“Okay, good,” she says. “And this can’t cut into my studies or my volunteering, so we might have to be creative about scheduling.”
“I can handle that.”
She squeezes my hands. “What are your boundaries?”
I’m glad she asked because I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to find the right limits to this arrangement—any ethical loophole, any technicality that I could hold onto and think to myself, I’m not a bad man, I’m doing this to help her, here’s how I’m keeping her safe while giving us a taste of what we both want.
“I have one boundary and one caveat,” I tell her. “The caveat is that whatever happens with the Keegan property is separate from this. What happens in bed has no impact on me trying to find a new shelter—or on you slandering me to the press, if you wish to continue to do so.”
That makes her eyes sparkle. “Deal.”
“And the boundary—you don’t make me come.”
Record scratch.
Zenny sits up, letting go of my hands to cross her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“I want to do this with you…for you…but I don’t want to take advantage and I don’t want to use you. I don’t want there to be any doubt that I’m doing this all for you.”
“So you’re not planning on coming when we’re together at all?”
To be honest, I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I’d only gotten so far as to decide I couldn’t actually, in good conscience, erupt inside a nun’s mouth. “I don’t know. I—”
“Because I don’t accept that,” Zenny interrupts. “You said everything was on the menu, and that’s a part of everything that I refuse to compromise on.” She pauses, and then forges ahead. “I need you to come too. If you don’t, I don’t know, but it makes me feel like I’d be missing something important.”
“It’s not that special, sweetheart. It’s cum.”
She shakes her head, not having it. “It’s special to me. I only get a month of this, and I won’t miss any part of it.”
I rub at my jaw, trying to bring my brain around to find some way to convince her, but my God, all I can think about is how much she wants to see me spill.
“How about,” Zenny says, “you come when we’re together, but I won’t be the one to finish you off? It won’t be my hands or my mouth or—you know.”
“Your pussy?”
“My pussy,” Zenny echoes and we’re staring hard at each other now, thinking of the same thing. Thinking of me coming deep inside her, giving her everything.
“Deal,” I say hoarsely.
She leans down and kisses me—gently at first—then eagerly as I kiss her back, and she scoots forward on my lap so she can rub herself against my angry, needy cock. “Are we done with the talking yet?” she asks against my lips. “Please say yes.”
I smile at her eagerness and shake my head, giving her a final, soft kiss before I say, “One last thing.”
She groans.
But it can’t be ignored and it can’t wait. I take her hands in my mine again and brush my lips across her knuckles. “Zenny, I don’t want to move forward without…I mean, I want to be aware that there’s…”
Dammit. I can’t find the right words. This is just as awkward and intimate as talking about sex, and I’m fumbling around for ways for this to come out right and coming up short.
I start again, peering up at her. “You’re young. You’re so young. Elijah…he asked me to protect you, and I’m pretty sure this is the exact opposite. I’ve never done this before—dating or fucking someone I care about or fucking someone I’m supposed to take care of, and I’m terrified of hurting you. Of getting this wrong.”
Those copper eyes search my own, shimmering and serious and sharp. And then she nods. “Okay,” she says simply.
“Really?” I ask, feeling clumsy and guilty for reasons I don’t entirely understand. “I want you to know that you always have the power between us, Zenny. To say stop or to say go. To tell me what you need from me. To tell me I’m an asshole.”
That last earns me a little smile. “I’ll never be afraid to tell you that,” she says. “And I trust you, Sean. That doesn’t change reality, but I’m willing to navigate it with you.”
The weight of her undeserved trust sits heavy on me, and I shift underneath her, still worried, still guilty.
“And it’s only for a month, remember?” she adds. “It’s not like we have to figure out how to raise children together.”
“Right,” I say, except now I’m suddenly wondering what our children would look like, and I’ve never wanted children, never ever, no sir. But damn. Zenny and I would make cute babies. And I can picture her belly swollen and tight with my child, picture her sitting in a glider in some quiet room, nursing our baby while I sat by her feet and stared up at her adoringly.
Happiness.
That’s the feeling unfurling in my chest right now, fragile and easily blown apart, and the sensation of it is so strange that I’m rendered still, staring at Zenny as if she’s the only thing in the world.
She misinterprets my stillness and laughs. “I was only joking about the children, Sean, don’t panic.”
“I—”
“In fact,” she continues, oblivious to my fantasy and the unfamiliar excitement blooming inside me, “I’m surprised you didn’t give me some speech about how I can’t fall in love with you while we do this.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem for you,” I murmur, kissing her knuckles again so that she can’t see my face. I hadn’t forgotten about the possibility of emotional entanglement—in fact, almost every other book in the Wakefield Saga had a speech to that effect in there somewhere whenever the characters first get together. I’ll pretend to court you for a season, but we mustn’t fall in love, or since I’m a widow, I can teach you how to please a future wife in bed, but of course it will end between us the moment you get engaged. That sort of thing.
But I don’t need it with Zenny. The way she talks, the way she lives her life—I’m never going to be able to compete with her God for love. She’ll fuck me, use me to whatever purpose she needs, and then go back to her church with a deeper faith than ever. I don’t doubt that for a second.
It’s weird though, how quickly that thought wilts my happiness.
“Is that smoke?” Zenny asks, and I turn with some alarm to see a steady white plume coming from my oven.
“Ahhhh shit shit shit.” Zenny slides gracefully onto the sofa and I leap to rescue the pot pie, which I already know Mary Berry would declare “overdone” and our awkward discussion comes to a sudden, smoking stop.
Chapter 12
The pot pie is only barely burnt, and I make sure to sprinkle lots of the expensive cheese over the worst parts, and then it’s fine. I dish it out, crack open the beers, and soon Zenny and I are sitting at the small table by the window, looking out over the darkening city.