by KD Robichaux
“And you’re saying none of their songs are bad?” I find that hard to believe.
He shrugs. “There are one or two cuss words in a couple of the rap parts, but nothing I’m sure your kids haven’t heard you say when you stub your toe. Their songs are about self-love. If it’s a love song, the lyrics might be romantic, but not sexual, and they sing about empowering women. There’s a song about giving hope to the underdog. Because of a couple members’ pasts, they are big on non-violence, especially toward children and teenagers, and were chosen to give a speech at UNICEF about it. And Suga, one of the rappers, even did a solo song as Agust D that talked about his depression and obsessive compulsive disorder.”
I give him a surprised look. I don’t recall ever hearing a rap song about that before, not that I listen to a lot of rap. But anything I’ve ever heard in English is usually about money, women, sex, and violence.
He continues, “I don’t know if you know anything about Korean culture, but there is a huge stigma on mental health there. Even worse than here. It prevents a shit load of people from getting the help they need. And when he came out with that song, not only admitting that he has those mental illnesses but that he also got help for them, it was huge. Imagine all those little kids, teenagers, even adults going through something they grew up being told they should be ashamed of, hearing this badass world-famous rapper openly saying yeah, I’m going through this shit, and I got help, and now I’m doing much better, and you can too. The suicide rate in South Korea is… obscene. So BTS has taken it upon themselves to try to bring as much joy as they can to their country through their songs and dancing, going so far as to have reality shows of them goofing off all the time just to provide a distraction to those watching who might be going through something bad. You won’t hear them rapping or singing about the shit people sing about here.”
I smile softly. “You’re very passionate about these guys.”
He nods, putting on his blinker and turning into a nice neighborhood. “They’ve gotten me through some rough times. I’m sure it might seem weird to you that a man likes K-pop as much as I do, but it’s different where I was stationed in South Korea. Yeah, the K-pop fanbase is more than halfway female, but it’s not really anything to think twice about there for anyone to love their music. It’s like… country music here in Tennessee. It doesn’t matter if you’re a dude or a chick, or whatever you identify as—or your age either; it doesn’t really register as a thing.”
“Do you have a favorite? Lola always mentions one, but she says his name different every time. It started as V, but then she said his name is Tae, and then Taehyung.”
He chuckles. “First, he’s not her favorite. He’s called her bias. V is his stage name in the group, Kim Tae-hyung is his actual name, and it’s Tae for short. And yes, my bias is J-Hope.”
I tilt my head at him, needing more than just a name.
“People call him sunshine in human form. He’s the head dancer and is one of the rappers. He’s like… a goofy badass, if you can imagine.”
“Like Jackie Chan?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, like a Korean Jackie Chan.”
He slows then turns into a driveway, and my eyes widen at the beautiful house before me. At least, what I can see illuminated by his headlights is beautiful. It’s white brick with black shutters framing all the windows, giving me serious Fixer Upper style vibes.
“Holy Chip and Joanna Gaines, Batman. This is gorgeous,” I breathe, and he laughs, unbuckling his seat belt.
“I thought you’d like it after all your references to Joanna being your idol. Wait until you see the kitchen.”
I’m still gawking at the beautiful house when he opens my door, holding his hand out for me to take. I grab my purse with my left hand and put my right in his, and I hop down from the truck. As he closes his front door behind me, turning the deadbolt, my mouth hangs open, because it’s just as gorgeous inside as it is on the outside. The farmhouse elements give it a homey feel, totally not what I was expecting for a single dad’s place to look like. I imagined a bachelor pad, bare walls and mismatched furniture. Instead, it looks like a magazine spread.
It makes me wonder if this was the house he shared with his ex and all this loveliness was her doing. I try to be nonchalant about finding out, but by the look on his face, he can see right through me. “Have you lived here long?”
“Two years. My mom decorated it. I told her I wanted a black and white theme but cozy, not modern and stark, and this is what she came up with,” he explains.
