Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rayne
Ifeel amazing as I enter the kitchen, wrapped in a peach satin robe. The space is a chef’s dream—all stainless steel and white marble. I pull open the fridge, surveying the labeled containers. DK did good. Gourmet, but not pretentious. I’m starving, but since it’s late, I go for lighter fare.
“How about shrimp and bok choy over coconut rice?”
“I’m down for whatever.”
He grabs a bottle of white while I peel back the lid and slide the foil tray into the oven, following the heating instructions to the letter.
Ginger and soy start to bloom in the air.
DK, dressed in gray sweats and a black tank, is giving sexy-at-home vibes.
But him in a durag adds that extra punch of heat.
As if the orgasms he’d already given me had only whet my appetite, I’m ready to climb him all over again.
I calm myself down and settle into the comfortable domestic rhythm.
I find napkins, utensils, and stoneware in the cabinets. DK pours the wine.
I open the sliding door and step barefoot onto the deck. It smells like honeysuckle. The lake ripples under a warm breeze, and the sky is streaked with deep pinks and vermillion like a postcard come to life.
“For my lady,” he says, joining me. The term should feel outdated, but coming from him—with that look—it feels like he’s handing me a crown.
I take the glass of chilled Chardonnay, my fingers brushing his.
“A toast,” he proposes.
I nod, caught in the gravity of his gaze.
“To the way we met. And the way it circled back. Complicated, yes. But I wouldn’t change a single thing if it still brings me here with you.”
Flutters take over my chest and stomach. Not the nervous, giddy kind. These are different. They’re warm, deep, and strong. The speed bumps are gone. I’m not sure they were ever really there.
He brings out a part of me that I felt I had to hide.
He doesn’t judge. He just gives me the space to talk, to explore, and a soft place to land.
It doesn’t feel like the reckless rush of falling for someone way too soon.
It feels like a natural build, a progression.
I already feel like we know each other better than Hollis and I ever did.
“How am I supposed to keep my guard up when you say things like that?”
“You don’t have to be on guard with me, Luna.”
“I know. That’s why my best-laid plans lasted all of five minutes.”
The warmth in his eyes tells me he prizes my honesty as much as my surrender.
“To this weekend,” I say, clinking my glass to his. “And deepening our connection.”
When the oven beeps, DK plates the food like a master. A perfect circle of rice, draped with bok choy, the shrimp fanned out on top with the ginger-soy drizzled over it like a dark, glistening waterfall.
“I think you missed your calling.”
He brushes his lips across mine before carrying the plates to the table. He puts on something jazzy from his playlist, and we take our time—lingering over bites, with playful foot touches under the table and lazy grins across it.
Afterward, DK insists on cleaning up. “Why don’t you find an episode of Real Housewives for us?” he suggests.
“You’re not serious.”
“Sure.” He takes my shoulders and points me toward the living room. “I might like it.”
That doesn’t seem remotely possible. This man lives on news cycles and polling data. Reality TV is not on-brand. Still, it’s cute that he wants to experience something I enjoy.
I consider which of the old episodes of RHOA I should put on.
None of the current stuff beats the vintage drama of NeNe, Shereé, and Kim in all their chaotic glory.
From the wig shift to the iconic “who gon’ check me, boo,” I’m there for it.
But I’d read that the stimuli from screens before bed can make insomnia worse.
I’d suggest meditation, but DK already told me he doesn’t like it.
I’m weighing relaxing options when DK drops onto the sofa beside me, holding out a gold-wrapped box I recognize instantly.
“Godiva.” I launch at him, peppering his face with kisses.
“I think I have my answer,” he says, mock offended.
“To what?”
“Earlier. Would You Rather.”
“Oh, right, you or Godiva? You think I’m picking this?” I say, biting into soft-centered ganache, moaning like it’s a spiritual experience.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “I can’t compete with Belgian chocolate.”
“True.” I lift my legs over his, taking another bite. “This is my first love. But you can be my side piece.”
He captures my foot and tickles me, attacking my most vulnerable spots.
“DK!” I yank away, laughing, twisting out of his grip. “That’s pure evil to use my nighttime confessions against me.”
“Payback for your disrespect,” he says, fighting a grin.
“Aw… don’t be jealous, boo. We can always have a threesome,” I tease, giving him a chocolatey kiss.
The playfulness melts into something tender as he takes my legs back, giving me a foot massage that curls my toes.
“Where’s the show?” he asks.
“It’s late. I thought we could just chill upstairs.”
“That sounds even better.”
While brushing our teeth side by side, our gazes meet in the mirrored reflection above the double sinks, and I note he squeezes his toothpaste from the bottom, too. Another checkmark.
I lay out my skincare products on the counter—cleanser, toner, hydrating serum, eye cream, and moisturizer. While I tuck my curls inside a satin bonnet, DK picks up each bottle, sniffing the contents and reading the labels.
“Is this for vitiligo?” he asks.
“Not specifically. I always use plenty of sunscreen protection, but this is just because I like the way it makes my skin feel.”
“Soft and silky,” he says, running his knuckles down my cheek. “You do this every night?”
“And morning.”
“So what, you’re up at four to get ready for work?”
I swat his hand away, laughing. “It’s not that much.” Then I take a couple of sheet masks out of my travel bag. “How about a facial? It feels nice, and it’s relaxing.”
He studies me for a moment, that analytical brain at work. “Is this because you’re worried about my insomnia?”
“In part,” I admit
“That’s why you didn’t want to watch your show?”
