Authors: Teresa Noelle Roberts
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jen and Sean had long since devoured the pizza they’d ordered for what they’d been thinking of as dinner, but was actually most people’s idea of breakfast. Ryoko had headed home after just one piece. She’d actually finished all her glasswork and decided to get some sleep before she started on inventory and other show prep. Sean, who’d reached the packing-up stage, had just brought up the notion of more food.
“It’s the Crock-Pot for me. You’re welcome to have some too.” Jen pointed to the remains of a Crock-Pot full of black-bean-and-chicken chili that had been burbling for longer than she cared to contemplate. They kept adding more beans and more spices when it ran low.
Sean shuddered. “How can you eat that again? It was great the first day and good yesterday, but this is day three, and I’m not sure I can stand it anymore.”
Jen rubbed her fingers together. “Necessity, sweetie. The pizza was my big extravagance. I got in the hole buying supplies for the weekend and can’t afford to order out again.” Not to mention the credit-card debt to pay off, but that wasn’t Sean’s concern, and he’d worry if he knew she’d had a minor medical fuss.
“I’m cash-strapped too, but I’m not sure I can eat more chili. Or if I should be around fire if I do.”
“We’re all getting a bit combustible. But what can you do? Gotta eat something.” Gotta eat regularly. Gotta not pass out again.
Gotta prove to Drake that she could take care of herself, didn’t need him to play daddy.
Her studio-mates hadn’t heard about the incident, but they’d been grateful as hell when she arrived with the Crock-Pot precariously balanced in the pannier of her bike, and ingredients, including semifrozen chicken thighs and a Ziploc full of partially cooked beans in her pack and other pannier.
Because, dammit, she needed to work crazy hours for the rest of the week, but she’d eat while she was doing so, and make sure her friends did as well. The last thing any of them needed was a medical emergency.
Jen was about to get up and get herself more chili, which, by this time had the consistency of chili-flavored glue, when the studio door opened.
“Hi, Jen,” Drake announced. “I’ve brought food. And bubble wrap. How can I help you get ready for the show? And by the way: irrational numbers.”
Jen stared. It all seemed normal and nondramatic, except that Drake’s posture was different. Not slouched—she doubted he was capable of slouching—but less perfect. Less arrogant, she thought, although she wouldn’t have thought of his posture as particularly arrogant before.
And he’d used the “dom safeword”, which meant he was ready to talk—and to listen.
In one hand, Drake had a takeout bag from Saigon Kitchen. In the other, he had an industrial-size roll of wrap, which seemed almost as delicious to Jen, at this point, as the food whose delicate aromas wafted from the bag, overpowering the familiar fumes of the glass studio. She had plenty of newspaper on hand but not nearly enough bubble wrap. Ryoko had bought some for herself, but she wasn’t sharing.
“Packing materials and Saigon Kitchen?” Jen smiled. “You know the way to a woman’s heart.”
She hadn’t quite forgiven him yet, but at least he was trying, and in ways that showed some understanding.
She stepped forward and relieved him of the bag and roll of wrap. Set the bag on the worktable, in the area previously cleared for the pizza box. Flailed, in a very controlled way, the way you had to in a crowded glass studio, until Sean relieved her of the roll.
“Are you going to introduce us?” Sean asked, surveying Drake as if he liked the view, which he probably did.
Jen hesitated, not quite sure at the moment how to introduce Drake. Her lover? Her landlord? Her friend? Everything except landlord was ambiguous at the moment.
And she couldn’t very well introduce him as her dom, even if it turned out to be the case. Definite oversharing there.
Luckily, Drake took care of the issue himself. He extended a big hand to Sean. “Drake Matthews. I’m afraid I didn’t bring enough goodies for everyone. I’d forgotten other people would be here.”
Sean shook Drake’s hand enthusiastically. “So you’re Professor Hot-Stuff of the fascinating…turret?” He was using a stereotypically “fabulous” tone, very different from his usual voice, that Jen knew he only used when he was trying to tease someone. Probably her, but maybe he thought Drake looked too serious not to poke a bit.
