Broody Brit by Naima Simone
Chapter Nine
Axel
She’s nervous.
I can’t put my finger on what tips me off to it. But as Zenobia leads me off the hospital elevator onto a floor with pastel walls and all kinds of animals and flowers painted on them, I can definitely tell something has her skittish. Maybe it’s that she hasn’t stopped rambling on since she met me at the emergency room entrance. Or that she keeps tugging on the hem of her light blue top. Or that she hasn’t really looked at me.
And I’ve noticed the latter, because I can’t stop looking at her.
With her dense curls pulled up in a bun, her lovely, clean profile is exposed to my greedy stare. And I gorge on it.
Just like that golden-brown gaze feasted on me last night.
Did she think I wouldn’t notice? As if I wouldn’t feel the almost physical touch of her eyes on my chest, my hips, my thighs—my dick. Jesus, how I managed not to harden and rise right then with her eye-fucking me was a minor miracle. But goddamn, it was close. Hunger had darkened those gorgeous eyes. Hunger for me. And when I asked her what she needed from me, I’d prayed she’d ease this voracious craving we both suffered and demand my cock. Demand me, plowing so deep, so hard inside of her that the walls would rattle with it like restless ghosts.
But she didn’t.
And I wasn’t surprised. Because God wouldn’t answer a supplication about fucking anyway.
He wouldn’t answer any prayers from me at all.
But then again, maybe I’m wrong on that. Maybe He did answer by saving me from assured damnation if I’d tasted that beautiful, lush skin and the undoubtedly even softer, sweeter flesh between her thick thighs.
Moments after stopping by the nurses’ station where Zenobia speaks with her coworker, I stand next to her in front of a partially closed room door.
“Ready?” she asks with another pull on her top and a quick swipe of her tongue across her full lips.
The sight of that has lust grinding my stomach to dust, but my attention focuses on the meaning behind that gesture. “Are you?” I shoot back.
Her head snaps up, and she frowns. “What do you mean? Of course, I am.”
Instead of answering, I jerk my chin toward the door. Exhaling a deep breath, she raps on the wood then enters the room, me on her heels. It’s more of the same child-friendly decoration in here, a mounted television with that irritating-as-hell yellow sponge yapping away, medical equipment, and a bed with a young girl wearing a pink cast on her arm reclining in the middle of it. Zenobia greets the girl, and a smile blooms across her face, and shock jackhammers the breath out of my lungs. The eye color is different, but the shape of those eyes, the nose, the features and that smile…
Zenobia’s taking the fucking mick. Last night she made it seem like this girl was just a patient, but it’s obvious she belongs to Zenobia in some way. A sister, a daughter. They’re definitely family. Why the hell did she omit that piece of information from the story?
At least now I get the reason behind her nerves. Anger and maybe the dregs of humiliation kindle low in my gut. Did she really think I wouldn’t notice? That I was too thick in the head to notice?
“Oh my God, it’s you! Axel Wright! Z, you weren’t lying! He is your friend!” the little girl squeals, her pretty hazel eyes as wide as her grin.
Friends, are we? I slant Zenobia a look and barely contain my snort. I’ve never wanted to fuck my friends into next week, but sure. Friends.
“Well, you already know him.” Zenobia laughs softly. “Axel, this is the artist I was telling you about. I’d like you to meet Bethany Mavis. She’s a huge fan.” Zenobia glances back at me, and her big, honey-brown eyes undo me.
Goddammit. Locking my jaw, I shove down the dark, gathering storm in my chest and shift my gaze back to the beaming girl.
“Bethany, when I told Axel about you, he was happy to drop by and see you.”
“Really?” Bethany asks, and then, in a gesture that’s so Zenobia it reaches inside me and fists my heart, she scrunches up her face in an adorable moue and shakes her head. “Duh, yes, really. You’re here, right? I’m sorry. I just can’t believe you’re here!”
I nod at her. “Cheers, Bethany.”
If possible, her smile widens even more, and her eyes almost disappear under the weight of it. “Cheers, Axel.”
She shifts, and discomfort flashes over her face. Zenobia quickly moves closer to her side, and with a hand on her back, helps her adjust in the bed so she’s sitting straighter.
“Thanks, Z,” she says, then shifts her focus back to me. “My parents took me on a trip to England when I was ten, and we visited friends of theirs in Leeds. We went to a showing at the Sunny Bank Mills Art Space, and your sculptures were there. The ones from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Art was my favorite class in school until then, but after that, I wanted to be a sculptor like you.”
“Thanks for that.”
