lay there.
On our backs.
Side by side.
Staring up.
Nothing touching.
His hand slides into mine,
and he opens the basement door.
“What—big bad Sonny can’t cuddle?
“Too fuckin’ cool to hold me?”
My brow goes up.
“Uh-huh. Cuddling, with that hard-on?”
He grips his cock,
both adjusting it and comforting it.
“This? This is my default setting when you’re in the room, angel. You breathe and I’m hard, aight? Welcome to my life. Still ain’t tryna fuck.” His mouth tugs into a grin. “All I want is you in my arms. That’s it.”
He’s a fucking liar.
My smile kicks in before I can stop it,
my head’s shaking.
And then I take the first step down,
and the stairs tilt into a memory,
time folding in on itself,
taking me back to that night at Type,
guiding Andrew down those stairs—
sweaty palms, wrecked heart,
the taste of something terrifying and right only seconds away.
Each step down clicks into place,
a reel unspooling.
The way we let go into each other,
how we held on tight.
The look on his face just before I slipped through the exit.
That night, I was falling into a stranger
I thought I could never have again.
This time? I’m walking into the arms
of the one I can’t seem to let go.
Which means this fall’s going to be one I don’t come back from.