Chapter 28
We only leave Zayn’s bed over the next two days to grab the Uber deliveries from the door, use the bathroom and to shower (together, of course).
The rest of the time is spent in bed talking, laughing and half-assed watching movies until we’re distracted by our hands on each other.
Zayn takes his time with me when we’re intimate, to the point I’m sure he’s trying to commit every inch of my skin to memory as he runs his hands and mouth over my curves, working me into a state of frenzy before he’ll allow himself to slide into me and finish off to the sound of my screams. Sometimes he fucks me, hard. Other times he makes love to me, slow.
Every time it’s perfect.
I’ve never felt so raw, so sensitive to touch. He’s inside me so often I feel empty when he isn’t.
I miss my first family lunch. By Sunday night, both our stomachs are growling and I force him out of his bed and into the kitchen where I scrape together enough ingredients to make spaghetti bolognaise.
“You’re in for a treat.” I smirk at him as I finish chopping the onion and garlic and add it to the pan. “This dish is my specialty.”
Zayn sits on the barstool across from me wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. Lucky there’s a huge black marble island bench separating us or I’d already be caving into temptation and running my hands over the smooth expanse of his chest.
His kitchen is pristine, of course, with top of the range appliances. I feel like I’m messing it up just by standing in it with my tousled hair and nothing on except Zayn’s hoodie.
“I should really put more clothes on. This doesn’t feel hygienic.”
“Gianna, I’ve had my mouth on your pussy for the last two days. It doesn’t get more contaminated than that.” He grins wolfishly, resting his forearms on the bench as his eyes darken with a different kind of hunger. A flush heats my cheeks.
“Gross. Turn around while I add the secret ingredient.”
He makes a show of covering his eyes with his hands, and I pull my eyes away from his broad shoulders long enough to add a handful of salt to the onions. “You can open now.”
“What did you add?” He glances around the bench. “It wasn’t spit was it?”
I bark out a laugh. “I can’t tell you without a rock on this finger.” I jokingly flash my ring finger at him. “It’s a family secret.”
“That can be arranged,” he says smoothly, not missing a beat.
My face falters before I quickly school my emotions, my last failed marriage at the forefront of my mind.
Zayn clocks my reaction and an awkward silence settles between us, which I fill by asking him to twist the lid off the sauce.
Zayn and I have only just reconnected, surely he isn’t thinking about marriage yet?
I never thought I’d get married again, but I also never thought Zayn would be coming back into my life, either.
We make small talk while I finish cooking, but there’s a tension lingering between us.
“What have you got on for tomorrow?” Zayn asks while we eat. He declared it was the best spaghetti he’s ever had after his first mouthful, much to my delight.
“Nothing, actually. No uni and no work.”
“I’ll take a sick day if you want to hang out,” he says casually.
My fork pauses in front of my mouth. “You’re going to chuck a sickie?” I ask, eyebrows raised. “To hang out with me?”
“Yes,” he twirls some spaghetti on his fork. “I’ve never taken a sick day. They owe me.”
The fact he wants to skive off work to spend more time with me after we’ve practically been joined at the hip for the last two days, or hips I should say, makes happiness ping off the walls of my chest.
“Okay,” I say, grinning stupidly into my pasta. “What are we going to do? And don’t say stay in bed! I’m getting cabin fever being locked away as your sex slave this weekend.”
He chuckles and nudges me with his thigh. “As good as that sounds, lets go out instead. Any ideas?”
“When’s the last time you explored Melbourne city?”
He looks at me with raised brows. “Never? I don’t really have time to ‘explore’ much.”
“Great, leave it to me.”
My brain starts plotting everywhere I want to take Zayn and I finish dinner with a smile that couldn’t be wiped off my face if you tried.
We start the next day with an early stop off to my apartment to finally get a change of clothes.
Wearing a white ball gown at seven in the morning was an odd experience, to say the least, and Zayn sits on the edge of my bed and watches me while I peel it off.
I’m turned away from him, trying to squeeze a pair of tight jeans over my ass, when a strangled groan sounds behind me.
I glance over my shoulder at Zayn, who’s sitting with his forearms on his knees, his gaze glued to my ass with a hungry look in his eyes.
