39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
The next two days fly by in a blur of homemade meals, card games, and Trinte being the best caretaker in existence.
If you'd told me a man could take care of me, even help bathe me, without a single wandering eye moment … I would’ve laughed at you. Yet, Trinte accomplished it without breaking a sweat. After the first night, things became easier as the hours passed.
So on day four, when I can lift my arm with some vague tenderness and tightness, disappointment has me confused. I should feel smothered or annoyed at someone in the same space, but instead, I’m dreading the moment he leaves.
Without meaning to, we’ve become friends. More than friends.
The easiest thing would be to ask him out on a date. Throw out my rule about dating people from the gym.
But it’s not just about that, is it? It’s more than avoiding being labeled as a battle bunny.
Trinte has so much that he needs to be addressing.
The nightmares didn’t return, but it’s probably a fluke.
On top of that, I still have three more questions.
Each one needs to be meaningful. Not just so I have a more clear picture of who he is, but so he can also have a more clear picture of who I am.
Trinte’s cooking in the kitchen when I step out of the bedroom.
Wearing a white tank top that shows off his muscles and gray sweatpants that show a little more than I bargained for …
he looks delicious. Especially with the messy bun holding his hair.
I roll my arm, testing its range of motion.
My wing still feels weak, but I think a couple more days will do the trick.
He looks up, a light in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “Morning, Firefly. How’d you sleep?”
Wiping sleep from my eyes, I smile. “Look what I can do.”
When I raise my right arm, he grins. “Look at you, raising your arm like a big girl.”
I stick out my tongue, and he laughs, bringing a mug of steaming coffee over. “Coffee with one sugar and an obscene amount of hazelnut creamer.”
Smelling the delightful brew, I say, “If it’s one drop less than obscene, I’ll know.”
He returns to the stove, stirring my eggs. “And what, pray tell, will you do about it?”
My eyes rove his back, down to his taut ass, and further along his blue tail. This kitchen is too small for him, yet he looks right at home. “Spit it on you?”
Trinte casts me a wicked grin over his broad shoulder. “I really hope you spit in me.”
It’s the first time he’s flirted with me this entire time. Tension I hadn’t been aware of loosens around my heart. As if a small tender part of me was afraid he’d stopped being interested. Which is stupid, because he slept on the floor for three nights to take care of me. Of course he’s interested.
The idea of spitting on him is intriguing. I hop onto one of the counters, the cold tile biting into my bare thighs. I’m wearing a strapless bra and pajama shorts. It’s natural around him now, but as he turns to face me, it feels more exposing than ever before.
Emboldened by the way his eyes linger on the tops of my thighs, I say, “You want me to spit hazelnut coffee on you?”
Despite the egg-covered spatula in his hand, this blue Dragon looks menacing as he says, “On me? No, Firefly.” He points at his now-widening mouth. “In me.”
Despite having taken a sip of the coffee, my mouth goes dry. Three days of platonic conversation, and now my imagination is running wild.
I need to stave off the desire beginning to throb in my core. “Fairly certain that doctors aren’t supposed to say those things to their patients.”
Trinte turns back to the stove, pulling the pan off. “You can wash your own armpits now. Fairly certain that means you no longer need a caretaker.”
Ignoring how those words make my heart ache, I cannonball into this flirtation. “Well, then, what does that make you?”
Spooning my breakfast onto a plate, he says, “Whatever you want me to be, Firefly.”
I take another sip of the coffee. It’s delicious, but I’m not willing to let go of the visual of Trinte on his knees … “This coffee sucks.”
He freezes, then slowly turns around. An amused smile plays on his lips. “Does it now?”
Lifting the mug, I frown. “It’s at least two drops short of being enough.”
Trinte tilts his head, assessing me. “Are you feeling vengeful over coffee, Kyrielle?”
Holding his gaze, I part my thighs enough to catch his attention. He swallows hard; the tip of his tail curls toward me.
“I think so,” I say conversationally. With a pained sigh, I shake my head in sadness. “Looks like someone deserves some poorly made hazelnut coffee.”
Trinte takes a step closer, which, in this small kitchen, almost puts him between my thighs. “Punishments so early in the morning? You’re a demanding former patient, Firefly.”
My legs part a little more. “Just keeping standards high.”
Neither of us breathes as this tension between us coils tighter and tighter. Without saying a word or looking away, Trinte lowers onto one knee. Then the other. Positioning his head at the perfect height for so many things.
His deep voice is low and melodic as he says, “Well, cruel mistress, are you going to deliver my punishment?”