Yeah, I’ve received praise for my work before. But her unadulterated, innocent admiration warms me in a way none of the art critics’ most effusive accolades have. It’s honest, and the joy in her voice, her face… It’s a joy at not just meeting me, but over discovering her passion.
That releases the usual lock on my vocal cords, and I shift closer to the bed, slipping my crossbody bag over my head and setting it on the end of the mattress. “Zenobia mentioned you draw. That’s where I started too. Sculpting came later. If you don’t mind sharing, can I see your work?”
“If I don’t—” she whispers. “Are you serious?”
Not waiting for me reply, she picks up the medium-sized tablet next to her hip, but at the last moment, her fingers tighten around it. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, and she drops her gaze to her blanket-covered legs.
“I’m sure they’re not as good as yours…”
“Bethany.” I wait until she lifts her eyes to mine again. “Everyone starts somewhere, yeah? You should’ve seen mine when I first started drawing. Forget it, I’d rather you not see them,” I grumble, and I fight a smile as the little girl snickers. “Point is, I’m not here to judge but to meet a fellow artist. Besides, Zenobia raved about how good you are. She might be stubborn, can’t carry a tune in a rubbish bin, a Swiftie—”
“I’m also standing right here,” Zenobia mutters. “And I’m not a Swiftie.”
“But she’s not a liar,” I continue. “She says you’re good, you’re good.”
I wait, not pressuring her because I get it. Letting someone see your art is like revealing a piece of your soul. And inviting criticism of it. Sometimes I think we’re a masochistic lot. Afraid of rejection, yet always opening ourselves up to it. Claiming we don’t need validation, but our success depends on it. We’re walking, breathing contradictions.
Or crazy as fuck.
After another couple of moments, Bethany extends her arm, offering me the drawing tablet. Carefully, I accept it, treating the pad like the treasure it is. As soon as I flip the cover back and study the first sketch—a man sitting at a desk, his head bent over a book, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose—her talent damn near barrels off the page. No, that’s not right. It pirouettes. Graceful, beautiful, dazzling, and yet, strong. It’s a little rough and she has a lot to learn as far as technique, but Jesus Christ. She’s leaps and bounds beyond me at her age. Anyone looking at this drawing couldn’t deny her gifting. Because that’s the only explanation for how a young girl could capture the nuances of this man’s intense expression, the almost kinetic energy in his pose as he prepares to turn a page. I don’t know for sure, but I bet he bounces his leg as he reads. That’s what I pull from this drawing.
I don’t speak as I flip through the rest of the tablet. Page after page of sketches. There are people, objects, even mythical creatures like I sculpt. It seems as if she’s finding herself. I can already tell her—she’s meant to draw people. Depict and celebrate their differences, lives, honesty, struggles—their beauty.
When I finally close the pad and lift my head, both Bethany and Zenobia study me with expectant gazes.
“You’re fucking brilliant, Bethany.” I should wince over my language. At least apologize. But I can’t. I won’t. Because sometimes you need a good four-letter word to get the point across. And she needs to understand how damn grand she is. By the light that brightens her face, I don’t think she minds. And though Zenobia narrows her eyes on me, the corner of her mouth twitches. So, I don’t think she does either.
“You’re not just saying that?” Bethany breathes.
“Axel might be broody, a bit grumpy, and not much of a talker,” Zenobia murmurs, her gaze fixed on me, “but he’s not a liar.”
I can’t look away from her as she turns my words back on me. Damn my heart for pounding at my rib cage like an anvil striking steel. Damn my lungs for constricting so tight, the air can’t move through them. Damn my cock for stirring to life at not a teasing touch or a rough pump, but a whispered compliment from this woman.
And damn me for craving more of that admiring glimmer in her honey eyes.
Fucking look away, mate. Fucking look away and don’t fall into that trap. I obey that low voice of caution in my head and focus on opening my bag as if it contains all the secrets of Stonehenge and the Holy Grail in its depths. Not chancing a glance in Zenobia’s direction again, I remove my own pad, round the bed, and drag the visitor’s chair close. Lowering into it, I hand her tablet back to her.
“Let me show you some things that’ll help with proportion and shading.”
For the next twenty minutes, I work with her, losing myself in the pleasure of art and collaborating with another person who loves it as much as I do. She’s attentive, quick to pick up suggestions, not taking offense when I correct her, but eager to learn. By the time I stand, carefully rip out the sketch of Lady Amalthea from The Last Unicorn, and hand it to her, she has her own beautiful drawing of a fairy sitting on a flower, reading.
