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Chapter Forty-Eight
His words heal me, in a subtle way. Though I feel them, I can’t return them.
He’s forbidden me to speak, and he’s in control here.
The misery of the day still lingers, but those words, in the throes of passion, were difficult for Braden.
I know this. I respect this.
He thrusts harshly and stays embedded in me, and as my climax slows, I feel every pulse of his.
He rolls over. Still, I grasp the rungs of the headboard, though I long to curl into his arms.
His breath slows after a few minutes, and he turns to me.
Still, I don’t speak.
“We have another serving of dessert,” he says.
I don’t respond.
His lips curve upward slightly. “You may speak now.”
I loosen my fingers from the headboard and wiggle them, gaining circulation. “Yes, we do. Do I get to eat it off you this time?”
He growls. Seriously growls. “Normally I’d take you up on that, but I have something else in mind. Excuse me for a minute.” He rises, wraps a robe around his gorgeous body, picks up the second serving of mousse, and leaves the room.
I smile and stare at the ceiling, the fresh spackle from the now-missing harness still a stark white against the buff paint. Funny that he hasn’t painted over that yet.
A few minutes later, Braden opens the door. “Our dinner is here.”
Oddly, I’m famished. I haven’t gotten any mousse other than what I tasted on Braden’s tongue. I rise and find my robe in the bathroom. A look in the mirror is a heinous reminder of the day. My eyes are still red and swollen. How can he stand to look at me?
I erase the thought as well as I can and head to the kitchen to join Braden.
I inhale. Spicy.
“I had Christopher get us Cajun,” Braden says. “It won’t be as good as yours, but at least we can sort of have the dinner you planned.”
The thought of my ruined dinner almost makes me burst into tears again, but Braden’s sweet gesture chases the tears away. “That was a nice thought.”
“I decided against shrimp étouffée, though. I want the next shrimp étouffée I taste to be yours. I got crawfish étouffée and gumbo with andouille. I hope you like it.”
“It smells wonderful. Will the wine you chose still work?”
“Absolutely. It’s already opened. Would you like a glass?”
I nod dreamily, and he pours two glasses and hands one to me.
“To…possibilities,” he says.
I clink my glass to his and ponder the message of his toast.
Possibilities…
Not probabilities but possibilities.
I like it.
Anything is possible.
Somehow I’ll mend my relationship with Tessa. I’ll redeem myself after today’s half-assed post for Susie. One day I’ll prepare shrimp étouffée for Braden without ruining it.
It’s all possible.
And tomorrow, I’ll be back in New York.
Back in the club.
Where truly, anything is possible.
I follow Braden to the dining room, where the table is still set for the dinner I prepared. He gestures me to sit down. We quietly fill our plates.
The meal is delicious. Probably far superior to what I made. The thought bothers me a little, but only a little.
I’m feeling better.
I’m feeling loved.
Braden is silent as he eats, his gaze never leaving me.
I learned something about him tonight. My sadness gets to him. Really gets to him. The thought warms me as well as chills me. I don’t want him to ever feel bad, and tonight he felt bad because I did.
He opened up to me tonight, perhaps more so than he ever has.
Much of him is still a closed book, but tonight I got a glimpse of one page, at least.
We clean our plates, and Braden rises, taking them to the kitchen. He returns with the remaining chocolate mousse and a spoon.
He sits. “Come here.” He points to his lap.
I warm all over. Have I ever sat on his lap before? I don’t think so. Braden is a wonderful man, but he’s not much for offering that kind of solace. The way he comforted me in the kitchen earlier was definitely off-brand for him, as is this.
I don’t hesitate. I rise and go to him, eager to please him, even more eager to embrace the comfort of his lap.
I sit down on his hard thighs.
He takes a spoonful of the chocolate mousse and holds it to my lips. “You haven’t gotten to taste much of your confection yet. Try it.”
I open my mouth and let the creamy mousse sit on my tongue for a moment before I close my eyes and swallow.
“You’re a good cook,” he says.
“Thank you. I wish you could have—”
He presses two fingers to my lips. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll make it again sometime. You can make it when we go to New York if you’d like.”
New York. Just the thought has tingles rushing through me. “I’d like that.”
“We never have to leave the building if you don’t want to.”
