Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
His bluntness doesn’t feel judgmental but it still stings. "I'm not afraid. I just prefer to eat alone."
"Bullshit." He takes the bowl from my hands and scoops up a spoonful of the brown mixture. "Open your mouth."
"What? No. I can feed myself."
"Open. Your. Mouth."
The command sends heat spiraling through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment. There's something about his complete certainty, his refusal to accept my protests, that makes part of me want to obey without question.
"This is ridiculous," I whisper, but I open my mouth.
"I'm taking the pressure off," he says quietly. "Not because you can't do it yourself, but because you shouldn’t have to right now. Let me take care of you, baby, like I did last night in the coat room. Like I did this morning against my wall. Let me show you how good it can feel to just receive."
The talk of what we did this morning, and what we did last night, should make me blush. Instead it makes me take stock. He’s right, he’s taken care of me in ways I didn’t even know were possible.
What’s one un-tracked meal against all that?
The savory warmth of the food spreads over my tongue, making me moan. It’s rich and savory with herbs I can't identify. But more than that, there's something unexpectedly intimate about letting him feed me, about trusting him to decide how much I need.
"Good girl," he murmurs, scooping another spoonful.
"I can do it myself now."
"I know you can.” His voice is a softer rumble as he brings the spoon to my lips again. "But for now, I’m doing it. No guilt. No rules. Just me, you, and this moment. Open."
The words make something tight in my chest loosen. When's the last time someone wanted to take care of me? When's the last time I let them?
I open my mouth for the next bite, and the next, letting him feed me until the bowl is empty, and my stomach feels satisfied for the first time in longer than I can remember.
"Better?" he asks.
"Better." I say and he looks so satisfied. Like he just won something big. . "How did you know to do that?"
"Because it’s what you needed. And that’s important to me." He sets the empty bowl aside and shifts on the bench so he's facing me fully, dragging his massive hand over his mouth before finishing. "Taking care of you isn’t just keeping you safe from bears and hypothermia.."
"Taking care of me?"
"That's what this is, Marley." He releases a sigh as he leans back against the wooden wall, doing that wide man spread that is so simple, but so sexy I get that shuddering feeling that tracks up from my belly all the way to my chest. "You’re valuable, baby, and I take care of what’s mine."
He reaches forward, pressing his hand on the side of my head, fingers lightly scratching through the hair and God, why does that feel so good?
The possessive statement should set off alarm bells. Instead, it makes me lean into his touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"I don't understand what's happening to me," I whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know what's wrong with me. My parents controlled everything - my food, my classes, my whole life path. I should hate being told what to do. But with you..." I search his face, confused by my own reactions. "I keep wanting you to just...handle things. Tell me what to do. It makes no sense."
"There’s a difference between being controlled and being nurtured. Giving me the power is brave, baby. It’s the ultimate choice."
“I guess it is. I never gave them the power, they just always had it or took it. It feels like I’m giving it to you. It’s different.” The honesty feels dangerous, but somehow necessary. "Maybe because you make me feel safe? Like my achievements aren’t some testament to your value?"
"That's part of it." His thumb continues its gentle stroking across my cheek. "What else?"
I think about it, trying to put into words something I barely understand myself. "You see me. Not just the smart girl or the good student or the weird girl who hates itchy tags on her clothes.” I reach behind my neck on a grimace and scratch. That one kid in school who never quite fits in. You see...me."
He pulls my hand away from the back of my neck, tugging my shirt collar out and I hear a soft ripping sound. He pats it back in place, reaching over and tossing the tag into the fire.
"I do see you." His voice has gone softer, gentler. "I see how hard you've been working to be perfect for everyone else. I see how tired you are from carrying all that pressure. And I see how much you need someone to tell you it's okay to let go."