21 - Strawberries and Bananas
Logan
I throw the ingredients into the blender: banana, berries, spinach, kale, a dollop of honey, and a healthy scoop of protein powder. My eyes flick to Cordelia, sleeping on the couch, her perfectly symmetrical face pressed against the silken cushion.
Last night when we’d finished fucking each other. Scratch that—when I’d finished fucking her. I ran her a warm bath with too many bubbles. I’m not kidding, they were spilling over the side. Turns out half a bottle is a bit overkill.
For a while, I sat quietly with her, mesmerised by her beauty.
The mere act of watching her soaking in the tub had my cock ready for round two.
So instead of forcing myself onto her like some vulgar Neanderthal, I left her to relax and headed downstairs to clean up the mess.
The intoxicating scent of her pussy contaminated the room and didn’t help my case at all.
In fact, as I scrubbed the puddles off the floorboards, the sudden urge to lick it up was overwhelming.
I didn’t, though. Even I’m not that disgusting.
We slept on the couch because Cordelia wasn’t comfortable sleeping in my bed. Which was fine by me. It didn’t matter how we slept, as long as her petite form was moulded around mine. Besides, after she padded downstairs in one of my hoodies, we stayed up for a good hour talking.
The power button sets the blender whirring, a sure- fire way to wake Sleeping Beauty.
But that’s the point. We have an appointment to attend.
Her head shoots up off the pillow, a veiled expression of irritation in her eyes.
Cute. When she sees me smiling from behind the island, her brows furrow and she frowns.
I scoff.
Good morning to you too, sunshine.
“What’s with all the noise?” She groans, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and struggling to re-adjust to the morning light filtering through the windows.
“Rustling us up some breakfast,” I say, dividing the liquid between two glasses.
Curiosity piqued, she wanders over to investigate. I hold the smaller glass out to her, and she stares into it. Scrunching up her face, she turns her back on me.
“Not hungry.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. This girl’s stubbornness, seriously.
“Cordelia,” I trail her name from my lips, using the same tone from last night when I dared her to put her arse in my face. Secretly, I wished she had. I’d have stuffed her tight hole full of my cum and had her begging for mercy at my feet. Inexperienced or not, she knew exactly what she was doing.
A frustrated huff spills from her lips. She spins back, snatches the shake from my hand, and shoots me a dirty look.
“Are you going to be this much of an arsehole for the whole nine months?”
Tilting my head this way and that, I pretend to consider her question.
Keeping my eyes on her, I lift the glass to my lips and take a large gulp.
She watches the liquid run down my throat; those irresistible eyes magnetised to the movement.
My lips twitch. “All depends on whether you plan to start looking after yourself.”
Crystal-blue flashes over the rim of the glass. “I didn’t realise I needed your approval.”
A slow smile tugs at my lips. “You don’t,” I fire back. “But clearly you need someone to remind you how to behave.”
An adorable growl comes from the back of her throat. It makes me want to nail her to the counter again and show her what a real growl sounds like.
“Bathroom,” I say instead, pointing in that direction. Before my dick wins the fight with my brain and does the latter. “You can clean up in there. Don’t take too long, though. We’re on the clock.”
The room remains still. When she doesn’t move, I clear my throat pointedly.
“Did you need help with any of that, darlin?”
Her lips part in a silent gasp, cheeks flushing adorably, as if we hadn’t seen each other stark naked last night.
My dick strains against my jeans. If she says yes, I can reschedule the doctors, but she doesn’t.
She does, however, smile sweetly—flip me her middle finger, slam her empty glass on the counter so hard it almost shatters, and storm off down the hall.
She’s cute as hell, thinking she’s intimidating when she’s barely five foot four and weighs about 60kg. So easy to throw around the bedroom.
I crack open a tin of tuna from the cupboard. I’m busy demolishing the last of the protein-rich goodness when she returns, a little less hot and flustered. Her eyes drop to the can in my hands before backtracking to my face. A single eyebrow lifts; quietly judging me.
I tilt my head to the side, curiosity softening my gaze
“Never seen a guy eat fish before?”
She blinks but recovers quickly.
“No,” she says with a poker face. “Not from the tin, and definitely not for breakfast.” She glances away, folding her arms across her chest. The movement pushes her breasts closer together, accentuating her already ample cleavage against the scooped neckline of her pink chiffon blouse. “What a weirdo.”