“I know you wanted to get out of my apartment, but how do you feel about yours?” he asks while running a hand across his mouth, looking just about ready to take a bite out of me.
“You’re insatiable.” I laugh, finally pulling my jeans up and turning to face him.
“You’re irresistible.”
I drag him out of my apartment and to my favourite small laneway cafe for breakfast.
Spending time with Zayn still feels like a novelty. Like I’m living in some alternate universe where Zayn never left and here we are as adults, doing normal things together that somehow feel far more exciting than they should be.
After breakfast, we stroll to the Queen Victoria markets hand in hand. The air is especially chilly today, but neither of us suggests taking a tram. We’re not in a hurry.
At the markets, Zayn humours me by browsing through the stalls, pretending to be interested in things that would look so out of place in his pristine penthouse that more than once I have to stifle a giggle.
He rolls his eyes affectionately when we come across a stall with novelty mugs.
I squeal when I spot a mug that has ‘I put the LIT in LITIGATOR’ written across the face and buy it for Zayn ‘for his office’.
I have absolutely no expectation of him bringing it to his office. In fact, even the thought of it sitting on his immaculate desk tugs my cheeks into a smile.
“Now we have matching mugs,” I say as he takes the bag and my hand once again.
“To drink our morning coffee together,” he says so casually I swear even my heart is smiling.
Next stop is the aquarium. Zayn doesn’t say a word as I pull him through the entrance with enough enthusiasm for the both of us.
“You really know your way around here,” he drawls a half hour later when we stop in front of the crocodile.
“I come here with Leo all the time. It’s his favourite place.”
“You enjoy it,” he says. It’s not a question.
“Yeah, I do. Are you enjoying it?”
He looks down at me as I stand beside him. “I’d enjoy watching paint dry if it was with you.”
My heart soars, but I don’t tell him the feeling is mutual, even though it is.
Zayn has to field a fair few calls while we’re out, but he doesn’t seem like he’s desperate to get back to work. He hangs up from a longer phonecall while we’re walking to our next location.
“That sounded important,” I muse as I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck with one hand. He hasn’t let go of the other all day. “Do you have a big client?”
“Have you heard of Clint Branch?”
“The mining magnate? Of course.”
“He’s getting divorced.”
I drop my chin and cover my mouth with mock surprise. “No! His wife is only thirty-five years younger than him. I never saw that coming!”
Zayn rubs the amusement from his lips with his thumb.
“You and him both, apparently. He refused to sign a prenup.”
“Now that actually is shocking. He must be worth billions! What lawyers were on his payroll that allowed that to happen?”
“Not me, that’s for sure,” Zayn says, pulling me into his side as we wait for a tram to pass. A flicker of a thought pops into my mind, surely because of the conversation in Zayn’s kitchen last night. If we ever got married, would Zayn make me sign a prenup?
“I’ll be working overtime on his case this week. Probably a few late nights.”
“Oh.” I’m thrown out of my thoughts as disappointment crashes into me.
“Okay.” I’m not sure how else to respond.
We’re in this weird territory where we’ve rekindled but haven’t discussed what is actually between us.
Are we a couple? Are we testing the waters?
How much time will we be spending together?
The last few days can’t set the precedent because we haven’t been apart once, but that’s not how it can continue going ahead.
We’ve been in a lust-filled bubble for the last few days, but all bubbles have to burst.
“Where are we heading to now?”
“You’ll see,” I smile, excitement creeping back in for this next stop. When the huge neoclassical style building comes into view a few minutes later, it’s grandeur and double-storey columns an imposing figure before us, Zayn turns to me in amusement.
“Of course you would take me to a library.”
I’ve walked past and admired this beautiful building countless times over the years, but I’ve never been inside.
It couldn’t be more fitting that the first time I come here is with Zayn.
We walk up the stairs, and when we step inside, I’m left speechless by the beauty of the centuries-old building.
Zayn takes over and leads me toward the white-haired librarian manning the information desk.
“We’re looking for the poetry section,” he says smoothly, giving the librarian a winning smile.
She does a double take when she looks up from her screen and sees Zayn standing there.
He is looking more handsome than what should be legal in a pair of chinos and a black coat, even though he’s young enough to be her son.
“Of course,” she says, fumbling with the buttons on her cardigan as she stands. “Let me show you the way.”