Page 66 of Full Out Fiend
I don’t bother asking for what. I refuse to push her when things are maybe, finally moving in the right direction. I refuse to fuck this up out of selfishness or greed.
My dick pulses with desire. My brain urges me to act. But I push down all my instincts in favor of honoring the promise I made last night. I told her I would take care of her and that I didn’t expect anything in return. I’m keeping my word. Even if the blue balls kill me.
“Do you want syrup or whipped cream, angel?” I call out when the timer goes off for the first batch.
“Can I have both?” she asks as she skirts past me toward the coffee maker.
I stifle a groan and school my expression. “You know you can have anything you want. Always.”
Chapter 36
Daphne
Fieldingbrushesonehandacross my bare shoulders as he moves through the kitchen, messenger bag slung over one arm with a to-go coffee in the other. A shiver runs up my spine at his touch, and I instantly crave more contact.
“I’ve gotta get going, but your lunch is in the fridge.”
I’ve been living in his house, orour house, as he loves to correct me, for a month. We’ve fallen into a comfortable, easy routine: one where he goes to school, I go to work, and my every whim, craving, and need is both anticipated and enthusiastically met by this gorgeous man.
Even my most pathetic moments of need. Like last week, in this very kitchen, up on the counter. I shudder and shove down the memory—that hasn’t happened again. I refuse to let it.
Was it one of the most intense orgasms of my life? Yes. Yes, it was. But I had practically edged myself to tears before he finally made me come. These pregnancy hormones are unreal. Still, we’re better off keeping our boundaries clear. Even if I do think about that stupid kitchen counter incident every single night.
That encounter aside, cohabitating with Fielding is effortless—it’s honestly a joy to live here with him. He makes breakfast and packs a lunch for me each day. He keeps track of both our schedules on a dry-erase calendar on the fridge, jotting down my doctor’s appointments and weekly development milestones for the baby. Every afternoon, he texts just to say hi. At night, he rubs my shoulders, then puts his wireless headphones in so we can be in the same room while he studies and I watch TV.
I miss him when we’re apart. I’m calmer in his presence. I’m not worried about saying the wrong thing or doing something that will piss him off. Fielding makes it easy to co-exist beside him.
It’s a gift to not have to mold myself into a certain shape or play a specific part in his presence. By that same logic, I’m mortified that I did those things to please others for so long.
Being here with him in “our house” makes me realize that I’ve never really felt a sense of home. I’ve never been in a place physically, mentally, or emotionally where I could just be. Until now.
“Hey.”
I snap out of my reverie as Fielding sets his things on the counter and slips on a leather jacket.
“You look really pretty today,” he tells me, smiling, his eyes lingering on my face before trailing down my body.
How does the saying go?Feed me and tell me I’m pretty?That shit’s not a joke when you’re pregnant, horny, and living with a six-foot-two Adonis who has made it very clear he wants you.
I’m so flustered I barely manage to squeak out “thanks” before he scoops up his things and heads toward the door.
“I’ll text you when I’m leaving campus. I have Teddy’s thing tonight, but I’ll come home and we can have dinner together before I have to be there.”
Right. Teddy’s thing. Fielding’s going out tonight, back to The Oak, and although he invited me along, something about going out and being surrounded by his friends doesn’t appeal to me.
How would he introduce me? What would I do at a bar while everyone else drinks? And how would I handle being back in the dark space where his eyes first locked with mine and I decided to take a chance on myself by choosing him?
It would be like heading back to the scene of the crime. It feels like asking for trouble.
“See you tonight,” I call out after him two seconds too late as the door closes and I’m left alone, missing him already.
I listlessly push a gnocchi around my plate as I look everywhere but at him. I’m seated at the bar, and he’s standing across from me on the other side, the way we eat dinner most nights. Fielding insists that after a long day of lectures and commuting back and forth to Cleveland, he can’t stand to sit down.
He was sweet enough to pick up my favorite meal from Little Italy—but I can barely taste the food as I torture myself with made-up scenarios about how tonight will play out for him.
This whole thing is stupid—I’ve got myself completely twisted up about the idea of Fielding even talking to other women tonight, yet I refuse to define our relationship or have a real conversation about what we’re doing.
I have no right to think these things. And yet I can’t stop my mind from spiraling.