Thanks to everyone that voted on the last chapter, I hope you enjoy this one :)
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I think of Lise as Milo chokes on his pancake, push a napkin towards him that he takes with a wipe of a hand, eyes watering. I don't apologize. I'm tempted to rub his back, tear my eyes away of his naked chest and stomach. He lets out a few wheezes, a sneeze and a cough that make me cringe. He glares at my raised nose.
He uses the back of the napkin to dry his eyes, spreads syrup on his forehead, just above his eyebrow. He scowls when he brings back the paper to his mouth to cough one last time. His face has heated up, from chocking or surprise I'm not sure. Milo crushes the crumbled napkin between his fist, racks his throat and glares at my foot hanging from the bed.
I feel my head tilt when he doesn't answer. He stays focused- thinking and when my foot twitches at the stare, his head turns to the floor. I'm tempted to repeat my question, my demand that must sound like a plea to him, when he takes too long to answer. It that good or bad? I bring both of my legs back under me, swallow the spit that gathered in mouth and threatens to choke me next.
« Ok. » I have to take a deep breath when his voice reaches me, so it was good. I'm slightly stunned, not because I was expecting rejection but because I thought I would at least have to fight for it. I can't help my head turning to the window, my eyes catching the warm branches. I blink at the sunlight.
I'm startled when I feel warm fingers on my ankle, gasp quietly when they rub the soft skin. My heads to turns back to him, was it to get my attention? Or is it to ask something ? Maybe this is where we negotiate. I clamp my fingers around the cup to stop them from swatting his hand away. But when I glance at him all I see is serenity. Calm?
I thought he wouldn't like it, thought we might take steps back. His fingers continue to rub the inside of my ankle, while he goes for another pancake. He eats it before I have time to bring the cup back to my lips. Licks his lips and swallows with a press of his fingers onto me. I take a small sip, focused on his hands threatening to lock around my ankle more than on my actions.
« You stay with me. » His voice is as smooth as his caresses, far from earlier. It was expected, I never thought he let me go alone. Nor did I want to go alone on wolf territory. I have a feeling being his mate puts a target on my back, even on this pack's land. Is that what he's scared of ? I think he knows I won't try to run again.
I never want to feel my heart break again, don't want to see hope just an inch outside the reach of my fingers. All I want is to feel the sun on my skin, breathe in the cold air. I nod once, eyes still on his fingers curling around my limp foot, nod again when the digits press around it. Nod again when I raise my head to him.
« We hold hands. » I almost nod at his words, almost too silent to catch, too quick to be understood correctly. I shake my head instead. There's a turned down smile when I look at him, not from rejection, not from sadness. He though the could get away with it. That's why he said it so fast, so quietly. I shake my head again.
« No way. » I wince when I hear my own words, too earnest and too harsh. Wince at his pout, frown at his hand pulling my leg under the tray, pulling my foot the slightest bit towards him. He looks away, rubs his forehead with an arm, frowns in response. Is he hurt? Was he expecting too much from me? He merely sighs and releases my foot.
I pull it back under me, shiver from the cold slightly biting my skin when his skin isn't on mine. I think he's pouting, if not from the rejection, from the harshness of it. I gently put the cup down to munch on blueberries. I lick my teeth to get rid of the acidity, rinse my mouth with water. He's still eating, but now rather than looking like he can breathe pancakes, he's slowly chewing on toast.
His face is hidden, body angled towards the window, arm resting on his knee and supporting his head. His palm cups lazily his jaw and cheek, fingers an inch away from grazing the syrup dried just above his eyebrow. Should I tell him? I try not to look at his stomach, not to gaze at the obvious chiseled surface, stare at his arms instead. When did I start to like arms this much?
My eyes find his shoulder, muscles clear and defined, graze up the start of his neck, thick and powerful. When I trail on his jaw, covered by his scarred knuckles, I find his eyes on me instead. I think I stop breathing, not just from the surprise of it, his eyes are relaxed, pout long gone. At times like this he loses his youthful features. Loses his gleeful eyes and crooked smile. He wears an unusual serious expression and I wonder what he thinks about when he arbors it.
His cold eyes reveal nothing, so I look away, press my fingers on the empty and cold cup. Is he letting me get away with it? I hope my face isn't red, it doesn't feel hot. I jump when I feel warm fingers on mine, turn my face back to him, mouth open and threatening to let out an unmanly sound. That really surprised me. I barely have time to cough a few times, breath taken away, when he pulls the empty cup from me, puts it back on the tray with an apologetic face.
Milo leaves with the tray, only gone a minute during which I continue to cough and rub my chest with full palms. He always chooses the worst moments to initiate contact. It away feels like my body unwires when I don't see it coming. Like I should have have my attention on him. Maybe I'm forgetting to look at the wolf in the room. Is it his intention ? I don't think he would scare me for shit and giggles.
« You okay? » my heartbeat settles when he's back in the room, crouching by the side of the bed, I nod when I turn to him. Feel the sudden need to curl my arms around him, to hug him. What the fuck is going on with me ? His words are soft but there's something else I can't put my finger on. It's not the usual heat, not the flush that pushes my body to the ground. It feels like a trap, waiting and predatory. Somehow I can't bring myself to look at him.
He rises and heads for the closet, lingers just enough for me to know to follow. His hands open the door and fish a sweater inside while his back is to me. For my own sanity, I debate against looking at his back when he raises the sweater to the top of his head. I duck under his raised arm to fish for another sweater, ignore the heat on my side that lingers as if our skins had touched. I pat a few before settling on the thickest one. His wardrobe is a mix of blacks, greys and browns. I brush the thought of him in dark green away as I put it on.
It reaches just past mid thighs, so I take off the shorts to pick cargo pants and thick socks. His hand reaches for pants as well, but lighter socks. I ignore his semi naked form right behind me, pick sneakers about size. Were they his when younger? It's the perfect match when I try them on, still crouched on the floor. He's still fishing for items in there so I duck one more time, decide to wait for him by the door. I barely have time to walk a few feet before I'm chucked back into his chest by the collar of my sweater.
« Dude. » my voice is strained, my fingers barely had time to catch the sweater from chocking me. His hand leaves my collar to push by back to his chest with a warm hand on my sternum. Like this, the side of my head brushes his cheek, warm and soothing like the rest of him.
« Don't call me dude. » I cringe at his words, spoken into my ear, low and irritated. Right. We are not friends. I turn my head away, to try to ease the flushing from his warm breath on the shell, that spread to my neck and nape. I feel sensitive in his embrace, but soon forget about it when I'm blinded by another weather he puts on me, on top of the other. Then comes a thick jacket, then comes an even thicker scarf, and I'm seriously stuffy when he pats the layers with his scorching hands that leave not room for discussion.
I manage to crank my neck, pushing through the layers to glare at him when he fishes a beanie from a shelf inside the closet. He glares back but only for the second, hand fisting the fabric. His hand is still pushing me to him and I feel like a turkey slow cooking, like sweat has started to build between my skin and shirt. His top lip barely raises to lick at his teeth inside of his mouth. He throws the items in the closest, lets it fall at the bottom.
When his fingers gently push against the layers of fabric around my stomach with a light blush on his cheeks, I duck and head for the door. I don't want to freeze outside so I'm grateful for the clothes but I'm melting away while inside. I wait for him by the door, pulling at the scarf threatening to cut my airways, pulling it just enough that it doesn't press on my throat while Milo puts his shoes own. I hide the bottom of my face in the soft wool when he comes the door and curls his fingers around the handle with a solemn look in his eyes.
« By the way, you have syrup on your face. »
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