That’s what it is. I feel like his life partner, tethered to him, and it’s my responsibility – my joy – to help him overcome his obstacles.
We sit like that for a time, Roman at the keyboard and me in the chair. He looks over at me several times, his face tight, his eyes narrowed as though he’s experiencing pain.
But then, finally, he sighs and his fingers start to move over the keyboard. His eyes flit over the screen as he reads what he’s written, and then he nods.
He nods over and over, like the force of his writing is pounding through him.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Oh, fuck, fuck. Yes. This is it, Rayla. I can feel it. It’s coming back!”
“I’m so happy,” I whisper, as tears spring to my eyes. “The world deserves to read more of your work.”
He looks over at me, his eyes glimmeringly so intensely, that for a second I think he’s crying as well. But of course, he’s not. He’s merely filled with relief, the sort that makes him look as though he could be consumed with starlight at any second.
“You did this, Rayla. There’s something about you being here that lets me write. It’s like I don’t feel so empty anymore.”
The emotion of his words makes every inch of me tingle, but I have to try and get us back on track.
The more we veer into that sort of territory, that sort of closeness, the harder it’s going to be to stick to our no-lust rule.
“Come on. You’ve only written a line. Get to work. I’m your supervisor now. I want one chapter before dinner.”
“Dinner, eh?” He smirks. “Are you going to cook me a meal?”
A strangely welcome feeling comes over me at his words. “Could I?”
“Are you asking me if I’d allow you to make me a meal?” He chuckles. “Yeah, angel, I think I could find a way to be okay with it.”
“What would you want?”
“We’ve got some steaks and some corn on the cob. And there are some fries there.”
I nod, the word date fluttering through my mind. And there’s something else, something older, ancient, primal… It’s such an essentially human thing to do, cooking for your man, letting him know you’re there for him whenever he needs feeding – his lust or his belly.
“Sure,” I say, trying to calm my tone down so he can’t tell how much this means to me. “I’ll give it my best shot. But first, you need to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turns to the computer. There’s a pause – lightning crackling outside – and then he begins to write.
The strangest thing happens as I sit there and he moves his fingers over the keyboard – as Tanker comes into the room and hops into my lap – as his fingers pick up speed. The tap-tap-tap of his writing seems to join with the rhythm of the rain until it’s like his touch is powering the storm.
And it is. The storm in my heart.
I stare hard at him, at the relief glimmers across his features as he types, my fingers stroking Tanker’s fur.
Where are we going, Roman? Where does this end?
Chapter Eighteen
Roman
I sit on one side of the dining table and my angel sits on the other, an unsure smile dancing across her face.
The storm is still going, but a little early-evening sunlight has managed to find its way through the clouds. It shafts through the rain slick windows, making the light distorted and shimmery as it rests on Rayla’s face.
My heart feels just as light, my mood flowing, flying when I think about how today went. We stayed in the office together for hours, as long-withheld ideas poured out of me… the same way the lust poured out of me when I claimed Rayla with my mouth when she told me she’s a virgin.
Which means she’s mine, only mine. Forever.
I wrote today, and the words were good. I reread them and edited them. With Rayla in the room, it felt so much easier like a weight lifted off my shoulders.
She nods over to my plate, smiling tightly. “Are you going to try it?”
I smirk over at her, my eyes moving down her body in another summer dress. Her face is flushed, her chest red, probably from the cooking. My little virgin is taking cooking me a meal very seriously, as though she doesn’t know she’s already given me the greatest gift she possibly could.
Well, except her sopping young slit.
I cut into the steak with exaggerated movements, chuckling teasingly. “I can’t. It’s too tough.”
I put heavy sarcasm into my voice so she knows I’m only joking, so she knows how wonderful she really is.
When I bite into it for real, my mouth erupts with flavor, with the perfection of her cooking.
“Damn,” I say after I’ve swallowed. “It’s perfect, Rayla.”