Chapter 7
The Tension
Robyn
I check my phone. Nate’s given me a thumbs-up.
There’s nothing wrong with it—or with any of the texts he’s sent—but something about them doesn’t feel right.
The train adds another hour to my trip, and I would’ve gotten home sooner if I hadn’t closed my eyes and missed my stop.
It’s why I stopped driving in for these shifts. They’re just brutal.
When I let myself into Nate’s apartment, it’s so quiet it’s eerie.
With how early it is, he should be up. Inhaling the mix of cedar and laundry detergent, I look around, wondering if he’s even home.
Everything is neutral cream and gray tones, tidy and precise—Nate’s brand of obsession.
Except for the bright-green note on the coffee table.
I biked along Lakeshore today, and I’m beat. There’s food for you. That white bean stew you like. Wake me up when you get home.
– Love you, sweetheart.
I purse my lips. The note is perfectly Nate but still not quite him. The handwriting’s steady, but the loops of his letters are tighter than usual, pressed hard enough to dent the paper. There’s something in it, or maybe something missing, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
My body is craving sleep more than it is food.
I peel off my clothes, walking to the bedroom and leaving a trail behind me.
Once I’m in the bedroom, I find Nate sprawled across the bed, shirtless.
His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths.
His hair is damp and sticks to his forehead.
The quilt pools low on his waist, exposing his deep V and the heavy dusting of hair covering his chest.
Desire stirs low in my belly as I slip under the covers in my bra and panties. There’s no hesitation when I press against him. He locks his arms around me, drawing me flush against his warmth. I hike my thigh over his boxer-clad cock, and he’s not hard at first, but he’s getting there.
“I love you, Robyn,” he murmurs, half asleep, kissing my forehead.
I snuggle into him, and my hips buck of their own accord. I’m feeling more awake, unsatisfied, needy, yearning.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep, “what do you need?”
The question lingers in the dark, charged. His length presses against my thigh, and a groan comes from deep in his throat.
“You’re sleepy?” I whisper.
He nods against my temple, shifting onto his side so we’re chest to chest. Heat radiates from him, comforting me, and every inch of contact ignites a low, simmering ache.
He moves his hand lower, drifting down my shoulder, along my back, and cups my ass.
The friction between us is taut, electric.
Every small movement sends shivers of want up my spine, and his hair prickling my skin amplifies my need for him.
Exhaling heavily, he says, “You decide, sweets.”
He caresses my cheek with his nose, breath warm against my skin. Exhaustion overtakes me, pinning me in place.
“Let’s sleep,” I murmur.
He kisses me, lips warm and tender. “I’m so glad you’re home with me.”
I turn in his arms, and he molds himself to my back, his hand tightening at my waist. He breathes in my hair, and the ache in my chest eases.
The off-feeling blurs at the edges, a distant, unimportant thought.
I soak up the moment: the steady weight of him behind me, the quiet rhythm of our breaths syncing, and the contentedness of being in his arms.
I wake slowly, the remnants of sleep still clouding my mind, even as featherlight touches trail along the outside of my thighs, over my back, warm and tentative over my stomach, around my ribs, and across the curve of my chest. With a flick, my bra comes loose, sagging down my arms. Heat skims across my chest and nipples, wet and rugged, my every nerve flaring to life.
It’s both startling and arousing. I buck my hips, pulsing tension between my thighs, and he slides my underwear down my legs.
Opening my eyes, I catch Nate taking me in with careful intensity. He kneads my arms and legs. There’s an uncertainty in him, a question in every motion, and it makes my chest ache with affection and want.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs, voice low, thick with morning grogginess.
“So okay,” I whisper, my breath uneven, catching up to his touch.
A small reassuring smile tugs at his lips, and his touch gains confidence. Every movement is attuned to my reactions, careful and deliberate.
“I want to take care of you. Let me?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice lost between the haze of sleep and need.
His lips and hands continue their gentle exploration, teasing, pressing, gliding over my skin.
My back arches slightly, my hips seeking him.
He dips his hand between us, massaging my folds until he reaches my swollen clit.
Loving seeing what he does to me, he doesn’t take his eyes off mine.
I shiver and moan as he circles, alternating his thumb and index finger.
The haze of the morning should dull the sensation, but it deepens into something almost dreamlike, tension coiling fast in my lower belly.