Cordelia mutters that last sentence to herself, but unfortunately for her, I have acute hearing, according to the audiologist. So nothing slips past my keen ears.
Each step I take has her shrinking toward the counter.
I love the effect my presence has on her.
The way her pupils dilate when I’m nearby.
The way her back stiffens as if her brain is struggling to decide the best course of action, which she inevitably gets wrong—every time.
And that subtle hint of a tell: her toes shifting inwards, the slight tremor in her knees betraying her balance.
It all makes me rock fucking hard.
“Better get used to it,” I tell her.
Her death stare isn’t as menacing as she hopes. She’s about as intimidating as a fluffy bunny. But the shards of green swirling in the depths of blue have me hypnotised. Flipping her ponytail over her shoulder in that sassy way she always does, she says, “Cox by name. Cock by nature.”
My eyes spark with the urge to spank her bottom again. Cordelia’s fiery. Especially when backed into a corner. Lips twitching against my will, I stare right back: holding her hostage and watching her squirm is quickly becoming one of my favourite pastimes.
I wet my lips with my tongue, and her eyes chase the movement.
“Time to go.”
Then I turn away from her and stride towards the door. I know she’ll follow. I made myself perfectly clear last night about what the consequences entail if she chooses to fight me on this.
“Get in the car,” I nudge her to the passenger side of my Aston Martin. Canary yellow. Had to wait bloody months for the customisation and chrome spray over. Was worth it, though.
“I’m fine, Logan,” she grumbles, dragging her eyes away from a cluster of birds in the distance, long enough to flash me an icy glare. “I haven’t even been sick today. Why is there three?”
Her voice trails off, quiet, distracted.
My head jerks to the side, and I can’t help but glare at the noisy critters, plucking helpless worms from the ground.
“How should I know? I don’t go around counting wildlife, Cordelia. C’mon.”
My eyes flit back to the car.
“I’m fine,” she repeats.
That’s a blatant lie, and my shoulders stiffen in response to her dishonesty. There’s enough deceit in the world. It has no place in relationships.
That’s what this is, right?
“Do I have idiot stamped on my forehead or something?” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb because my father’s words just came right out of my mouth.
“You woke me up this morning with the retching. The only reason I didn’t come hold your hair back was because I thought you might need some space. ”
Her pretty eyes snap to mine, vulnerability behind the sea of blue. “It’s Sunday,” she props her hands on her hips. “They won’t be open.”
“They are,” I counter, swinging the door open. “My doctors are open whenever we need them. I’ve called ahead.” I give her a sharp prod with my index finger and she flinches. “In.”
She groans but begrudgingly climbs into the car. And I take that as a win. I close the door and slide into the driver’s seat next to her. The engine roars to life, and Papa Roach: Scars blasts through the stereo.
My fingers fumble for the volume button. When I tuned into my Spotify account last, I was clearly wallowing in self-pity.
“Sorry,” I mumble, side-eyeing her. “I like to make sure my eardrums are well and truly fucked by the time I’m mid-twenties.”
She rolls her eyes and the mere gesture has me wanting to wrap my fingers around her throat.
Fuck. When did my thoughts become this violent?
As I drive along, her head bobs to the beat of the music. It makes me feel warm and fucking fuzzy inside. And it’s a damn sight better than her scowling at me. Although even her pouty glares turn me on.
The white building comes into view over the horizon.
Looking more like a luxury spa or boutique hotel than a doctor’s surgery.
Spread across several sleek, modern buildings, glass-fronted and framed by well-maintained gardens.
Veering off the main road, I follow the long and winding private drive all the way to the security gate, guarded by two burly looking guys in suits.
Cordelia goes rigid when she spots the shiny metal protruding from their pockets, reflecting in the sunlight.
“Don’t worry. No one’s going to touch you without my permission,” I tell her, sweeping that rogue strand of silky blonde hair behind her small ear. “Loads of mafia men get treated here. Place has to be secure.”
She hesitates then slowly nods. Convincing her is easy. Can’t say the same for myself, but she doesn’t need to know that.
The potent, sterile stench transports me straight back to that harrowing night, when I ended up wrapped up in wires and leads, barely kept alive by life support machines.
The screech of trolleys echoes through the corridors, a constant reminder of the night terrors.
This place haunts me—the place Mum took her final breaths, and where Dad cried for days, petrified he’d lost us both.