I nod. “She did an amazing job. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
He takes my hand and pulls me past the staircase, and my eyes go wide for what seems like the millionth time as I take in the full gourmet kitchen before me. It’s huge with a giant island in the center that’s lined with barstools. It’s an open floorplan, so while I stand here with the staircase at my back, the living room is to my right, the dining table is straight ahead, and the kitchen is more to my left. Perfect for keeping an eye on your kids while you’re trying to cook dinner. I always wanted to take down the walls between my kitchen, dining room, and living room to open it up like this, but Mike wanted the separation for when we threw dinners. Because God forbid anyone see where their food was prepared before it was served to them.
The stove, ovens—yes, as in plural—and everything else in the kitchen rivals the restaurant’s. Winston spared no expense for the culinary arts he’s so passionate about. Everything is sleek stainless steel with white subway tile as the backsplashes. Instead of upper cabinets, he has shelves upon shelves made from black industrial pipe and dark stained wood. They’re stacked neatly with white plates, glasses, and stainless steel and black pots and pans.
I’m still standing in the same spot, admiring the entire first floor, when I realize he’s already moved to the ridiculously huge refrigerator and is pulling out Tupperware containers. I move forward to the island and pull out one of the barstools, taking a seat and setting my purse on the one next to me.
“What are you going to make?” I ask, suddenly ravenous. The anxious butterflies from before have settled down, somehow calming the moment I stepped inside Winston’s home. It’s so comforting here, like coming home after being away for a while. So strange.
“I just made a fresh batch of my chicken and dumplings. Perfect for a nervous belly,” he says, dumping one of the containers full of the comfort food into a stock pot and then turning on the burner.
I smile. “So fancy. You could’ve just stuck it in the microwave to heat it up.”
He glances over his shoulder with a raised brow and shakes his head as if I just spoke something blasphemous, then goes back to stirring. Soon, the kitchen is filled with the delicious smells of chicken and pastries smothered in its thick stock, and my stomach growls angrily. He smirks as he turns off the flame and reaches above him for a bowl. He carefully dumps the pot of soup into the bowl, sets the pot into his huge trough-style sink, and opens one of the many drawers lining the bottom row of cabinetry. He pulls out a spoon and sticks it in the bowl of chicken and dumplings then slides it across the island to sit in front of me.
“Salt and pepper are there,” he tells me, pointing at the grinders at the edge of the island. “I don’t normally add any to mine to keep the sodium down.”
I blow on a spoonful and look at him over the steaming concoction. “Is that a health thing?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “More of a ‘either abs or salt, can’t have both’ type of thing,” he replies, and then winks when my eyes meet his once again after they unconsciously glanced down to take in said abs through his plain light-gray T-shirt. Abs I didn’t think existed outside of fitness magazines before I was pressed up against him in that refrigerator.
“Chicken and dumplings doesn’t sound like the healthiest thing in the world,” I point out and finally take my first bite. And my eyes roll back it’s so freaking good.
He smiles as I moan. “It fits in my macros. Jus
t have to be careful with the rest of my meals for the day.”
“I’ve heard of that. I’m not very good at keeping up with anything for myself though. For my girls, yes. Total Pinterest mom with chore charts, lists, and all that out the wazoo. But for myself? I’m lucky if I remember to eat before I’m seeing spots at 2:00 p.m. and realize all I’ve had is coffee that day. But hey, I hear the kids these days call that intermittent fasting.” I grin, lifting my eyes from the bowl of yumminess to find that his smile has disappeared.
“You’ve gotta start taking better care of yourself, naekkeo. This isn’t the first time you’ve brushed this kind of thing off and made jokes about neglecting yourself,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. It sends tingles through my veins, seeming to light me up from the inside.
I shrug. “I think it’s pretty common for moms to fall behind on their self-care. Especially working moms. There’s just not enough time in the day, especially if you want any semblance of sleep. I’ll take that extra hour in the morning to get more rest than to get all fancy and make breakfast any day.”