She understood the urge. She’d thought that often enough. Still, Jen’s face flamed, and she smacked her friend. “Sean!”
He flashed a grin, first at Jen and then at Drake. “Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he said in his normal voice. “I’m just jealous. The trailer I’m renting is nice enough but lacking in atmospheric Victorian amenities. And my landlord’s a good guy but old enough to be Victorian himself, which makes him not an amenity and not particularly atmospheric. Unless the atmosphere you’re going for is rural nursing home.”
To Jen’s relief, Drake laughed. Then he sniffed the air. “Chili?”
“Thirty-six hours ago it was chili,” Jen said. “Now it’s more like spicy glue. But we’ve been eating. And Sean and Ryoko and I split a pizza.”
“At ten a.m., according to your voice mail. I’m amazed any place would deliver that early.”
Jen shrugged. “Life in a college town. They didn’t even seem that surprised.” Drake was studying her in a way that made her feel both heated and uneasy. He was judging her, she guessed—but he wasn’t finding her wanting.
If anything, he was finding himself wanting, which made her uncomfortable, maybe more so than the other would. She stepped closer to him. She was still annoyed with him, still felt they had a lot to talk about before they could move on and figure out if they could have a relationship. But she still wanted to wipe that look off his face.
Drake reached out as if to sweep her into his arms. Stopped. Put his hands at his sides again.
The atmosphere was thick, charged, swirling with enough colors that they were muddying themselves.
Sean cleared his throat. “I was just running out for food,” he said nonchalantly. “Think I’ll eat outside, in fact. Clear my head. Gets stuffy after we’ve all been in the studio this long, especially after thirty-six hours of chili with beans.” As he talked, he was gathering a few belongings and stuffing them into a backpack.
Don’t go,
Jen thought desperately. That would leave her alone with Drake, and that would be either good or bad, but either way, she wasn’t sure she could afford the distraction.
Fuck that. She wasn’t sure she could bear it if it turned out to be bad, and not much more sure she could bear it if it was good.
But she couldn’t be that rude to Drake, not after he’d brought her bubble wrap. If he’d brought extra boxes or offered the use of his car for the weekend, she’d have forgiven him just about anything, but the wrap was a good start.
And in any case, Sean was on his way out before she could say anything. He waved cheerily and winked at her in a way that clearly said he expected the couch to be in naughty use in roughly three-point-two seconds after the door closed.
Instead, for at least three-point-two seconds after the door closed, Jen and Drake stared at each other, silently, almost fearfully.
“Irrational numbers,” Drake repeated. He closed the small gap between them. Drake’s lips closed over hers. She tried to resist, tried to remain stiff and unyielding, thought uninterested cold gray. But gray wasn’t cold anymore to her. Gray was Drake’s eyes, and she could get lost in the shades and variants of emotion in those eyes.
Despite herself, that memory softened her. She tried to hold on to a keen edge of annoyance, tried to remember how interfering and obnoxious he’d been the other day, but her lips parted under his. She lost herself in the heat and hardness of his body clutching her against him as if she’d been out of touch for much longer than a few days, as if she’d been lost and now was found again. Drake’s hand closed in the hair at the nape of her neck, and at that firm, commanding tug, a thrill coursed through her body, no matter what her brain had to say about it. His mouth took control of hers, and she let him, reveling in it, reveling in a moment when she didn’t have to think about the next project, the next bill to pay or the push to get ready for the show.
When it could just be her and Drake and the colors of passion rising behind her eyelids, the pulse of passion rising in her body. She moaned into Drake’s mouth, rubbed against him like a cat. His hands were everywhere, pushing her clothes out of the way, touching every inch of skin he could reach, not always gently—pinching her nipple hard enough to make her gasp as fire seared through her, digging his fingers into her butt to pull her even closer. It was a ravaging as much as it was a kiss, an imperial power running roughshod. She felt like a conquered enemy by the time he pulled away. She was almost frightened. She ought to be, she figured. At the same time, she rather liked the feeling of being conquered, as long as Drake was the one who conquered her.
