I stand up, and I'm amused to find him red-faced and breathing hard, leaning against the shower wall. Now it's his turn to struggle to stay upright.
"How was that?" I ask innocently, batting my eyes.
He shakes his head, a smile on his face and his eyes locked on mine. "You were definitely still thirsty," he points out, and we both laugh a little.
Eventually, we do manage to clean off. Then we stumble out of the shower in towels and he gestures for me sit on the couch.
"I can help," I protest as he sets about making breakfast, puttering around the kitchen.
"You can, I'm sure," he admits. "But you aren't allowed to. You're only allowed to sit there and relax." He shakes a spatula at me, threatening. "You're my guest, Clove, you don't get to cook."
I groan in faux-protest and sink back against the cushions. "Fine. But only because I like it when you boss me around." I stick my tongue out, and he laughs, then turns to finish flipping the omelets he started.
As he does, I catch a glimpse of the book on his kitchen table. "1Q84?"
"Just started it. Have you read it?"
I sit up straighter, grinning. "Oh yeah. I love Murakami."
"Kafka on the Beach is one of my favorites."
"You'll love this one. Especially … " I bite my tongue. "Damn."
He laughs. "No spoilers! That's cheating."
"Okay. I'll just say you're gonna love it, that's all." Now that I've noticed the one book, I let my gaze drift to the shelves beside his TV, chock full of others. "What kind of stuff do you normally read?"
"Little bit of everything. A lot of dystopian, literary fiction. You know, the depressing shit." He laughs, a little self-deprecating.
"Why do you like depressing books?"
He shrugs. Pauses to flip the eggs on the stove. "I guess it just makes me feel like my problems aren't so bad. No matter how much shit I might be dealing with, it could always be worse."
I snort. "Very optimistic world-view."
"Well, could be worse. I could think my problems are the absolute worst. Then how annoying would I be?"
I grin and roll my eyes. "Fair point." I can't help letting my gaze drift to his bookshelf again. I spot at least three of my favorite authors there, along with more than a few who have been on my radar for ages.
Well-read, good taste in music, hot as hell, and he cooks …
He joins me on the couch a few minutes later, two plates of perfectly cooked omelets in hand. I take one bite and my eyes go wide. He added spinach and cheese and bacon and something else, some spices I don't recognize but that go perfectly.
"How are you still single?" I ask, once I've washed that bite down with a sip of the coffee he brewed.
He laughs. "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" I gesture wildly around the room with my fork. "You're hot, you're smart, you're fucking fantastic in bed, and you cook? That's ridiculous. How has some lucky hot girl not snatched you up already?"
"Is the omelet really that delicious?" He shakes his head. "It's only eggs and some veggies. You should really try cooking more, Clove."
I narrow my eyes. "I cook! I make a mean ramen noodle soup."
"Packet ramen doesn't count."
I roll my eyes now. "Yeah, well. My ineptitude in the kitchen aside, you're still a catch. So my question stands."
"Which question?"
Now I frown. "The why you're single one, obviously."
"Oh, you know. Same reason anyone is single."
"That's not exactly an answer," I point out.
"Maybe I just haven't met the right girl yet."
"The fact that you're so obviously dodging the question makes me think there's more to it than that," I reply, shaking my fork at him.
He sighs and takes another bite of his omelet. Takes his time chewing it and drinking a long sip of coffee before he answers me. "I don't trust a lot of people," he finally admits. "I haven't exactly had the best history when it comes to dating."
I snort. When he looks hurt, I spread my hands. "Sorry. I just meant... I mean, obviously I don't have the best track record either. You had to beat up my most recent stalker of a first date, for Christ's sake. I can relate."
"Yeah, he seemed like a real winner. Dating in this town..." Zayne shakes his head.
I frown at him. He's still dodging. There's something he's not telling me. But then again, how long has he known me? A couple of days? No wonder he doesn't want to go too deep into his backstory. So, fine. He can be weird about this if he wants.
"What's your weekend look like?" he asks, and I let him change the subject this time.
"Dunno. I was going to use the time to catch up on some reading for work, but..."
He grins at me. Raises an eyebrow. "But?"
"But, I could be persuaded to be naughty and slack off. If, you know... a more interesting opportunity presented itself."
He takes my plate, the omelet already mostly devoured since I couldn't help but inhale the deliciousness. Then, gently, he sets it on the end table, his own plate with it. "Is that right?"
"Yeah, I guess I'm easily influenced." I grin.
He leans toward me. Places one hand on either side of me, and stares down at me. "So, if some other plans came up that involved, say... spending most of the weekend naked and splayed across my bed..."
"I wouldn't object. No." I raise an eyebrow.
He breaks into a grin too. Then he grabs my hands and pulls me upright. Without warning, he hoists me up, tossing me back over his shoulder and slapping my ass on the way up. "Good. Because I had some plans of my own in mind. And they do not involve letting this sexy little minx get away just yet..."
I squeal and kick my legs in faux distress as he carries me back to the bedroom. Frankly, I could get used to this.
6
By Monday morning, I'm starting to wonder if you can get addicted to orgasms. I've had more than I can count on both hands in the last two days. Between Zayne tying me to his bedposts with a couple of T-shirts to eat me out, then him fucking me bent over his kitchen table, and finally against his balcony window, where half of New York could probably see if they looked up at the right moment, and where our neighbor across the street could definitely see if they opened their windows, I had no idea I could get so turned on so fast by someone.
In between fucking, we took breaks to watch a couple of movies. He's got great taste in films, preferring older film noir above all else. We watched a few I'd never seen, like Double Indemnity which involved some hot-as-hell hookup scenes that led to us getting distracted and fucking again before we switched to watching Chinatown.
Our conversation after Chinatown was almost as good as the fucking, though. He spent an hour dissecting the movie with me, savoring all the minute details, letting me rewind to gush over certain scenes. I love doing that when I watch movies-it makes me feel like they last longer, like they're books I can slowly digest. I'd never met anyone else who was interested in doing that. Mostly my exes just humored me when I insisted on it.
But Zayne? Zayne not only enjoys it, but after that, he encouraged me to do it with every movie we watched afterwards. We spent hours on each one, and while that would normally make me feel like a total nerd, with him it just felt normal. Like comparing these movies to our lives and dissecting each one was a perfectly cool, natural thing to do.
He cooked the whole time too, and I swear, each meal tasted better than the last. He made me a veggie curry for lunch, then steaks for dinner, and leftover steak and eggs for breakfast the next morning. Who needs NYC brunch when you have your own personal chef and sexy sex master in house?
But Monday arrived, as it always does. With it came the responsibilities I'd been avoiding. A shit ton of reading that I'll need to catch up on all morning, plus all the work drama that led me to complaining to Zayne last Friday, which I still need to handle.
But somehow, after this weekend of retreating into the Zayne bubble, I feel more ready to face it than ever. I feel energized, recharged, ready to tackle the whole world if I need to. What could possibly go wrong? I've finally found a decent guy who's in my corner – and in my bed, for that matter.
When I leave that morning, Zayne walks me downstairs. "Back on the clock?" I ask him in the elevator. I already know this was one of his rare weekends off.
He nods. "Going to have to work a double today to make up for skiving on Sunday."
My cheeks flush. He skipped because I asked him to. Not that he complained too much. But as I realize now what it's going to cost him, it makes me feel guilty. Schedules here are crazy. I can't believe how little time off he gets, either. Someone should really complain to the management company about that, I think as we step into the elevator. I make a mental note to do that later.