“You’d be surprised how much better you’d feel if you got up and had that hour to yourself to maybe wake up with a nice shower, eat a good breakfast, get ready to face the day. Let me guess. You roll out of bed at the very last minute and immediately start taking care of the kids. Get them up and ready for school, fix them breakfast—go, go, go as soon as your eyes open,” he says gently, and I smile.
“I don’t know if I feel attacked or seen,” I joke.
He nods. “In the military, the first thing we did when we got up was make our bed. It’s called setting your intentions for the day. There was this speech Retired Navy Seal Admiral McCraven gave, where he said if you make your bed every morning, you will have accomplished the first task of the day. It will give you a small sense of pride, and it will encourage you to do another task, and another, and another. And by the end of the day, that one task completed will have turned into many. He said that one small thing helps to reinforce the importance of life’s finer details, so if you can’t do the little things right, you’ll never be able to do the big things right. And if you happen to have a bad day, you will at least come home to a bed that’s made, that you yourself made.”
I’ve listened closely while he speaks, continuing to eat my dinner, completely fascinated by what he’s telling me. “I guess that makes sense. I bet in the beginning it’s hard as hell to get into the routine of doing it though. Have to have the self-motivation to get up early when you glance at your alarm clock and see you could technically get more sleep.”
“It is. I didn’t really have a choice. It started on day one of boot camp, and it was either do it or get punished with physical training. But after doing it for so long, I literally can’t sleep in an unmade bed. It’s uncomfortable as fuck.” He chuckles.
“So you’ve kept up with it all this time? If I were to go into your bedroom right now, your bed would be made?” The moment the words are out of my mouth, my face flushes and I bite my lip. I can’t seem to stop saying things with double entendres in front of this man to save my life.
His eyes flash with heat, and he gives me a wicked grin. “If I had it my way, it wouldn’t be for long,” he growls, and the sound shoots straight to my pussy, instantly making me wet.
I clear my throat and look down into my bowl, scraping together the last spoonful of the chicken and dumplings before taking the bite. As I swallow, I scoot the bowl across the island, unable to meet his hot gaze I still feel on my face.
He sets my bowl in the sink and comes around the island, and before I even know what’s happening, I’m in the same position I was last week at the bar, only this time I’m on top of his kitchen island… inside Winston’s home. His large, hot hands grip my knees, spreading them apart to step up between them, and then his fingers thread up into the back of my hair.
“I believe this was where we left off the first time I got to taste you,” he growls, and then his lips are on mine, his tongue following to press between them as it twirls inside my mouth. My breath catches when his other hand circles my waist, and then his palm is against my tailbone, pulling me flush with his front. The heat of his stomach presses to my core, and it’s like a blaze ignites, spreading down my legs and up, until my mind explodes in pleasure.
This. This is what I’ve been anxiously awaiting all day. Hoping it would happen but not knowing just how to manifest it into reality. But Winston had obviously been wanting the same thing and took the lead, and now here we are, no more waiting, no more hoping. This is my reality—kissing this amazing, intelligent, talented, caring, and obscenely sexy man I’ve had a crush on since the moment I laid eyes on him all those months ago.
I’ve worked with this man nearly every day, his very presence a balm on my soul. I’ve adored him from a distance, laughing at his jokes, listening to his stories, learning random things I’d never come across in the years I’ve spent as a stay-at-home mom. I’ve thought about him in the quiet moments right before bed, and anticipated each shift I get to spend with him, seeing him throughout the night as I pick up orders between making drinks.
And now, it’s his rock-hard, ribbed abs I grind my pussy against, his huge hand against my ass holding me tightly to him as he steps backward, and my legs wrap around his hips, never breaking our kiss. I’m lost in my desire, in the way he kisses me with such passion, such ferocity, as if he can’t get enough of me, a kiss I never experienced before Winston.
When he finally pulls his mouth from mine, my eyes blink open, and we’re in a bedroom, a king-sized bed the focal point of the room. Its gray distressed wood head and foot boards pop at either end of the otherwise white bed, its comforter looking fluffy enough that I fear if I jump onto it, it will swallow me whole.
