Maybe start by apologizing for flipping out on her last night.
Since Chess usually sleeps until ten, I decide to get her some breakfast as a peace offering. Apparently, she's a sucker for beignets. I'll jog over to Cafe du Monde and pick her up a bag.
As I turn the corner into the main living space, I halt in my tracks. Chess looks up from her spot at the stove. "Hey!" she says with forced brightness. "I'm making French toast. With sausages. Do you like French toast?"
Hey, Chess, I don't just want you. I need you. I need you so much it hurts. I'm pretty sure if you leave it will end me.
I clear my throat. "I love it."
"Good." She waves her spatula in the direction of the coffee machine. "Coffee just finished, if you want some."
I'm staring at her even as I'm pulling down two mugs and pouring the coffee. It feels like I'm walking through deep water. Meanwhile, Chess bustles around, flipping the French toast and dipping new slices into the egg batter she has set up in a shallow bowl.
I add cream for Chess's coffee and two sugars for mine, then hand her her coffee. "This is new," I say, with a nod toward her breakfast.
Chess glances at me from beneath her long lashes. Those clear green eyes hold a hint of regret, and my heart starts thudding. Is she moving out? Is that what this is? My fingers wrap around my mug, pressing into the heated ceramic.
"You've done so much for me," she says, sliding the spatula under a golden brown toast and putting it onto the finished stack. "I just wanted to do something for you."
"You don't have to."
She looks up at me, so fucking beautiful, I almost lean in and take a taste of her. That husky, sex voice of hers sounds small and sorry. "I want to."
Her lips are delicately drawn, a soft pink shade that reminds me of candy. I want to press my mouth to hers. Again and again. And again.
Jesus, I'm waxing poetic like some lovelorn sap while she's looking at me as if I'm touched in the head. And I realize I've been silent for too long.
"Are you staying?" I croak out.
Chess drops her gaze to the stove, and her fingers tighten around the handle of the spatula. "I like it here."
I lean against the counter so I don't make a fool of myself and fall to my knees. I love you here. I clear my throat. "You keep making me breakfast, and you can stay here forever."
She snickers. "I'd hold back on that declaration until you've tasted your breakfast. I'm not known for my cooking."
Then I'll make you breakfast forever.
I dip my head over her shoulder and peer into the egg mix. "Is that a shell?" I tease, pretending I'm immune to the clean scent of her hair or the warmth of her slim body.
///
"Shut up." Chess elbows me in the gut, and it's all I can do not to pull her against me.
My control is so shot, I can't stop myself from grasping her upper arm and holding on. She stills, not moving, not saying a word. My grasp is gentle, my palm pressed against the smooth warmth of her skin. I'm close enough that, whenever she breaths in, her shoulder blades almost brush my chest. A phantom touch. And yet I feel that contact as if it were real. It shivers over my skin, and I want more.
And, Jesus, who is this guy I've become? I don't recognize him; he is feral, hyper-aware, and yet so tenderhearted it disorients me.
Chess's head is bent, her eyes on the pan. Butter sizzles, a soggy piece of yellow, battered bread slowly browning. Neither of us move, my hand cradling her arm, our breaths in sync. Out. In. Out. In.
It feels as though I'm fucking her.
The strange thought tilts through me, makes me a dizzy. I sway into her, and my cock, heavy and hot with need, kisses the curve of her ass.
Everything goes a little hazy.
I need. I need.
My fingers twitch on her arm, sinking into soft flesh.
She makes a sound, not pained but undone.
I draw in a hard breath, my lungs burning. "Chess-"
The blaring tones of Bohemian Rhapsody cuts through the room.
Mom.
It's more effective than a blast of cold water. Instantly, I step away, my head clearing, my dick wilting. With a curse, I grab the phone and shut it off. Chess's stare is a brand on my back, and my neck tightens.
"Who are you ignoring?" she asks in the thick silence.
With a sigh, I scrub my hand over my face. "My mother."