In certain ways, anyway.
Then she looked in his eyes. The gray looked stormy, clouded, and Jen realized he felt as bewildered as she did, as ambiguous about what just happened. “I’m sorry,” Drake said. “That was out of line.” But he didn’t let go of her.
“No it wasn’t,” she said, pulling from a reserve of patience she didn’t know she had. “Calling in sick to work for me was out of line. Ordering me not to go to the studio when you knew I had insane amounts to do was out of line. Treating me like a child is out of line. Interfering with my art when you explicitly said you wouldn’t was somewhere
beyond
out of line. Kissing me wasn’t.”
“I don’t know where we stand. Don’t know if we’re on kissing terms.”
“I don’t know if we
should
be on kissing terms, but our bodies think we are.” She thought about that briefly. “I hate to say it, but maybe our bodies are smarter than our brains at the moment. I’m annoyed with you, but I still want you.”
Drake squeezed her closer, though his eyes still resembled storm clouds: chilled and yet not cold or distant. Troubled. “Let me start again and try apologizing for something I should apologize for. I’m sorry I overstepped. I’m sorry I tried to do things that would interfere with your art, but in my defense I wasn’t thinking of it that way. I was thinking about getting you to slow down for a day and then go back to making your art when you were feeling better. I was worried about you. I didn’t mean to treat you like a child. I meant to take care of you, to help you relax, because you knew you were safe and loved and had permission from the world—or at least the corner of it I’ve claimed as mine—to take time off. But I did it wrong.”
“You sure did. I’m still mad at you.” She looked up at him. Damn, this would be easier if he wasn’t so gorgeous, but she’d always been overly susceptible to beauty. Then she blinked, puzzled. “What do you mean by ‘help me relax, because I was safe and loved’?”
“That’s what people do for those they love. Keep them safe, take care of them, let them know they can put some of their burden on you. Especially when a dominant loves a sub.”
“Because subs are weak and need to be taken care of like children?” Ire shot up Jen’s spine, filled her brain with acid green.
Drake pulled away, stared at the furnace as if it would help him think. “No, because subs are so damn strong. To the point of not always been sensible about taking on too much, or knowing when to rest.” The virulent green faded to a softer, more natural shade. Jen wasn’t sure what the color meant, but it seemed positive, like grass and leaves and other healthy things. “You take care of everyone and everything except yourselves.”
Jen ventured a guess. “Why do I think you’re not just talking about me?”
“Look at you. We both know money’s really tight for you, and you were still feeding your friends.” By the way he pointedly avoided her observation, Jen knew she’d hit a sensitive spot, maybe one he hadn’t realized was there.
She mentally noted to press him on that later. “I should thank you. Sean and Ryoko thank you too. I don’t know why I never thought of bringing the Crock-Pot here during crunch times, but I decided to do it this time. Of course, it was so I could avoid going back to the house and still eat decently, but it worked great. Only problem is transporting the Crock-Pot every time I need it. I suppose I’ll eventually see one at a thrift shop.”
“I can give you one you can keep here.” Then he looked at the floor and backpedaled. “That is, I have one that belonged to my aunts. It’s beat-up and old, and a butt-ugly yellow-green color that doesn’t have a name that a guy would know, but it works fine. I figured I’d use it during exam time when I get crazy, but I never remember. Would that be helpful to you?”
She hesitated. Not about saying yes to the slow cooker. She could see no reason not to take a used kitchen item she needed and he didn’t. Even her mother would think that was just sensible. But about the subtext, which was that he was trying to feel his way through how to take care of her without offending her. This time, he’d succeeded.
But did she want to be taken care of?
Maybe not, but she decided she’d be cutting off her nose to spite her face to turn down a perfectly good slow cooker. “That would be great. I could leave that one here and bring this one home again.”
“Would it be easier if I picked it up in my car sometime? It must be awkward on a bike.”