56. Sophie
FIFTY-SIX
SOPHIE
“Zombies?” I repeat. “Like…” I groan, staggering toward where he’s sitting on the couch.
“God, I love you.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me down next to him and then kisses me in a way that doesn’t leave me doubting his words.
I love living without doubt. I didn’t realize how prevalent it had been in my life until recently and how freeing it has been to not have it seep in through every crack that appears in my confidence. Foster has been like an emotional caulk. Sealing every place that pesky doubt was able to get in before. Keeping my foundation strong.
“Isn’t this that show you and Davis were talking about?” I ask when I see The Last of Us appear on the screen.
“It is.”
“Didn’t you make a point of saying this show was not about zombies?”
“You don’t miss anything, do you?” He sits back, shock all over his face.
“I miss plenty. Half the time I’m in my own head, but when you’re talking I’m dialed in.”
“They aren’t zombies in the traditional sense, but they may as well be.”
“It’s a fungus, right? That’s why they’re not zombie zombies?” He nods and something clicks. “Did you pick that pasta because it was called little ears and…” I gasp. “All the mushrooms. Fungus!” I practically shout, bouncing on the couch to face him. “You made a zombie fungus pasta for dinner? Why is that so damn amazing and gross and delicious, all at the same time?”
He shrugs. “The theme is strong tonight, if not a little off-putting.”
“No,” I insist. “This is amazing. You planned something low-key and intimate, made the perfect dinner to go along with it, and you’re sharing something with me that you love. This is the best way to end the alphabet.” I curl into his side, relaxing as his arm wraps around me and he rests his lips on the top of my head before hitting play.
At the end of the third episode, when I’m an absolute mess from probably the best hour of TV I’ve ever seen, Foster gets up to prepare dessert. When I say I’ll help, he tells me to stay put. Gary crawls into my lap and I give him some much-needed attention.
“Strawberry cheesecake,” Foster says, setting two slices of cake on the coffee table.
“Okay, well, this is a less disturbing ingredient.” I reach for the dessert. “Did you make this?”
“I did,” he says, sitting back down beside me.
“Is there anything you can’t make?” I ask in wonder.
“Caramel,” he states bluntly. “I’ve ruined several pots trying to make that stuff.”
“Oh well, at least that’s not something that you have to make daily.”
Foster watches intently as I take my first bite, those sharp amber eyes not missing a thing as the creamy cake coats my tongue. I do my best to not moan. I do my best to keep my eyes from rolling back into my head. I fail at both and hear a soft stuttered breath from Foster.
“I’m going to let you finish that, sunshine, but when you’re done, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue watching the show later.”
“Oh? Why?” I ask innocently, licking my lips so I can watch him squirm a little more.
He lets me finish every bite. Lets me dab up every crumb and every speck of strawberry. But the minute I set my plate down on the table again, his hands are on me, dragging my body onto his. When his lips meet mine, it’s like a sigh of relief involving my entire body. This is all I want to be doing. I’m convinced at this point that his kisses could sustain me. They are toe curling, spine tingling, thirst quenching, and overwhelming. They are all the things I’ve read about but never experienced until Foster.
Everything with Foster feels like more, and I feel greedy for not being able to get enough.
“Tell me what you want, Soph,” he pleads, his voice already breathless as he strains beneath me.
I’m still trying to get used to someone caring about what I want. And not just caring—no, he wants to know; he demands to know. It’s enough to make me cry.
“Oh, god, what?” He pulls back, horror shining back through those beautiful eyes. “What did I do?”
I shake my head, frantically wiping the tears away. “Nothing. Well, no, everything, but it’s good. These are good, overwhelmed, joyous, blissfully happy, very turned-on tears.” The worry begins to disappear from his face, a small smile appearing in its place. I take his face in my hands, holding him steady so he’s staring back at me. “You. You’re all I want. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
A tear slips down his cheek and I bend to kiss it away, his hands tightening on my waist as my lips connect with his skin. “Don’t cry,” I whisper against his cheek.
He draws my head back smiling. “These are good, overwhelmed, joyous—” He can’t make it through my speech before his lips are back on mine. “Blissfully happy, fucking turned-on tears,” he finally grits out when my hands slip beneath his shirt.
The kiss is interrupted when I pull his shirt up and over his head and then I sit back and admire the view in front of me.
“Fuck, have I mentioned before how hot you are?” I swoon. When I manage to pull my gaze from his chest, I catch the blush spreading, like an ink stain to his hairline. Lifting my right hand, I trace the hint of color over his ear with the tip of my finger.
His eyes flutter shut, his head tipped back, mouth slightly open as I comb my fingers through his hair. His hands shift to my thighs, squeezing in time with the movement of my hands. I look down again and watch his chest rise and fall, an idea forming at the back of my mind.
“Stay put,” I purr against his lips before sliding off his lap, a sound of protest rising from deep within him.
It takes me no time to find what I’m looking for. A bowl of red sits on the counter with a spoon partially submerged. I grab both, and when I turn back toward the living room the look of realization that crosses Foster’s face has me nearly throwing the bowl down and throwing myself at him.
He grins wickedly as I come to a stop in front of him. “What you got there, sunshine?”
Saying nothing, I straddle him again, holding the bowl to the side as I lean forward and take his bottom lip between my teeth. When I pull back, his lips chase mine, but I don’t give in. I lay my hand on his chest and push him back and tip his chin so when I hold the spoon above him he knows what to do.
The red liquid steadily drips toward his mouth, most landing inside but the odd drop sliding over his lip and down his chin. I repeat the process a few times until the drops travel down his neck onto his chest. That’s when I set the bowl aside, slide to the floor, lean forward, and lick up his body. His breath catches the minute my tongue touches him, his hips jumping beneath my chest so I can feel exactly how turned on he is.
Foster’s hands land in my hair, and in one swift motion I rip them away, sitting back, my hands around his wrists. “No touching, Mr. Walsh.” His eyes widen and a tiny surprised laugh escapes, but he nods his agreement. I release my grip, moving my hands to the waistband of his sweatpants and pulling them down. “I love how hard you are for me,” I murmur, tracing a finger up his length, watching the way it follows my touch. “So responsive,” I use his words on him, listening to the tiny sounds he makes in response, watching as he fights to not touch me.
Reaching for the bowl, I drizzle more onto his skin, watching it trail down the lines of his body before finally allowing myself to go back in. I collect the strawberry juice on my tongue, and when I pull back, let it slip through my lips onto his cock before taking him in my mouth.
A faint “Fuuuuck” comes from above me, and I smile as he pushes himself further into my mouth. I hum my approval as he begins a steady rhythm, fucking my mouth. I watch his fist clench out of the corner of my eye, imagining what that hand will do to me when I finally let him touch me. With one final hard suck, I release him and crawl up his strawberry-stained body. His hands remain on the couch, his breathing ragged, eyes clenched shut as I rock into him.
“Foster.” His eyes pop open, revealing pupils that are blown wide. “Touch me.” I don’t need to ask twice.