My thumb presses against his chin. “Open wide.”
Trinte parts his lips, sticking out his tongue. Heart rattling against my ribs, I take a sip of my coffee. He watches me swish it around in my mouth. When I lean over, his eyes flutter close.
In what becomes one of the wildest moments of my life, I spit the hazelnut coffee into his mouth. Some splashes the edges of his lips, but most of it goes right down his throat.
He swallows, then lazily licks up the rogue splashes. When his eyes reopen, it’s with a newfound heat that boils my blood.
Inspired, I murmur, “And what do we say?”
“Thank you.” He says the words with so much sincerity, it only increases the need building in my belly.
Those two words awaken something inside me for the first time. Taking another sip of my coffee, I frown. “Oh, no.”
Enthralled, Trinte watches my every move as he says, “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot you messed it up and took another sip.”
“Would you like to punish me again?” He says, curious. This man would probably let me spit into his mouth all morning if I asked. Actually, no.
He definitely would.
While it’s incredibly tempting, I shake my head. There’s something I want — need — more.
Tapping a finger to my lips, I say, “I need help getting the bad taste out of my mouth.”
Heat blazes in his expression. I love the sound of his breath turning ragged. “Any ideas on how to accomplish that?”
I beckon him to stand with a crooked finger.
In a flash, he’s upright, consuming the space again.
Filling my senses with his presence. Blood throbs between my legs.
Widening my thighs to accommodate his hips, I grab his shirt to tug him closer.
His hands brace against the counter, close enough to my hips that I can feel their heat.
This is one of those moments where it’s impossible to turn back once the line is crossed. Even though I’m confused about what we are, or how he feels, I’m hoping he’s willing to cross it.
Our mouths are barely a fist-distance apart as I whisper, “Help me replace the flavor with your taste, Trinte.”
Without a beat of hesitation, his lips crash against mine. As our tongues collide in greedy strokes, it’s as if no time has passed at all. Like our last kiss was merely on pause, and this is the organic continuation.
My hands slide along his broad chest, settling behind his neck. Rough hands grab my hips and slam our bodies together. We moan at the same time; I devour the sound like it’s sustenance for my soul.
He spent three days taking care of me, offering me nothing but dignity and respect.
Right now, I want to be very undignified and spend the morning being absolutely disrespected.
But Trinte’s loosening his grip and his energy recedes. When the kiss breaks, it’s gentle and with reverence. The fingers gripping my ass cheeks relax.
“What’s wrong?” I ask between breaths.
Trinte looks at me with a mix of happiness and fear, breath ragged. “I don’t want to fuck this up, Kyrielle.”
Bringing a hand to his cheek, I shake my head. “You can’t.”
His mouth thins, and he straightens, hands falling to his sides. “I absolutely can.”
Hurt twinges in my chest. “Are you saying you regret kissing me?”
“Never,” he says fiercely. “Ever.” He runs his hands over my thighs, but it’s more of a soothing gesture than a sexual one. “But if the last few days have taught me anything, it’s that you are incredibly important to me.”
Trinte says the words, still not looking at me. The worry of rejection melts away. Curling my fingers around the edges of his hands, I say softly, “You’re important to me, too, Trinte.”
His expression’s pained. “I want to take this slow, Kyrielle. I want us to both be sure before we have sex again. If we ever have sex again.” He swallows hard. “And I don’t want that to happen until you know everything.”
I squeeze his hands. “That’s fine. I like slow. But …” I hesitate, considering my words. “Can we clarify what we can consider sex? Because I really want to kiss you again.”
Trinte huffs out a breathy laugh. “Kissing is definitely not sex.”
I pull his hands back to my hips, then wrap my arms around his neck. Our breaths mingle as we stare at one another. “Kiss me again, Trinte.”
“You’ll never have to ask twice,” he mutters before placing a gentle kiss on my lips. A slow, methodical exploration replaces the urgency from before. In this kiss, there are so many unsaid things. Unspoken promises and pleas.
One of his hands grazes my spine while the other one cups my face, brushing my hair aside so he can pepper kisses down the column of my neck. There’s nothing I’d like more than for him to go lower … so much lower.
“Goddess,” he murmurs after delivering one more reverent kiss. “What are you doing to me, Kyrielle?”
Before I can answer, he turns away and grabs my plate of now-tepid eggs. Stabbing the yellow lumps, he lifts the fork to my mouth.
Maintaining eye contact, I let him feed me. Because that’s what you do when a dashingly handsome man offers to hand feed you breakfast.