With that one confession, I know I'll have to tell Chess everything. I could keep hiding it, but I want Chess in my life, which means I have to let her all the way in, as painful as that might be.
* * *
Chess
* * *
Saved by Finn's mother. I never thought be grateful for that. And yet it feels true. Because a second ago? Jesus, I'd been blindsided by unexpected and unwelcome sheer lust.
Aside from his grip on my arm, Finn hadn't even touched me. Didn't matter. I'd felt every inch of him behind me, a wall of vibrating heat and intent.
I'd never experienced awareness like that. As if every nerve ending of mine were attached to his. He breathed, and I breathed with him. It had been all I could do not to beg him to touch me, slide his hand down into my pants so he could seek out the sensitive, swelling flesh that was slick and throbbing.
It still is. And I'm thankful for this new distraction. "You're ignoring your mother?"
Finn does not seem like the type to avoid family. But his expression turns mulish and guilty.
"I've heard that ringtone at least a half-a-dozen times since I've moved in," I add. "And you never pick up."
"You're right," he bites out finally. "I'm a total dick."
He looks so forlorn, yet tightly angry, I can't find it in myself to even tease.
"When we first met, I might have agreed," I say carefully. "But I know better. You're one of the good guys, Finn."
"That doesn't sound like a compliment," he mutters, glaring off and rubbing the back of his neck.
"But it is. What's going on with you?"
For a second, it seems as if he might not answer, but then he lets out an expansive sigh of defeat. "Fuck it. I want to talk to you about this." Blue eyes full of pain meet mine. "I do. I just don't think I can have this discussion here or I'll lose it. I need some air."
Ten minutes ago, I'd wanted to lick him like warm honey. Now, it's all I can do not to hold him like a wounded animal. But if he's anything like me, he'll balk at that. I keep my voice neutral. "Well, then, let's take a walk."
We go to the riverwalk where the sun shines bright and cheerful and the breezes off the Mississippi are stiff enough to carry painful words away in a flash. We're silent for a while and pass a man playing The Sunny Side of the Street on the trumpet. Farther down, a group of completely ragged musicians who are probably my age sit on the ground, practicing blue grass.
Finn's fingers touch my hand, and I edge away out of knee jerk habit. He makes a noise of irritation. "Take my damn hand, Chess. I'm not going to fucking cry or anything." His long fingers seek mine out again and secure them in a snug grip.
"I didn't say you were, Mr. Grumpy." I thread my fingers with his. "There? We're holding hands."
"Finally," he mutters.
I let that go and just walk alongside him, waiting for Finn to speak. When he does, his voice is tired and strained. "About eleven months ago, I went to a party and hooked up with Britt."
///
Okay, not what I was expecting. And not something I want to hear about. But I don't say a word.
"It wasn't even one night," he goes on. "We fucked in a bathroom and then went back out to enjoy the rest of the party."
Well, that's classy.
"Yeah, I know," he says as if I've spoken out loud. "I was high on an important game win and here was this supermodel begging to suck my-" He clears his throat. "Four months after that, Britt shows up at my door."
"Please tell me you recognized her," I blurt out, unkindly. Damn it.
Finn shoots me a repressive look that I absolutely earned. "Yes. But I'll be honest; I wasn't exactly thrilled to see her. Sex with Britt had been kind of … bland."
Only Finn would tell me sex in a bathroom with a supermodel had been bland.
He swallows hard and stares out over the river. "She was pregnant, Chess."
I stumble on a crack, and he tightens his grip on my hand to steady me.
"What?" I croak.
Finn's jaw bunches. "From high school out, they warn us about knocking women up. Never believe them when they say they're on the pill. Always wear a condom. Today's screw can be tomorrow's screw up."
"Lovely."
"But true," he says with a shrug. "I wore the condom. And I wasn't so naive that I didn't ask for a paternity test. Britt agreed. She didn't want money. She has more than enough of her own. She just wanted me to know because it was the right thing to do."