Page 21 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

I know what she means. I have no idea what she means.

It’s unexpected, but not completely. The most surprising aspect of the whole thing is the growth that’s happened for me in such a short time.

I didn’t think she had much growing or changing she needed to do, but maybe I was wrong.

I don’t know her innermost feelings. I know almost nothing about her past or her previous relationships.

She was seeing Jack without dating. She didn’t want it to be dating.

Is that how she approached her past? Does she want more out of this? Is that what she’s fighting against?

“Is it your family? Would they disapprove? I have this not so subtle feeling that your sister would say that someone like me is not for someone like you.”

She smiles, but it’s a bit sad. “No one in my family thinks like that. They just want me to be happy. They might voice their concerns, but in a nicer way than that.”

I can’t allow that to give me hope. I shouldn’t even want hope.

Her family might be too kind to voice their thoughts, but my brain has no qualms doing just that.

I know that I never should have touched her.

Ginny’s sweet. She’s kind and compassionate.

She’s good . To her, the world isn’t just for practical gardens.

It’s for the ones that grow flowers just for the sake of their beauty.

I might not know her well, but it’s pretty obvious that her family did what they could to keep her sheltered from the bad things in the world.

She’s known a life of love from them. She was wanted right from the start, the same way she wants the baby that’s growing inside of her.

I know that the only road I can travel down is one of straight fuckery. I’ll fuck things up for her. I’ll tarnish her beauty. Mar her flawlessness with all my imperfections. I am nowhere near good enough for her at any level. I have no business wanting her still .

No business at all.

But I do want her.

I want to let myself think about what she’d look like in my arms beyond this night. I want to imagine her coming to me when she’s not sick and hurting, her kindness seeping into me.

I’m everything she’s not.

Where she’s soft, I’m hard. Where she’s kind, I’m brutal. She’s a dream and I’m the nightmare. She’s practical, but at heart, I know that she has to be a romantic in that dreamy, hopeful sense. Me? I’ve never done, or known, one romantic gesture in my life.

“Zeppelin? Did you hear me?”

The sound of my name on her tongue undoes me. I force one of those annoying smirks in place and nod. “I hear you. It was real nice last night. Thank you.”

“Real nice?” she scoffs, parroting my words to make sure she’s heard correctly. A red flush of indignation creeps up her neck. She purposely looks down. “I wouldn’t term taking me up against a wall, splitting me in half, and filling me to overflowing as a real nice time.”

Awesome . Hearing those filthy words uttered in her sweet voice with more than a little edge and annoyance, has me harder than any blunt force instrument. Like hell she can’t feel that. She’s sitting right on top of me.

She exhales, blowing out all that annoyance.

I’m glad she has the strength to get annoyed and sassy.

“Can I ask what happened?” she asks, her face changes, getting soft and sympathetic.

I’m not the one on the offensive anymore.

“You don’t have to tell me, but I don’t want you to think that I don’t care.

You can’t see someone nearly come apart like that and think it’s just the storm scaring them. ”

Fuck. I feel like the total asshat I usually pretend to be. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I never meant for you to see that, just like you never meant for me to see you puking.”

“It’s mortifying, isn’t it?”

Neither of us can look at each other now, but if she thinks that she did something wrong or is anything less than absolutely stunning, even being sick like that, she’s mistaken.

I should just let it ride. Be a jerk. Push her away so that she forces me to maintain my distance.

I should, but I can’t. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. ”

Her eyes snap up. “If I don’t, then you don’t.”

Great. She sees everything and that stubborn tilt of her chin tells me there’s no way she’s dropping this. I have no idea what Jack told her and not a fucking clue what I should say. Should I lie? Give her nothing?

I’m having trouble arranging my face into my usual off-putting dickhead sneer, and my defenses? They’re lying in a heap of shit and rubble, scattered all over the damn ground.

“Just… shit from growing up.” Even thinking about those times is a black abyss. I don’t want to get sucked down that vortex.

“Are you hungry? I can make you breakfast.” That’s not Ginny’s way of backing down or letting me off.

She’s sweet, but she’s also firm and this is important.

She wants to give me the time I need. How can she sense that I need to just expel this so that it’s not inside any longer, festering, eating at me?

“You’re absolutely not doing that.” Wrong words. Don’t tell this woman that she can’t do something. Her determination solidifies right in front of my eyes.

“I’m starting to feel better. It was brutal when it happened, but it’s passing. The crackers and tea helped. If you’re hungry, I’ll try and eat something too.”

How can I protest? I can’t. She knows it.

“Stove’s already hot,” she urges. “Might as well cook on it before it heats the place to ungodly levels. I’ll throw some eggs and bacon on for you. You can have some of the buns I made. I’ll have a banana and I’ll maybe try some toast.”

She pulls away, slipping off my lap and out of the blanket. I have to let her.

It doesn’t mean I’m going to let her do any of that cooking alone.

I take care of the bath, bucketing it out into the sink, dumping the rest when it’s not so heavy and messy, and then hanging it back up on the wall. I drink most of the tea so that it doesn’t go to waste. Me. Drinking mint herbal stuff.

I never thought I’d see any such day. It’s not even that unbearable. I have no idea what’s happening to me.

I try to help with the rest, but Ginny won’t let me. It’s remarkable how she suddenly is feeling well enough to threaten me with a cast iron frying pan if I don’t sit my ass down at the table and stop bothering her.

She goes to the cellar and comes back a few minutes later with a handful of eggs and a side of bacon wrapped in brown paper.

Watching her prep everything so much more efficiently than I ever could, getting two places ready, flipping eggs and bacon in two separate pans and grilling toast in another, is so much sexier than it should be.

She’s still not fully recovered, even if she’s making this massive task look easy, but that doesn’t prevent me from envisioning a time like last night, when she’s both in charge, and simultaneously begging me to worship her.

Alright, it wasn’t so much worship last night as it was a spending of desire.

I do want to worship her. I wouldn’t mind spreading her out across this table, stripping her down, and sucking on her rosy nipples, eating her sweet pussy instead of a meal, and teasing and kissing every inch of her golden skin for dessert.

Right. Yeah. That doesn’t help the raging erection situation that I have going on under the table.

Ginny asked me what happened. I know I don’t owe her anything.

She’s never made it seem that way. She asked me because she cares.

She wants to know what my life was like before so she can try and understand it now.

She had the courage to invite me to share, but if I don’t want to, or if I just can’t, I know she won’t press.

I don’t know if I’m ready, if I’ll be able to order shit or convey it, or be articulate, or whatever it is that people say makes for successful communication. All I can do is open my mouth and try.