“Because you found in yourself the strength to do what you were needing to get yourself healthy. I would never have guessed you had food issues in your past. You enjoy your meals as far as I can see.”
I look at our plates and smile. “I do. That was part of my recovery, learning to have a different relationship to food than just seeing the calories. It wasn’t easy, but I learned to take joy in the food itself, and to listen to my body and trust it. It’s why I don’t eat on the run either.”
“You set the table and turn off the telly.”
I squeeze his hands, grateful I don’t need to explain. I also feel a rush of warmth because, even before he knew any of this, he didn’t make fun of me for setting the table and instead was sweet enough to incorporate it already into our meals together. My body’s also asking for something else—a special dessert—so I leave room in my stomach.
“Exactly.”
“I’ve always seen you, in a good way, mind, as having bollocks of feckin’ steel.” He grins and takes another bite of his burger.
I snort. “Why do guys think balls are tough anyway. One good smack, and you’re down for the count.”
“I’ve given that some thought.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Bollocks are an important topic, mind. I’m thinking it started precisely because they’re so vulnerable—takes a lot of guts to put your pair out in full view where they might get lamped. Hence ‘balls of steel,’ as you Americans say. But over time, the lads started assuming having a pair made them tough, which it doesn’t.”
“You might be onto something.” I look into his eyes. “And I’m sorry for freaking out. I think what it did was show me how far I’ve come, though. Part of me hadn’t quite shifted to understanding I was recovered. I had to put up such a shell around me so that no one could ever control me like that again, that I kind of got messed up on its purpose. I think I started feeling as if I had to be tough all the time—that I couldn’t ever give up control, or I’d get overridden again.”
“So when I…”
“So when you bought tickets for me to visit my mom after I said I didn’t want to…”
“I wasn’t trying to control you, yeah. To be honest, I was thinking maybe you were too proud to be asking for money.”
“I know that now. But at the time, I just saw it as someone else ignoring my wishes and steamrolling over me.”
He opens his mouth.
“Wait. I need to finish.” I take a big breath. “I think in my mind, I thought in order for me to stay healthy, I could never cede control to anyone. But you helped me see that I was quite capable of standing up for myself. And I think I’m ready to admit I’m healed enough that I don’t have to be so vigilant about being tough all the time.”
“Ah, g’on. Just helping you—it makes me happy, yeah. We can stay the night and fly home in the morning.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to see my mom. You helped me see, too, that I was acting out of fear. Deep down, I think I was afraid that I’d backslide if I saw her again. But I need to do this. I need to see her, because if I can see her and remain healthy, I need to.” And then I finish on a whisper. “She’s my mom.”
Chapter 20
Conor
I’m floored by everything Claire’s just been telling me. I knew she was tough. The best kind of tough. But I hadn’t realized how hard it’s been for herself to get to where she is.
I’m also feeling rather lightheaded, because we’re here in the hotel, talking, and we’ve not fallen out.
Claire peeks up at me. “You know how I said that I’ve learned to just eat what my body’s wanting, without questioning it or judging it?”
I nod.
“Well, I have a craving,” she says, her eyes going a little sultry. My dick pops against my zipper.
“Yeah?” I clear my throat because that came out a little strangled. “Yeah?”
She purses her lips, and her eyes get a wicked-arse gleam. “Yes. For dessert.”
I curse my thoughts for heading in such a direction. Right after she told me all about her bulimia and her mother. My dick has no business getting its hopes up like this, that she’ll be riding me soon.
She reaches for the hotel phone and hits a button, looking at me as she waits for the line to pick up. She says to me, “You like chocolate?”
“Yeah, you?” I’m doing my best to earn a fucking award for being supportive.
“Good.” She raises the mouthpiece after a second. “Yes, one chocolate cake please. Thank you.”
She hasn’t broken eye contact the whole time, even now as she lowers the phone.
“Awesome,” she says. “Because I have plans for that cake.”
Could be because we just had a heavy blathering, but we go on talking about the other times we’ve been in Denver. One of which was when we came here as a team to play Denver’s Gaelic football and hurling teams.
There’s a knock on the door. I take our used tray and tip the guy and bring in the cake. It’s one of those fancy slices, with shaved chocolate on top of the chocolate icing.
“On the bed?”
She nods.
I climb on the bed, passing her a plate and napkin roll and taking mine. I set the cake in the center.
She looks up at me. “Can you lie down?”
“Lie down?”
She nods. There’s a wicked gleam in her eye, which I’m liking.
She pulls the plate holding the slice of cake out of the way and scoots our plates farther apart. She pats the center of the bed. “Right here.”
Of course I comply. I have an idea of what she intends, but I don’t want to make assumptions. Heart thudding, I stretch out full length and flick my gaze up at her. She lifts the cake and studies my body laid out before her like I'm her personal banquet. She tugs on the hem of my T-shirt, and I yank it off.
“What are you doing, Claire?”
“Me? Just setting the table.”
“Setting the—?” I stop because she tips the cake right onto my stomach, the cool frosting hitting my skin and making my abs clench. I grin. “Wicked girl.”
The scent of chocolate fills my nose.
She stretches out beside me, but with her head level with the cake. She props her chin on her hand, and her feet kick into the air, lazily swinging backward and forward. She pokes her finger into the icing and scoops up a dollop, catching my gaze. Slowly she brings her finger to her mouth and sucks the tip free of chocolate.
I groan as all remaining blood rushes to the lad, which is growing hard as a fucking rock, fighting against the denim of my jeans for freedom.
She dips her finger back into the icing and this time drags her finger up my chest, painting a trail of chocolate up to my nipple. The icing runs out before she makes it there, so in she dips again and places a dollop on each nipple. I suck in a breath at the cool smooth texture, already anticipating her lick to remove it. Bloody hell.
My hips buck, and she giggles.
She breaks off a chunk of the cake and reaches up until her fingers touch my lips. I part them on a groan, and she tips the bite into my mouth. I close my lips around her finger and suck it clean, while the burst of rich, decadent chocolate cascades across my tongue. A hint of cherry follows after.
Already, she’s teaching me to revel in the various tastes of food. “Mmmm. Fuck.”