Then he scoops me off the counter and carries me to bed, where he pulls me onto his chest and strokes my hair as he tells me to relax and go to sleep.
And I fall asleep, sated, happy, and full.
For the first time ever.
twenty-two
atticus
I want to give her everything she needs
We hada littleHome Alonemoment this morning. Jumping out of bed, our sleep-heavy eyes glaring at each other from over the mattress. “We slept in,” Goldie squealed, cupping her hands to her cheeks.
For the next thirty minutes, I assisted her in getting ready. Since I’m a mechanic, I can go into the shop smelling like I ate pussy all night, but Goldie wears fancy clothes and is, in general, a hot piece of ass.
That takes more than a shower and a cup of coffee, so I’m told.
I made her coffee and some oatmeal for breakfast then packed her some snacks for the day–leftover fried rice with a cup of mixed fruit and a yogurt I grabbed from Delilah’s downstairs while Goldie was showering.
I started my truck and let it warm up, scraped the ice off the windshield, and got her computer bag ready. When she shuffled down the hall with her hair pulled into a sexy bun at the base of her skull, her body poured into a very tight black dress with a boss babe little blazer over the top—I grabbed my cock.
She rolled her eyes, but she liked it because her cheeks told me so. After putting on some gold hoops and nude pumps (not “skin-colored high heels” as I so stupidly identified them), I helped her into the truck, and now, I’m driving my girlfriend to work.
After our first time fucking. But more significant than the fucking, I think, was the rest of our time together last night.
I told her about Mere. I took her to meet Mere. And she told me about what therapy meant and invited me to meet her mom. And she slept so soundly against me, I don’t know how she slept before, but I don’t see how it could’ve been better than that.
She didn’t even move, and neither did I.
“Meet me here at noon, and we’ll go to the restaurant together?” she says, rolling on lipstick in the flip-down mirror from the passenger seat. We’re parked next to her little car, just like we were last night, and the clock tells us we still have a cozy five minutes together.
“Sounds good,” I gruff, secretly hypnotized by the red bleeding onto her lips from the tube. I want that red ringing my cock, that much I know.
She flips the mirror closed and twists in her seat to pay me attention. “Without the risk of getting the Atticus Winters eye roll, I want to say something. And trust me, I’m kinda cringey about saying this, too, but in an effort to be more genuine and truthful, I’m gonna say it.”
“Say it,” I deadpan, though my stomach churns like if what she’s about to say ain’t good; he’s hitting eject on the coffee and oatmeal.
“The time we spent together yesterday and last night were better than any good times I’ve had with any other boyfriends combined. And I honestly have never felt this immediately, innately connected to someone before. Not like this.” She smiles, nerves making the corners of her lips falter a little. “I hope you feel that way, too.”
I want to remind her that I’ve already told her what’s in my heart. I may not be a goddamn chatterbox otherwise, but I’ve said the shit that needs to be said. But I study her beautiful face, taking in how she gnaws at the corner of her mouth and licks her lips, then pushes a finger up through her lashes. She’s… unsure. Everything about her body language and expression scream that she’s unsure.
While I know I’ve told her, it’s clear she needs validation and reassurance, at least for a while. And that’s why she’s mine because I want to give her everything she needs.
“I love you,” I say, holding her eyes with mine. “But it’s time.”
We look at the clock together, and it is indeed time for her to go in. We share a kiss, one that leaves me rattled and grinnin’ in the privacy of my truck as I drive toward Wrench Kings for work.
* * *
Miller says good morning,and I say it back.
Beau brings me coffee out back, and I say, “thanks, man.”
Delane calls me up front to explain a repair to a grouchy customer, and I don’t lose my cool. And around ten ‘til noon, I head up front to use the fancy bathroom to wash the oil from my face with the better disposable hand towels.
That’s when the three of them stop me.
“Wait,” Delane says, a pinch of concern running in a vertical line between her brows. “I think you have a brain tumor.”