“I can have it?” she asks, gently, reverently laying it on the top of her pad. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Consider it a preview to the new show in February. You and your parents have reserved tickets for whenever you want to use them. I’ll give the gallery your name.”
She looses another squeal, reminding me of her age, and I’m hard pressed not to grin at the sound that’d surely have nearby dogs howling in distress. “Axel, you’re the best! I can’t believe it! Wait until I tell Mom!” She does a wiggle dance that involves hips and her one good arm. “Thank you so much for coming by! And thank you for bringing him here, Z!”
Zenobia smiles at her. “No problem. Take care of yourself, okay? If we see you back here, I want it to be as the resident artist for other kids, not as a patient.”
Bethany grins. “I like that. Okay, promise. You’ll come and say bye before I’m discharged?” she asks.
Something flickers in Zenobia’s eyes, and unease creeps back inside me, slithering through my veins, polluting the peace of the last half-hour.
“I’ll try.” Her arm twitches, fingers curling into her palm. My gaze flicks to Bethany, but the girl doesn’t notice. Just me. Who doesn’t miss a damn thing about Zenobia. “We need to get going. See you later.”
“Bye!” Bethany waves with her good hand, and I still see her huge smile as Zenobia closes the door behind us.
“Thanks, Axel,” Zenobia breathes. “I really appreciate—”
“Save it,” I grind out, wrapping my fingers around her upper arm.
Quickly scanning the hall, I spot a room with Employees Only on it. I grab the handle, push down on it and enter. A couch occupies one wall, and a bunk bed with rumpled covers sits against the other. Otherwise, it’s empty. Good, because if it hadn’t been, this would’ve been a real awkward conversation since I wouldn’t have given a fuck about an audience.
“Axel, what the hell?” she snaps, wrenching her arm out of my grip and glaring up at me.
“No, pet,” I growl, advancing on her, then slamming to a halt. One, because using my size as intimidation is beneath me. And two, getting any closer to her where I can catch her scent, see the leap of her pulse at the base of her throat, is just fucking foolish. “You don’t get to be mad here. Not when you let me walk into that room without telling me who I was seeing.”
She recoils, her chin popping back as if my accusation is a physical blow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I sneer at the weak pathetic attempt to dissuade me from the truth. “I just told that little girl that you don’t lie. Now you’re making one out of me.”
Her sigh is heavy, but serrated. She squeezes her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose, before meeting my gaze. “I didn’t lie,” she whispers. “I just didn’t give you all the information.”
“Quite same.”
“Axel…” She stares up at me, those plush lips parted, but nothing comes out. She tries again. “I…”
Her voice might have given up on her, but those golden eyes? They haven’t shut up. And they’re begging me to leave this alone. To let this go. To let her go.
No way in hell.
“Start with why you didn’t tell me I was going to see your sister. Or daughter? Which is it? Don’t bother trying to deny that young’n isn’t related to you.”
“Back up,” she rasps…pleads. “Please. Give me…”
I automatically comply, and she bends over, her hands dropping to her knees. Her sharply indrawn breaths echo in the small room like ricocheting bullets.
“Easy, pet,” I murmur, concern capsizing any annoyance at her deception. Cupping the back of her neck, I bow over her. “Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Now release it. Slow, pet. Slow. There you go,” I praise as her breathing starts to even out.
After a few moments, she straightens, her back pressed to the wall, palms flattened next to her thighs. Eyes closed and mouth compressed into a grim line, it’s the most… broken I’ve seen Zenobia, and I don’t fucking like it. Not one bit.
She asked for space; I should keep backpedaling until I put the whole damn room between us. But something almost feral howls inside of me that she needs me, not more distance. Not to be alone. And though I, more than anyone, understands the desire for personal space—craves to be left alone—I stalk toward her. Not stopping until my arms cage her in, my hands and forearms bracketing her head. My body braced over hers, not touching but sheltering hers, offering whatever strength she requires. I won’t tell anyone if she needs to borrow mine right now. As soon as we walk back out that door, she can be the indomitable Zenobia Hester again. But here, in this small room with the bunk beds and a laughably small couch, she can take from me and I won’t tell a soul.
She tips her head back, and I can taste her breath. It’s sweetness. And sex. It’s light. And every dark, twisted thing my mind and cock could ever do to this mouth, this body. This soul.
Back away, my conscience roars.
This isn’t wise, the Simon in my head urges.
I ignore both of them and don’t move. Drinking her in like a man diving into a freshwater pool after suffering a hundred-year drought.