“I’ve seen it a dozen times.”
“That’s not the point, is it?” Agitation bleeds through his calm, pinching his brows and tightening his jaw. “You were… what? Protecting me?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“I don’t need mothering, Luna.”
“Seriously?” I toss the masks back into the pouch and walk out into the bedroom, taking a breath. Striving for control before my temper rears up and consumes us both.
“Luna?” he says behind me, a few moments later. “I’m sorry. Really.”
I turn to him, his eyes pleading with mine. “It’s a sore spot. I saw my family’s worry in you. The hyper-focus on whether I’m sleeping or not. But my reaction was uncalled for.”
“I understand,” I say, although I don’t—not entirely. “Can we talk about it?”
“We have.”
“You’ve told me you struggle with insomnia, but no details.”
“It’s noise… busyness. Sometimes it’s a replay of the day, or a situation that sticks. Other times, there’s nothing specific I can catch, just my brain running on high.”
“Is the noise there tonight?”
“Not yet. It’s the quiet when everything gets loud. But I don’t want to take meds and crash on you or be groggy in the morning.”
“Do what you need to take care of yourself.”
“I don’t want to need them.”
“There’s no shame in it.”
He makes a noise that sounds like sharp disagreement. “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”
Just like he offered to do at the hotel. “Then what?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t do anything without a plan.
“If I don’t fall asleep, I’ll go to the room next door.”
I take his hands—large, warm, and buzzing with restless energy. “Exiling yourself to another room isn’t the answer. I want you here with me.”
“I want to share a bed with you, Luna. Of course, I do. But it can be… a lot when the insomnia hits. It’s not just lying still.”
“Then we’ll deal with it together.”
His eyes flick down to mine, something honest and reluctant in them. “I’m not good at that. Sharing my problems.”
“Do you want this, DK? You and me?”
“You know I do.”
“Then this is what it means. We share shit. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”
“You don’t have any ugly.”
“I was a second away from going off on you. My temper is not pretty.”
“So you’ve said. But I find that hard to believe.”
I roll my eyes. “Boy, do not test me.”
He laughs, then pulls me into his arms. “Am I forgiven?”
“Are you staying in this bed with me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay then. You’re forgiven.” I slide my hand into his hair. “I read that partnered orgasms can help with relaxation. It’s supposed to release hormones that serve as natural anti-stressors.”
He kisses the side of my neck, nipping the skin. “You had me at partnered orgasms.”
I blink against the dark in that split second of where-am-I? before remembering I’m at the lake house. It’s deathly still, but something had pulled me out of deep, post-orgasmic sleep.
Now alert, I realize his warmth is missing. I turn over, finding his empty pillow and a pocket of cool space on the sheets where he’d been. If he’s retreated to the other bedroom, I’ll be crushed.
I sit up and see him in the armchair, silhouetted against the moonlight. He’s pulled on a pair of shorts, his head is down, clutching something in his hand.
“DK?” I whisper, not to startle him.
He slowly lifts his head, squinting without his glasses. His gaze is weary in a way that makes my heart ache.
“Hey,” he murmurs, the low gravel of his voice barely carries across the room. “Did I wake you?”
“No. The bed just felt too big.”
“I can come lie with you so you can get back to sleep.”
I ignore his suggestion. He’s a natural at taking care of me, but resists the role in reverse. I climb out of bed, the AC cool against my bare skin. I find my robe, slip it on, and cross to him.
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask, kneeling on the rug in front of him.
“Yeah, but I woke up an hour later. I tried to ride it out next to you, but… I was too wired.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Everything. Nothing.”
I see the bottle of pills in his hand. “Did you take one?”
“No.” His sigh is so heavy it seems to deflate his whole frame. “It’s a crutch, Luna. How will I ever get free of it if I rely on pills all the time?”
“You don’t always, but sometimes you need them, and that’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel okay not to be able to get to sleep on my own. It’s an endless loop. A fucking broken record.”
His exhaustion and frustration are warring against each other in a fight he won’t win tonight. I uncurl his stiff fingers from around the bottle and set it aside to take his hand in mine. “Come back to bed. You don’t have to sleep, but you don’t have to be over here in the dark by yourself either.”
He stands up with me and lets himself lean a little.
I climb into bed first. Not giving DK a chance to go around to his side, I pull him down, wrapping myself around him, my arms and legs cradling his shoulders and hips.
I run my fingers over his shoulder blades and up the back of his neck, my thumbs pressing into the tight, knotted muscles where he carries his stress.
“Let your mind go,” I murmur, slipping off his durag. “Just focus on how this feels.”
DK exhales a soft groan, his eyes closing, his body sinking deeper into the mattress—and into me.
Moving steadily, I use the pads of my fingers to knead the tension away, tracing the edge of his hairline toward his ear. I take my time, gently rubbing the sensitive spot behind his earlobe, feeling his breath sigh against my chest, the only sound in the room.
I shift my hand higher, my fingers weaving through his hair, massaging his scalp. I make slow, circular motions, working from the base of his skull up to the crown and back again, feeling the dense strands beneath my fingertips.
His forehead rests against my collarbone, his cheek on my breasts. I hear his breaths finally slowing, the jagged edges smoothing out to match my own. When my fingers pause for a moment, his arms tighten around my waist—a silent appeal to keep going.
I smile into the dark. It’s a quiet kind of trust that lets him share the weight with me—at least for a little while. I trace the shell of his ear before returning to the roots of his hair, my fingertips staying there until his breath deepens into the heavy pull of sleep.