“It’s strange,” Zenny says, after blowing on a forkful of pie to cool it off. “Even though it was uncomfortable to talk like that, I feel really good right now. Like I’ve just exercised or something.”
I was very busy staring at the little creases in her lips as she put them together to blow, and it takes me a minute to answer. “I agree. I’m glad it didn’t scare you off.”
“I’m not easily scared,” Zenny says as she takes a bite, and I watch the slow slide of the fork’s tines between her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes as she savors the food.
“No, I don’t think you are,” I murmur, knowing distantly that I should stop watching her so intently, but damn, the girl’s fucking gorgeous. I think I could happily sit and watch her balance a checkbook or browse through Consumer Reports, she’s that arresting to watch.
And she’s right. The air between us feels good. Clear and charged with all the right charges.
“This bossiness,” she says.
“Yes.”
She sets down her fork and studies me, a daring glint in her gaze. “So far I’m not all that impressed by it.”
I study her back. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
“I haven’t started yet.” I pause. “It’s not one of my finer traits, Zenny. But it’s hard for me to turn it off for people I—” I stop because a very incautious word almost slipped out, and I’m scared at how not scared I am to say it in front of her.
“—people I care about,” I say instead.
“People you care about.”
“My brothers. My mother,” I say. “My sister, when she was alive…much good that it did her,” I add with some old, tired bitterness.
“What do you mean?” Zenny asks, and she asks it without playing into my obvious self-pity. She asks like she’d ask about the weather or about who tailors my suits.
“I mean that I was over-protective and stubbornly in her business all the time. School, boyfriends, what parties she was going to and if her cell phone was fully charged and if she remembered the mugging classes I begged her to take before she came to KU. And the whole time she’d been carrying this wound, this shame, years and years of what this man had done to her, and I had no idea. I had no idea that I’d failed to protect her until it was too late.”
“So you are bossy to take care of the people you keep close,” Zenny says, “but there was a time once when—in your eyes—you failed. And you haven’t let anyone new into that circle since.”
“I—” I break off because…well, she’s not wrong, actually. The people in my life—my parents, my brothers, Elijah—they were already there before Lizzy. I suppose I haven’t let myself get close to anyone new since she killed herself because getting close would mean feeling responsible for them and taking care of them.
And Lizzy’s suicide proved how inept I really was at keeping the people around me safe.
“I don’t know how you manage to do this,” I say, taking a quick swig of beer to hide my discomfort. “Make me talk about all kinds of depressing shit.”
Zenny reaches across the table to touch my hand. “Sean.”
“Yes?”
“It’s only a month between us,” she says quietly, “and I’m not your sister.”
I think of Tyler’s words yesterday, of his warning.
“I know that,” I tell her.
“Good. Because I want this month to feel real. That’s the whole point, for me to feel everything I’ll leave behind, not just the sex, but the companionship and friendship too. We are friends, right?”
“Yes, Zenny,” I say, watching how the city lights sparkle in her eyes. “We’re friends.”
She beams. “Good. Then that means it should be easy for you to be bossy. We’re friends and you’re going to fuck me, and that’s basically like being my boyfriend.”
I haven’t thought of it like that, and the surge of fierce pleasure at the thought of Zenny being my girlfriend, being mine, is impossible to ignore.
“That’s how I want us to be until this is over,” Zenny goes on, ignorant of the stormy happiness thundering through my veins. “I want to feel what a woman of yours would really feel.”
“I’ve never had a woman I called my own,” I say softly. “You’re the first.”
“Really?” She tries to hide her smile at that.
“A lot of things are new with you, Zenny. Even for me.” And I mean it. I may have done almost everything there is to do in bed, but I’ve never done those things with a woman I really cared about. A woman I could pretend was mine.
“Let’s start right now,” Zenny says, straightening up and pushing her plate back. “Say I’m your girlfriend. How would you act?”
I straighten up too. “First of all, you need to know that I’ll stop with the bossiness at any moment. Just say the word.”
“Is the word ‘asshole’?”
I grin. “Yes.”
“I can do that.” She wiggles a little in her seat, like a cat waiting for a string to move across the floor. “Seriously, Sean. I’m starting to think you were bluffing.”
“I don’t bluff, sweetheart. It’s why I’m so good at business.” I take a breath, because this is new to me, letting my natural inclination to control spill into a relationship that’s not familial. But it feels good, it feels nice, and I’ve been fighting the urge to take care of Zenny in all sorts of ways since the gala—allowing that urge out to play feels delicious.
And of course with Zenny, it takes a very different shape than it usually does with my family, the lust and affection and protectiveness twining and twisting into something new. Something I’ve never felt before.
“To start, I want you to finish what’s on your plate.”
Zenny’s eyebrows furrow, and I can tell she wasn’t expecting me to say something so ordinary.
“Eat your dinner, Zenny. I won’t tell you again.”
Eyes narrowing, Zenny picks up her fork and starts to eat.
“You want to call me an asshole yet?”
She swallows a bite. “Not yet.”
I smile. “Good. Take off your shirt.”
Her fork clatters to the plate. “What?”
“You heard me,” I say silkily. “I want to see you while you eat. I want to know the color of your bra, I want to see the shape of your little nipples as they pucker up, all cold and needing to be sucked warm again.”
She swallows again, and this time it has nothing to do with food. “Jesus,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if it’s a swear or if it’s a prayer. It doesn’t really matter either way; she’s tugging her shirt off as fast as she can, tossing it behind her.
I rumble in approval, leaning forward to get a better view. She’s wearing a pale lavender bra, a sweet color against her warm brown skin, and I can see the dark circles of her nipples under the thin fabric. I can see them hardening, pulling up tight.
I can also see the faint shadows of her ribs laddering down her sides and a faded mandala-like doodle spiraling out from her hip.