Chapter Eleven #2
They talked between bites. Small things at first. Favorite movies.
Bad first dates. The worst food trends they’d ever endured.
Lane learned that Lennox hated watermelon with a passion, bordering on moral outrage.
Lennox learned Lane believed raisins in potato salad should result in community exile.
Then somehow, over the last few fries and half a slice of sweet potato pie, they wandered into childhood.
Lennox told her he’d played basketball seriously. Not just good-for-the-neighborhood good. Not just tall kid who could dunk by sophomore year good.
Top pick good.
“Wait.” Lane turned in the booth to face him. “You’re telling me you could’ve gone pro?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.. Coaches and scouts were showing up at every game. My father had people talking NIL before NIL was legal.”
Lane stared. “You were a top basketball prospect, and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”
“You didn’t ask,” he shrugged.
“I didn’t know there was an athletic DLC package to download.”
Lennox laughed. “I loved the game.”
The smile faded a little.
Lane caught it. “But?”
“But my father found out what I could do with computers.” He turned his fork against the plate, eyes lowering briefly. “After that, basketball became a hobby he tolerated as long as it didn’t interfere with what he thought I was actually useful for.”
Lane’s anger rose fast and hot. She didn’t pity Lennox, but she recognized what it was like to have your joy stolen from you by a parent. Lane reached under the table and found his hand as he looked down at their joined fingers.
This time, she squeezed first. That squeeze made him comfortable enough to tell her about his position and just how great he was before his father learned he could hack a hacker. There was a sadness that she’d never seen from Lennox.
“What’s your favorite color?” she nosed.
The pivot made his brows lift. “Random.”
“I know your tragic hacker origin story and your basketball grief. I need regular facts too.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Black and green.”
She paused. “Green?”
“Deep green, what’s yours?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
“Lavender.”
“No surprise there.”
“And orange,” she added.
His gaze swept over her. “I remember.”
She refused to blush this time on principle. “What’s your favorite food?” she asked.
“Depends on the day. Oxtails if my aunt makes them. A good steak or some seafood pasta if my mother makes it.”
“Breakfast?”
He grimaced.
Lane leaned forward. “What?”
“I hate breakfast eggs.”
The world paused as Lane slowly set down her fork. “I’m sorry. Say that again.”
“I hate breakfast eggs.”
She stared at him, and he stared back. “You too?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed in interest. “You hate eggs?”
“With my whole chest. Scrambled eggs smell like wet punishment.”
Lennox’s laugh boomed out of him, startling Keisha at the counter.
Lane pointed at him, delighted. “Yes! And boiled eggs? Devil marbles.”
“Devil marbles is crazy,” he laughed.
“Accurate though and omelets are just folded lies,” she giggled.
Lennox grinned at her like she’d just given him a ring.
And Lane, against all survival instinct, felt a new level of smitten unlock inside her.
Not because of the poem or money. Not because of the dinner or the way he held her like he was learning a new language through touch. Because the man hated breakfast eggs.
Lane had spent years armoring herself against grand gestures and pretty words.
But this? This small, ridiculous overlap?
This made him feel less like a force of nature and more like a person she could know.
A person she could learn in pieces. A person who might sit across from her on a regular morning and complain about omelets like they were a civic issue.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Lennox looked at her. “What?”
She shook her head. “Absolutely nothing.”
His smile turned knowing. “You like me more now.”
“I found one tolerable trait.”
“Lane, it’s okay if you’re smitten”
She gave him a look, but she was smiling too wide to sell it.
After they paid, Lennox walked her to the car with his fingers threaded through hers. Not tight. Not possessive in the old way. Just there, palm warm, thumb brushing over hers every few steps. When he opened the passenger door, she looked at him for a long moment.
Back at his place, the house was quiet, the lavender from dinner still faint in the air.
Lane stood in the foyer for a moment, suddenly aware of the turn the night had taken.
Open mic, diner, and Jeanette. His hand in hers and the strange intimacy of learning someone’s favorite foods while their family wounds sat between plates of catfish and pie.
