7
Goldie
We fall into heavy sleep an hour later, our sweaty bodies twisted and tangled around one another. I’m thoroughly worn out and can barely move.
Brock tucks me into his side and it’s like he’s my own giant security blanket I never want to be parted from.
When I wake up later on Sunday evening, it’s to soft kisses on my temple and cheek, tender hands brushing the disheveled hair off my face.
“Wake up, honey. It’s time for breakfast.”
A sublime smell teases my nostrils. “Oh, my God. Are those pancakes?”
“Yup. We barely ate today so you’re getting breakfast for dinner. Made from scratch. Just for you,” he rumbles against my lips.
I swoon. “I haven’t had good pancakes in so long.” The food I had on my travels were phenomenal, but nothing beats good old-fashioned American pancakes, dripping in butter and syrup.
He grins and my insides contort with how hot he is. “Good. Sit up. Let me feed you while you tell me about your gap year.”
With a happy little squeal I sit up against the pillows.
The sheet drops to my waist and Brock’s gaze latches onto my boobs. He curses and swallows.
“Fuck me, that body drives me nuts,” he growls. But when I start to lift the sheet, he shakes his head. “I didn’t say you could hide it from me, little girl.”
My nipples harden to attention and he leans forward and flicks his tongue over one peak.
He smiles when I squirm and whimper, then sits back. “Food first, then Daddy will take care of you. Deal?”
My smile feels a mile wide. “Deal.” God, it’s insane how he makes me feel. And somewhere in the last day and a half, I’ve given up trying to dissect exactly what Brock has done to me.
If I’m under some sort of spell, I don’t ever want to be free from it.
But as he starts to cut up a strip of bacon and a triangle of fluffy pancake, I can’t help the hollow sensation that opens up in my stomach. It’s Sunday evening. Dad will be home tomorrow.
Brock will have his chat with him. Then what?
I don’t even know what my own plans are now that I’m home.
There was always a vague plan to go to college, but to be honest, I’ve felt unmoored for a very long time. Ever since my family was splintered down the middle and my mother walked away without a backward glance.
My ambition was to be a sports psychologist, but how can I help people if I can’t even help myself?
“What is it, little girl?”
I jump a little and look up to find his eyes narrowed and fixed on me. I think of brushing the question away.
It’s way too soon to be asking the “where do we go from here” question. But…if things have moved this fast, shouldn’t this question be appropriate now, too?
I open my mouth, then lose my nerve at the last moment. “I don’t even know your last name.”
His eyes widen, then his mouth quirks. “It’s Sinclair.”
Brock Sinclair.
I file it away as I open my mouth and take the forkful of delightful pancakes and bacon. And groan. “Oh my God.”
His grin widens. “Good?”