He dips down, tongue out, swirling my peaked nipples while he keeps a maddening slow rhythm against my core.
I grip his shoulder, leaving red marks in my wake, and stifle a scream when his tongue joins his fingers, moving faster than his digits did.
The desire heightens the warm-reddish tones in his eyes, almost matching his hair.
This man’s so beautiful I could come from looking at him.
Yet it’s the way he sucks my clit, wrapping his lips around me, that sends me go over the edge with his name coming out of my mouth.
He slows his tongue, and I melt into the bed. He kisses his way up my body until I’m tasting myself on his mouth, his stubble scratching my jaw and chin. “I love knowing I can make you come until you scream my name.”
His hardness throbs against my thigh.
“Want me to help with that?” I whisper against his lips.
He shakes his head. “Save that for later. Sleep a little longer. I’m going to make us breakfast, and we’ll eat in bed.”
I glance at the clock on his nightstand. It’s almost 8:00 a.m. “You’re late,” I say, yawning.
“I’m playing hooky today. Texted my manager. Told them I was sick.” He winks. “We’re taking the day off together, Robyn.”
He pecks my lips once more, cupping my left breast, then looks at me one more time before blowing a kiss at me. With a big wet patch on his gray boxers, he leaves the bedroom. He’s definitely getting his turn later.
I settle under the covers and close my eyes for a bit. It’s going to be such a great day.
When I wake again, the room is glowing. Morning light filters through the blinds, dust motes swirling like lazy sparks above the tangled sheets.
The faint scent of rain drifts in from the cracked window, mixing with the wintergreen detergent he insists on using.
My phone buzzes on the floor where I dropped my leggings.
Julian: Can’t get a date today to save my life. Want to grab lunch?
I smile, half laughing as I type.
Me: Sorry, Nate and I have a little indoor date of our own. He’s “sick.”
Julian: He cuts work for you! Seriously, though, you got yourself a good one, Robyn.
I lean back, my fingers move quickly, heat creeping up my chest.
Me: Don’t I know it!
Julian: Smartass. Oh, well, go play doctor. Just remember the Kells way: more orgasms, less suturing.
Chuckling, I tap out my reply.
Me: You’re ridiculous.
The sight when I walk into the kitchen warms my insides. The top of my scrubs and shirt are stacked neatly on the chair by the door. I fold and add my leggings to the pile, as I’m wearing one of the long T-shirts I keep at his house to lounge in.
Nate is in the kitchen, hovering over a frying pan.
I pad into the kitchen right behind him and peer into a pan with sizzling butter and bacon.
He’s got that quiet focus he gets when he’s cooking: brow furrowed, hair mussed, a kitchen towel slung over one bare shoulder.
The faint mark from my nails makes him look even better.
He’s plating everything on a tray—toasted croissants, cut-up fresh fruit, omelets, coffee.
After getting plates ready, he fished the crispier bacon out of the pan, stacking those on one of the portions.
That’ll be my plate. He always gives me those little crunchy bits because he knows they’re my favorite.
He’s even folded some real napkins in the shape of a little hat.
“Morning, sweetness,” he says, with a lazy smile and bright eyes.
I wrap my arms around his waist while he finishes the last batch of bacon. He’s shit with timing. Eggs will be cold by the time this is done. I kind of love him for it.
“You were supposed to stay in bed,” he murmurs.
“And miss this?” I grin, splaying my fingers across his stomach and chest. “Some would say cooking like this is a high-risk sport.”
He turns around so we’re chest to chest. “Let’s just say I’m highly motivated.” He winks, then returns his attention to the frying pan.
I stay there, my cheek against his warm back, while he makes bacon just the way I like it. There’s no grand gesture, no need to say I love you—it’s already there. In the folded clothes, the better bacon, the warmth traveling between us.
Nate insists on balancing the two trays but asks that I carry the coffee cups. He sings, off-key of course, “I promised you breakfast in bed, and we’re having breakfast in bed.”
He props the trays in the center, and we cocoon around them, almost like a picnic, with a cup of coffee on each nightstand.
It’s a bit precarious, crumbs falling on the bed.
Nate pretends he doesn’t mind, but his jaw twitches every time a flake lands on the sheet.
I tease him about it, and he rolls his eyes, but neither of us stops smiling.
When we’re done, he wipes his hands on a napkin, folds it with unnecessary precision, and looks up at me. His expression’s soft, a little nervous.