Chapter 14
“Can we talk?” he inquired, finally breaking the gloomy silence
that had befallen them for the past hour.
“I think we’ve done enough of that,” she snorted.
“Please?”
“Marshall, I’m
tired,” she replied flatly. “I’m going
to get ready, and then I’m going to bed.”
She walked away without waiting for his response, or the lack
thereof. He sat on the bed and put his
face in his hands.
He hated angry women.
No, it was how she was acting.
Quiet. Unnervingly calm and
cool. He could deal with loud,
rambunctious anger—screaming and crying, throwing and smashing things. With Kim, it had always been one noisy, mad
mess.
He had no idea how to deal with Vanessa when she was like this.
It was completely foreign territory; it was a toss up between
leaving her alone and trying to talk to her in the morning, or coax her into
talking to him before she slept. In the
end, Marshall went with his
instincts and decided to let her fume for tonight; he would fix things with her
in the morning.
His plan was quickly being shot to nothing as she strutted in
with black boxers and an over-sized shirt.
It wasn’t sexy he told himself.
He’d seen other women in daring lingerie, things that left little the
imagination. But she was sexy;
her hair haphazardly put in a loose ponytail and her long legs exposed by the
shorts.
“God damn,” he swore and quickly made a run for the bathroom.
A good twenty minutes later, he emerged feeling refreshed from
the hot shower he’d taken. The room was dark,
except for the moonlight that filtered in through the open window. Breathing a sigh of relief as he noticed that
Vanessa was sleeping.
He slid into their bed, careful not to touch her—he was doing
his best not to think of what she was wearing; she was testing his hold
on control. And he felt like he was
ready to fail at any moment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he laid there thinking for a few
moments.
“I know,” she replied and turned around to prop herself up with
her hand. “Goodnight, Marshall.” She gave him a quick kiss on the lips before
laying her head on his chest.
In that moment, he could have sworn his heart had skipped and
stopped. Her forgiveness lifted a heavy
weight off of him; it unburdened him, brought him a sense of peace—even a little
bit of calmness despite wanting more than that little kiss she’d given
him. But, for now, he’d take what he
could get.
Tonight, he would not push her.
Several times during the night, he’d woken up to find her
snuggled against him; her warmth melding with his, her short breaths tickling
his body. He’d loved it. When morning finally reared its ugly head, Marshall
slowly cracked an eye open, and his arm shot out in search of Vanessa. He was a little bewildered as his mind was
fogged by sleep.
He stumbled out of the bedroom, only to be assaulted by the
delicious smell of bacon and sausage.
“You’re cooking?” he rasped, his voice harsh and raw from sleep.
“Yes,” she replied without looking up from the frying pan.
“I didn’t know we had any food.”
“I went out this morning to buy some.”
“It’s,” he paused to look at a nearby clock, “only eight am.”
“You have a meeting at ten am,
if you’ll remember,” she grinned.
“Oh, yeah.”
“You could have ordered room service.”
“The point of having a kitchen is to use it.”
He watched with a sense of awe as she bustled around the
kitchen, completely at home with cracking eggs and finding the utensils she
needed. He was content to just witness
the sight—that is, until she went to one of the higher cabinets in search of
something. The thin material of her
shorts tightened as she pushed herself up onto her toes, and her torso
stretched and the shirt rode up a little to expose the creamy skin of her back.
She felt him behind her, his body leaning against hers, pushing
her stomach against the counter.
“Marshall!”
“Let me get it for you,” he offered and ran his fingertips along
her arm as his stretched to the top shelf.
“Thanks,” she replied breathlessly.
“No problem.” He kissed
her neck and heard her moan gently.
“We can’t—I’m cooking.
Unless, of course, you like your breakfast Cajun style?” she inquired
with a cocked eyebrow.
“All right, but no promises about after breakfast.”
“No promises, indeed,” she murmured and resumed finishing up the
cookery.
Chapter 15