It’s perfectly made, with a couple of decorative pillows and everything.
I turn my smile toward him. “Looks like you set your intentions this morning,” I say, my voice breathy as I try to steady my heart rate.
“And this is my reward for taking care of the minor details,” he replies with a wicked grin before he grips my waist and tosses me into the air. I let out an ear-piercing squeal before I land in the center of his bed, the covers billowing up around me as I feared, and then Winston comes down on top of me, devouring my lips once again.
I feel like a teenager, making out for the first time, except there’s nothing tentative about these kisses. It feels so new and exciting, and I don’t want it to stop.
12
Winston
She’s like a dream, a fantasy come to life beneath me as she instinctively grinds her hips against mine while I kiss her with all I’m worth. Never in my life have I felt such passion just from making out. I swear I could come in my pants this very second if I didn’t care about embarrassing myself, or more importantly, making this good for Cece.
But even as fucking amazing as she feels right now, her little breathy moans and whimpers urging me on and driving me insane with need, there’s a tiny niggling voice in the back of my head. And its name is Guilt.
I know my plan this whole time has been to let her get to know me, to feel connected to me before I told her the whole truth so she’d be more inclined to look past my faults. But with her spilling her life story earlier, how she’s had a lifetime full of infidelity, not only from her ex but from her father as well, it was like a gut-shot, even though I know the real situation I’m in isn’t like that. I just hope she sees it my way and not the technicalities of it all.
I pump against her, the fly of my jeans against the seam of hers, and she cries out in pleasure, so I do it again. I open my eyes, my lips still on hers, my tongue still in her mouth, and see her eyes are tightly shut, her perfect brows furrowed as she shudders.
“Oh God,” she whispers, her hands gripping my biceps, nails digging into the flesh there. I have to do liter to fluid ounce conversions in my mind to keep from shooting my load like a fucking teenager as the slight pain mixes with
the pleasure of feeling her hot pussy against my aching cock through our clothes. “Win, I’m—”
Grinding, grinding, grinding… circling my hips as my tongue plunges in and out of her mouth the way I want to fill her drenched heat with my dick, I barely hold onto my control as she throws her head back, breaking our kiss to moan her orgasm to the ceiling as her back arches, pushing her soft tits against my hard chest. The sight, the feel of her, will be burned into my memory for the rest of my days. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, ever heard, and I’ll never be happy unless I get to spend the rest of my life making her come.
She relaxes into the comforter and blinks her eyes open, her face beautifully flushed. She swallows audibly, gives a nervous giggle, and murmurs, “Well, that unexpectedly escalated quickly.”
She wiggles, and my grip on her tightens. “Don’t move, baby.”
She stills, her eyes widening. “Why? What’s wrong? Is there a bug? Oh my God, is there a spider?” She stays perfectly still, but her eyes shoot from left to right.
I chuckle. “No, there’s not a bug or spider. But if you don’t stop wiggling, I’m going to come in my pants like a goddamn thirteen-year-old.”
Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead at that, and then lower when she gets a wicked gleam in her eye. She circles her hips beneath me, and I growl, my hand clamping onto her hip to hold her still.
I shake my head at her, my voice dropping low. “You naughty girl.” I dip my head and nip at her plump lower lip before licking away the sting as she sucks in a stuttering breath. “As much as I’d do just about anything to continue this and spend the next several hours seeing just how many times I could make you make your O face—” I grin when she blushes. “—I need to be honest with you about something before we take this any further.”
She instantly gets a wary look on her face, her tight grip on me loosening.
“No, no, don’t go doing that,” I whisper, lifting my hand to brush her dark hair out of her face. “Don’t shut me out when you’re finally letting me in. I just… I want you to trust me. I know all the men in your past have broken your trust, whether it was your dad leaving y’all or it was your ex cheating. It’s gotta be a big deal that you’re even here with me right now, and I cannot be just another asshole who breaks your trust by not being completely honest with you.”