Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) Persephone Autumn (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

thumb brushes over my cheek, eyes sweet and conveying his agreement. “Baby, I will wait forever for you. It feels as if I already have. When you’re ready” —he kisses me tenderly— “that’s when I’ll be ready.”

Although I am not ready to voice the words aloud again, all I can think about is how much I love this man. How I have always loved him, even when I had found a way to shove every memory of him and us into some desolate corner of my mind. He is my foundation, cracked or whole.

“Thank you.” The words barely audible.

“For you—” he says. “Anything.”

And without a care in the world, our lips and tongues do a dance as old as time.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gavin

This view will never get old.

After a half hour of lips sucking and tongues tasting and hands groping, we finally decided it was best for us to get out of the bed. Not that a bed is required for the many things I want to do with her. Although we have already had sex, that time of our lives was different. Back then, everything was awkward and new and questionable.

But now…

Our time apart is not something I relish, but it does give both of us a different vantage point. For me, I respect people and life on a whole new level. Everything has a fresher perspective, is more eye-opening. That is not to say I don’t do stupid shit from time to time—because don’t we all. Just that I now know, understand, and am willing to deal with the consequences of my actions. Whatever they may be.

Right now, I refuse to disguise my ogling of Cora’s body. She moves around the kitchen—her back facing me—in a black cotton ribbed tank top. The hem clings to her hips while the bust line accentuates the curvature of her tits and shows a hint of natural cleavage. I know she isn’t wearing a bra beneath the tank as evidenced by the occasional visual of her firm nipples against the fabric. Below the tank, cherry red low-cut boy short panties cover most of her round ass cheeks.

Watching her—I groan internally—has my dick hardening and my mouth watering. Her body is not the only part of her I love, but it is a nice bonus. The last time I got such an intimate view of her body, we were teenagers and our bodies still had a year or two of developing to go. Cora’s body is as curvaceous now as it was then, but not quite the same. She has taken care of herself—diet, exercise, enjoying life as best she can—and it shows.

Cora moves around the kitchen—slicing strawberries and apples, adding them to a bowl with blueberries and squeezing a lemon over top. Stirring a large frying pan loaded with shredded potatoes, chopped onions, oil, herbs and spices. Flipping a few “sausage” links—I learned this morning Cora is slowly eliminating meat from her diet. And occasionally checking the time on her Instant Pot, where she cooks a batch of cinnamon steel-cut oatmeal.

When she told me she was removing meat from her diet, I rattled off twenty questions asking why. I also questioned whether or not the food she was making would be any good. But the savory aroma of garlic and the sweetness of maple and cinnamon flitting through the air has me hungrier than ever. The true test will be when I taste it all. Honestly, the links are the only thing I am questioning. Everything else is somewhat normal.

The Instant Pot signals it is done cooking the oatmeal as she flips the potatoes one last time. One thing I remember from our breakfast excursions years ago, Cora likes her hash browns dark with a crispy crust and tends to pile them high on her plate. And it looks as if nothing has changed in that department.

She heads to the cabinet holding the dishware, grabbing two plates and mugs. Setting the plates beside the stovetop, she pops a K-Cup in the Keurig and presses the large brew button after her mug is under the drip. When it finishes, she repeats the process for me.

Everything about this blip in time is perfect. This is how my life should be. Our life. We ebb and flow in synchronization. Natural. Comfortable. Synergistically.

As much as I tried, I never found another person who made me feel more myself than Cora. Being with her… everything just fits in place. Nothing is forced. It just… is.

“Would you like anything in your coffee? Sugar? Creamer?” she asks, breaking me from my endless one-sided staring contest.

“Creamer. Dare I ask what my options are?” I give her my best goofy-scary face.

“I only have one and it’s coconut milk-based. It’s good. You’ll like it,” she states with confidence.

I nod. “Then that’s what I’ll have,” I tease.

Cora adds creamer to both cups and a small spoonful of sugar to hers. She sets my cup in front of me, then turns back to the stove and begins plating the food. Before I can offer to help, she sets a plate and bowl in front of me. Within seconds, she adds maple syrup, a jar of cinnamon and a jar of garlic between our place settings. A smile perks up the corners of my mouth at the sight.

My love for maple and cinnamon.

Her indescribable love and obsession for garlic.

When we were younger, Waffle House was a regular occurrence—as it is with most teens and partiers. But she always ordered a triple portion of hash browns—scattered and smothered—and brought her own container of garlic powder. The small jar an additional accessory in her purse. I had gotten used to seeing it for the almost two years we were together. It was second nature. But seeing it today has me laughing at the fact she still has the habit.

“What are you laughing at?”

Rather than saying it, I simply point to the jar before spearing a sliced strawberry with my fork.

“There is no shame in loving garlic. If