Page 60 of Resonance
“Don’t leave me in limbo. You’re worse than my granddad.”
“I was poaching from one of their own. Wasn’t steady, just a now-and-then thing—which seems to be a running theme in my life.” Owen turned the faucet off and shook out his hand with a faint smile as I continued. “Anyway, they all knew what was going on. I didn’t even like him that much, but the pickings were pretty slim.”
“Did they get him, too?”
“Hell naw. He was one of the star players. And the one who broke my nose.” I rubbed the bump at the bridge, and Owen scowled disapprovingly. “Busted lip, broken nose, and ribs. I was laid up for a while.”
“They get in trouble?”
“Nah. I took the licks and moved on.”
He threw down the spatula he’d picked up and then fumbled to keep it from falling as it clattered toward the edge of the counter. “That’s just fucking wrong.”
I shrugged. “Universe has a way of keeping the balance. Not immediately maybe, but over time.”
“Psht.”
A grin threatened the corners of my mouth for how much he sounded like Ru earlier. “A couple years back, he was in the shop, came up and apologized. I’m not sure whether he came in there specifically with the intent to do so, but he did it regardless. Also didn’t look like life had been very kind to him. Sometimes that makes it easier to forgive.”
“Nnn.” He made a grating sound in the back of his throat and turned back to the stove, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring before he ladled a bit of sauce onto it and lifted it in my direction expectantly. “Taste?”
I nodded, not trusting my mouth to spit out anything other than filth, because I wanted a taste, absolutely. But not necessarily of the chicken.
Owen sauntered over, hand carefully cupped under the spoon as he lowered it to my mouth. The sauce was buttery and smooth with a little tang of white wine and garlic that coated my tongue.
“What do you think?” he asked, and I nodded approvingly.
“Good.” I leaned forward again and sucked the rest of the sauce from the spoon.
Owen licked it clean afterward, then reached for my glass of wine and helped himself to a swallow, eyeing me. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.” I wasn’t about to burden him with everything on my mind, particularly the parts of me that were struggling in a fucked-up mélange of feelings about going on tour again. And trying not to kiss him. I didn’t know why exactly, what it was about the two of us in the kitchen, or the way he bustled around that was getting to me so much today.
He reached for my wineglass again and I snapped a hand out, catching him by the wrist. I meant it to be a playful thing, meant to accompany it with some chiding tease. But my grip was too hard, and his eyes lashed to my face, shades darker than they’d been moments ago.
I ran my thumb over the angry welt that’d formed over his knuckles from the stove, his skin still livid with heat from the burn.
We held there, eyes locked on each other as Owen gave his wrist a testing twist and, when he met less resistance, brought it toward my face. His fingers smelled of lemon and garlic, and as they traced over my jaw and lips, my eyes fell shut, savoring the light touch, the rough whisper of his nails against my stubble.
I let out a quiet, unintentional groan, and his hand went still on me as he gasped softly.
“Shit, don’t make that sound.”
“Wasn’t on purpose, trust me.” My lips hardly moved, unwilling to interrupt his caress. I peered at him through slitted eyes and then opened them fully, lured by the picture he made in front of me: the tousle of his hair, the ridiculous towels hanging over his waist and collar, the sliver of expectation in his eyes.
I don’t know who moved first, me or him—that seemed to be the way of things with us, instant ignition at the same critical point—but in a span of seconds, my chair scraped across the floor and toppled as I stood and yanked him against me, mouth searching out his, tongue plundering his taste. Far better than the chicken.
The spoon he’d been holding clattered to the floor, knocked free by my elbows as he wrapped his arms around me.
I kissed him hard, drawing a soft whimper from him that fueled the desire burning bright through my core. Owen clawed at my neck like a wild thing, and when I had him backed up against the table, I tore at the towels in my way asking, “What the hell is this anyway, some kind of makeshift apron?”
“Uh-huh.” His nod was quick and abbreviated as I tossed the towels aside and went for the bottom of his shirt.
“Dan?” He rasped the question against my throat and raked the skin with his teeth before tipping his head back.
“Yeah?” I froze where I was, and the heat caught up with me, slathered over the back of my neck with every beat of my heart.
“This… we’re gonna fuck this time, right? Because we’re not at the shop or in someone else’s house and I really need… I reallywantto feel you inside me. Fucking me. I’m kinda desperate for it, actually.”