17. Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
~LILLY~
My heart isn’t just beating, it’s fracturing against my ribs.
I stand frozen at the edge of the dining table, my hands shaky as I frantically smooth down the fabric of my sundress. I touch my hair, praying to God it doesn’t look as wild and thoroughly handled as it feels.
My father is currently stepping across the threshold.
I watch, paralyzed, as Zed casually steps aside, his massive frame shifting just enough to let my dad into the foyer.
Dad’s eyes narrow instantly as his gaze darts straight to Zed’s face.
“Mercer,” he says, his tone dripping with immediate suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
My lungs completely lock up. I look at Zed, wide-eyed with silent terror.
Zed stands there, bordering on entirely bored.
“Lilly forgot her purse in my truck when I dropped her off yesterday.” Zed shrugs, his gravelly voice smooth and entirely devoid of guilt. “I was tied up the rest of the day and couldn’t bring it back. Figured I’d swing by and drop it off before practice this morning.”
The lie is so seamless, so effortlessly delivered, that I almost believe it.
My father’s defensive posture instantly melts. The suspicion vanishes from his face, replaced by a warm, relieved smile.
“Oh! Well, I appreciate you driving out of your way.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Zed says, his eyes sliding over my dad’s shoulder to lock onto mine. A slow, wicked glint of absolute amusement dances in them while Dad continues farther into the house.
“Well, I’ll be heading out,” Zed announces casually, giving my dad a nod before looking back at me, his voice dropping an octave. “Have a nice day, Lilly.”
“Stay for breakfast, Mercer,” my dad calls out, gesturing toward the kitchen counter. “Lilly’s really outdone herself this morning!”
My jaw nearly drops. I turn my head, my eyes following my dad’s hand, and that’s when I finally see it.
The kitchen counter is covered. A gorgeous platter of French toast, bowls of perfectly arranged spreads, and the rich, buttery scent of croissants finishing in the oven. The kitchen looks like a five-star café.
And I didn’t touch a single ingredient.
Zed did all of this?
I look back at him, my brain unable to believe it.
“I don’t want to impose,” Zed says politely, shaking his head. “Family breakfast. I should get going.”
“Nonsense!” my dad barks with a hearty laugh, slapping Zed on his massive shoulder. “Stay. There’s more than enough food here to feed an army, and God knows you need the calories before we hit the ice. Sit down.”
I look at Zed.
Say no. Please. If you have any mercy in your soul, say no and walk out that door.
Zed watches the panic roll off me in waves, and I can see it plainly—he’s having the absolute time of his life.
The dark triumph in his eyes is blinding.
He knows he made this breakfast, and he knows that less than two minutes ago, he had me bent over the very table we’re about to sit at, eating me out until I screamed.
“I mean…” Zed’s lips twist into a slow, devastating smirk. “If you’re insisting… I’d love to.”
My stomach drops.
Of course he would.
My hands shake so badly I can barely balance the platter of French toast as I carry it over to the dining table. I’m moving like a mannequin, every step an agonizing reminder of the wetness still soaking my panties.
I set the food down, feeling his heavy, suffocating gaze tracking my every movement.
“Wow,” he says, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. “This looks incredible.”
He pulls out a chair, still watching me.
“Thank you,” I manage, though my throat is so dry the words barely come out.
Oh, you are going to pay for this.
Before I can decide exactly how, Dad takes his seat and reaches for the pitcher of orange juice. His gaze shifts to Zed, then pauses. His brow furrows.
“You’ve got a little water on your chin there, Mercer.”
My heart stops.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
It isn’t water.
Zed doesn’t even flinch. He reaches for the napkin beside his plate and wipes it across his chin.
“Thanks,” he says.
Then his eyes find mine, and his tongue sweeps lazily over his bottom lip.
I nearly die right there.
I drop into the empty chair between them, praying the table hides how badly my legs are shaking. Dad picks up the remote and turns on the morning sports news, filling the room with the familiar voices of commentators discussing hockey highlights.
The clink of silverware against porcelain sounds like a countdown in my head. I keep my eyes on my plate and concentrate on breathing normally. Across from me, Dad takes a bite of croissant—and his eyes go wide.
He looks at me, genuinely floored.
“I didn’t know you could make things like this. This is better than the bakery downtown.”
“Uh… yeah,” I choke out. “I tried a new recipe.”
“Well, it’s damn good.”
Completely oblivious to the crisis unfolding three feet away, he turns his attention back to the television. A sports anchor is talking about the upcoming season, and Dad immediately launches into an opinion about a rival team’s defense.
I try to focus on him.
I really do.
Then a sudden warmth presses against my leg beneath the table.
I freeze.
Zed’s hand has slipped beneath the edge of the table, his palm settling against the inside of my thigh.
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. Slowly, I turn my head.
He doesn’t look at me. He keeps listening to Dad, cutting another piece of French toast as though nothing unusual is happening. Only his thumb gives him away, moving in a slow, deliberate stroke against my skin.
My pulse jumps.
Heat rushes into my face. I should kick him under the table. I should shove his hand away. I should do anything that suggests I possess even a shred of common sense.
Instead, I lower my eyes and take another bite, pretending Zed Mercer does not currently have his hand under my dress.
His fingers tighten around my thigh.
Dad says something about Tampa’s penalty kill. I have absolutely no idea what it is. Zed apparently does, because he answers without missing a beat, takes another bite, and lets his thumb drift higher.
My breath catches.
Dad glances over. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, far too quickly.
Beside me, Zed’s mouth twitches.
His boot slides forward under the table until it brushes my bare foot, then settles against my ankle.
His hand remains warm and heavy against my skin while he carries on discussing hockey with my father as if this is a perfectly normal breakfast—and as if he isn’t steadily driving me out of my mind.
I’m going to die at this table.
I narrow my eyes at him, silently shooting daggers into the side of his face.
He doesn’t even glance my way.
By the time Dad finishes his coffee and checks his watch, I feel like I’ve survived a war.
“All right, time to move,” Dad says, pushing his chair back. “Practice starts in an hour.” He looks at me, smiling. “Lilly, sweetheart, that was the best damn breakfast I’ve had in years.”
“Everything was delicious,” Zed adds, tapping one long finger suggestively against the inside of my thigh.
My knees snap together around his hand.
Zed’s mouth twitches before he pulls his hand free and stands to his full height as if he hasn’t spent the entire meal trying to make me lose my mind three feet away from my father. He gathers his plate and Dad’s empty mug, then carries them to the sink.
I sit there for another moment, trying to convince my body that the danger has passed.
It hasn’t.
After a few minutes of polite thank-yous and goodbyes, Zed heads for the front door. He pauses at the threshold and looks back.
I’m still standing near the table, doing my best to look like a woman who has just survived a completely ordinary breakfast.
“Thank you for having me,” he says politely.
His eyes are anything but polite.
They move slowly over me before he deliberately drops his gaze to his zipper. I follow his eyes without thinking—and immediately wish I hadn’t.
The unmistakable outline of his arousal presses against his waistband.
My breath catches.
When I look back up, he’s watching me with that dark, knowing expression that sends my pulse racing all over again.
The doorbell may have interrupted us earlier, but the look he gives me makes one thing perfectly clear:
It was only a delay.