“She’s my daughter,” she whispers, voice cracking on “daughter.” She swallows, and in appreciation of giving me this obviously difficult truth, I want to trace my lips up her throat, drop a hard kiss on each corner of her mouth. She closes her eyes. “I had her—”
“Open your eyes and look at me,” I order.
She does, and the quick compliance is like a fist pumping down my cock—and a mule’s kick to my chest.
“You have nowt to be ashamed of, pet. So, don’t drop your eyes when you give me this. Look at me.”
“I had her when I was sixteen,” she begins again, that golden gaze staring into mine. “I thought I was in love, that my boyfriend and I would stay together forever. But as soon as he found out I was pregnant, he bailed. And I wasn’t ready to be a parent.”
Her voice hitches, and as close intimate friends as I am with guilt, I recognize it. Cupping her cheek, I stroke my thumb over the elegant arch of her cheekbone, silently encouraging her to continue. To purge herself of a story, I suspect she’s never shared with anyone else.
“I had my mother and my grandparents, but it didn’t seem fair to expect them to raise me and a baby. And they…” She falters. But then fingers clutch the waistband of my jeans and curl into it, hanging on. “They wanted me to give the baby up for adoption. I can’t blame them for not wanting the added responsibility, and I-I’d disappointed them. But even then, I would’ve kept the baby if I believed I could. But,” she shook her head, “I couldn’t. I mean, I didn’t have a job. I depended on my mother. And all my dreams of finishing high school and going to college—maybe those wouldn’t have been off the table, but they would’ve definitely been so much harder. And financially? I couldn’t do it. And my baby deserved more than I could give her as a teen mother. She deserved every advantage, every opportunity, every head start. And so, I decided to give her up to a family who could provide that for her.”
She inhales, her grip on me tightening, drawing me closer, although I don’t think she’s aware of it. But conscious or not, I surrender to her need of me, pressing closer until only negligible inches of air separates our bodies.
“When she was born, and I saw her face, I almost changed my mind. For a moment, I couldn’t do it. I loved her so much, the thought of turning her over…” A whimper breaks free of her throat, but she quickly corals it. “But that same love made me go through with it. I wanted the world for her, and I knew Gregory and Danielle Mavis could give it to her. With the help of my adoption counselor, I’d handpicked them, and I was gifting my daughter with adoring parents who would provide not just a loving home, but she’d never have to worry about where her next meal was coming from. Or if the power bill would be paid. Or if she could join a ballet class. She’d have not just her necessities met but her wants too. I needed her to have that life. It’s the only way I was able to give her away in that hospital room.”
“You did good, Zenobia,” I tell her, and for once, the words come easy. “It would’ve been easier to keep her, maybe even more selfish to keep her. But you put your daughter first.”
Dropping my hand to her chin, I tilt her head up so she has no choice but to keep her eyes on me. To see the truth in me.
“There’s no guilt in that. No shame.”
For a second, her face crumbles, but only for a second. She draws in a breath and closes her eyes. But then, as if remembering my demand, her lashes lift.
“I shouldn’t have approached her when she came in yesterday,” she confesses hoarsely. “I should’ve left her alone. Her parents haven’t allowed me to contact her. But I couldn’t not talk to her. See for myself that she was okay. Just see her. She’s so beautiful, Axel.”
She breaks off, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Before today, I wouldn’t have touched that soft flesh, but here, now, in this room, I grant myself permission. Pressing my thumb against the tender curve, I gently pull it away and smooth my pad across the lightly dented, damp skin. My dick throbs, and I’d be the worst liar if I claimed I wasn’t imagining how good it would feel to tap my swollen cockhead against this lush mouth before slowly, so fucking slowly, plunging into it. But I have a tighter rein on the beast, and picturing that is as far as I will allow myself.
Zenobia Hester isn’t for me.
I’ll have to settle for the gift of this small touch.
“Yeah, she is. She looks like you,” I mutter.
Joy brightens her eyes, the gold glistening like freshly minted coins. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Thank you for coming today. And I’m sorry for lying to you about her identity. But thank you for not holding it against me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her hands slide up my back, and in the next moment, her arms are wrapped around me in a tight embrace that I should resist. If I had any integrity, I would pat her on the shoulder and then extricate myself. But I’ve crossed that boundary long ago. Fuck crossed it. I’ve torched it, then blew it up for good measure. So, the only thing left to do is fold myself around her and bend my head over hers, burying my face in her hair. Inhaling that cider and dew scent so deep in my lungs, it’ll take a surgical procedure to remove it.
I’ll allow this.
This is it, though.
But even as I think it, I don’t believe it.