Lennox locked the door behind them, not touching her immediately. That was what made her turn. He stood near the entryway, watching her with the kind of restraint that looked like effort.
Lane swallowed. “Robot.”
His eyes warmed. “Lavender.”
“If you say anything stupid, I’m going upstairs.”
“Then I won’t.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
She smiled, and that was all it took. He crossed the space slowly, giving her time to change her mind, and when she didn't, he cupped her face with both hands like he'd been waiting all night to hold her that way.
The kiss was soft, too soft for what burned between them. Lane expected heat first. Lennox had always known how to turn want into a wildfire. Their chemistry had never needed help finding a match. Lane answered by rising on her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck.
His breath left him.
Then his mouth moved over hers again, deeper this time but still careful, still patient, still reverent in a way that made her chest ache harder than desire alone ever could.
They made it upstairs slowly. Not because they lacked urgency but because Lennox kept stopping. At the bottom of the stairs, to kiss her forehead. Halfway up, to ask if she was okay.
In the hallway, to press her back gently against the wall and kiss her like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of her mouth when she wasn't hiding behind sarcasm.
By the time they reached his bedroom, Lane's hands were shaking, not from fear, but from too many feelings trying to live in one body. Lennox noticed as he took her hands and kissed her knuckles. "We don't have to."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
He searched her face. "Tell me what you want."
Lane's answer should've been easy.
Her body knew what it wanted. It had known since the diner, maybe since the stage, maybe since he stood beneath those lights and called her beautiful without making it about what he wanted from her.
But what she wanted was more than sex. That was the terrifying part. She wanted closeness without performance. Pleasure without armor. Touch without having to wonder what it would cost when morning came.
She wanted him. Not the chaos. Not the chase. Not the half-truth version of him that hid behind arrogance.
This Lennox.
The one trying.
"You," she said.
The word landed between them.
Lennox's eyes darkened, but he didn't rush.
He undressed her with a patience that nearly undid her.
Each piece removed like an offering, not a conquest. Hat first, set carefully on the dresser.
Fanny pack. Chains. Earrings. Sweatshirt.
Jeans. Sneakers. Each time, his hands paused, and his eyes returned to hers, asking without making her say the word unless she needed to.
Lane let herself be seen. When his mouth touched her shoulder, she closed her eyes. When his hands settled at her waist, she let herself lean into them. When he whispered her name like something sacred, she stopped correcting him with a joke.
"Look at me," he said, and his voice had dropped to that register that made her stomach tighten. "I want to watch your face when I make you feel good."
He guided her back onto the bed, following her down, settling between her thighs with a weight that felt like possession and permission all at once. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, each kiss followed by the rasp of his voice against her skin.
"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?" he murmured, his hand sliding down her stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of her underwear with infuriating precision. "Thinking about my mouth on you. My fingers inside you. Tell me I'm not the only one who's been going crazy."
Lane arched when his hand slipped lower, parting her, finding her already wet and wanting. The sound he made in response was filthy, grateful, reverent.
"Fuck, Lane. Feel how ready you are for me." He circled her slowly, watching her face with predatory focus. "This is what you do to me. All night, every night. You make me want to be inside you so deep you forget where you end and I begin."
His fingers worked her with deliberate rhythm, pressing just where she needed, drawing out soft sounds she didn't recognize as her own. When she whimpered, he leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.
"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. No more hiding. I want to know exactly how good this feels." He added pressure, sliding two fingers inside her while his thumb stayed busy, relentless. "You take me so fucking well. Look how perfect you are, taking what I give you. You want more?"
"Yes," she gasped, her hips lifting to meet his hand.
"Say it."
"I want more. I want you."
He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into hers. "Good girl."
He stripped off his clothes with the same care he'd shown hers, but his eyes never left her, hungry and consuming. When he settled over her again, skin to skin, the heat of him against her inner thigh made her shudder.
"Tell me if I'm too much," he said, guiding himself to her entrance, sliding through her wetness with a slow, teasing pressure that made her toes curl.
"Tell me if you need me to stop. But god, Lane, I hope you don't. I hope you let me fuck you the way I've been dreaming about.
Slow and deep until you're crying my name. "