Beyond These Walls (The Walls Duet #2) (5 page)

“ARE YOU SURE I can’t help with anything?” I asked, pressing mute on the TV once again, as the sounds of clanging pots and pans came bustling forth from the kitchen.

“I’m okay!” Lailah hollered back.

I turned around from my place on the sofa to see her moving about in the kitchen like a chaotic housewife. Wrapped in a frilly pink apron—given to her by Grace as a housewarming gift when Lailah had moved in here—she darted from the refrigerator to the stove and then back to the counter where her recipe book rested. Then, she just repeated the process.

Placing my head on the back of the sofa, I grinned. “Positive?”

She stopped mid-step and turned to see me watching her from the couch. A quirky smile spread across her face. “Maybe. Okay, you want the honest truth?”

“Of course,” I answered, my head perking up to listen.

“I am in way over my head,” she groaned. “Thanksgiving dinner—even for two people? It’s hard! I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

I laughed, rising from the sofa to join her in our massive kitchen. I never understood why Roman had selected such a large place for me to live in when I arrived back home. I knew he was outlandish, having a place several floors above us that was twice the size of ours, but when I’d entered this house for the first time, all I had seen was empty space.

With Lailah here, it finally felt like a home.

“Can I please help you now?” I begged. “I know men are supposed to sit around, watching football, on this particular holiday, but I’d much rather spend time with you.”

“Even if I put you to work?” she asked.

“I have many fond memories of the two of us in kitchens,” I said, remembering a similar situation much like this where we stood around a large metal counter and attempted to cook a meal together. It hadn’t been a date—at least, I hadn’t planned it that way—but it was the first time I’d seen her as something more than just a girl whom I owed a debt.

“I think your culinary skills have greatly improved since then,” she commented.

“Thank God for that.”

She put me on potato duty while she began assembling the apple pie.

“Remember when we went apple picking last fall?” she asked.

I watched her carefully measure out the cinnamon and sprinkle it over the heaping bowl of apples.

“Yeah. You were so excited that we ended up coming home with an entire bushel.” I laughed.

She gave me a doubtful look. “It was not that many. Maybe half. But I kept thinking about that last night as I was doing my last-minute grocery shopping, and I stopped to pick these up. I was enthralled with the entire process of apple picking—the cute little baskets, the fresh air and freedom to pick as many as you wanted. I remember feeling like that a lot during that first year after my recovery. I don’t ever want that to end.”

I stopped mid-potato and set the peeler on the counter. “Then, don’t. Just because you’ve been apple picking doesn’t mean it can’t be just as exciting and wondrous the second or third time around.”

“I know.” She smiled and moved toward me. Her hands were covered in cinnamon and sugar from mixing the apples together, and she had a mischievous look on her face.

My eyes followed her fingers as they slid up my arm and finally disappeared around my nape of my neck, leaving a sticky trail of sweetness behind. She reached my mouth and watched as I parted my lips and licked the sugar off her fingertips.

“Some things just keep getting better,” she whispered.

“Lailah,” I warned, gripping her hips hard.

Smirking, she placed the tip of her pointer finger on her satin lips, and as her lips closed over it, sucking the remnants of sugar with gusto, the last shred of control I had snapped.

My hands tightened around her waist before lifting and turning to hoist her onto the counter.

“Temptress,” I growled. Not giving her a single second to respond, I slammed my lips on hers, demanding everything she’d just offered.

Food was forgotten as clothes were shed, and bodies were joined. Every thrust reminded me that I was the luckiest man alive. Every kiss told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and every moan that escaped her lips echoed my heart that beat solely for her.

Everything I had was hers, and I willingly gave it to her, over and over again.

“It’s a good thing no one is coming over.” She giggled, looking at the mess in our kitchen.

“Well, it would be an interesting story to explain.”

It was well past midnight, and somehow, we’d managed to send bowls, food, and flour flying in every direction. Our lovemaking had been dirty and intense, causing a serious delay to dinner plans.

“So . . . pizza?” I asked.

She moved about the kitchen in nothing but my T-shirt. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “You order, and I’ll attempt to make some sense of all of this.”

I dialed the number to our favorite place down the street, knowing they’d still be open, and I ordered a large with everything. I ran to the bedroom to grab an extra shirt and a pair of boxers that weren’t covered in flour.

Once I was quickly changed, I darted back to the kitchen to offer my help with the disaster we’d created.

Lailah had already made great strides, packaging up everything perishable and putting canisters back in the pantry. She had now moved on to cleaning the counters. I took the job of sweeping and picking up whatever random things had ended up on the floor. Each bowl or dish I grabbed reminded me of how she’d looked pressed against the counter and then slung over the barstool. No matter how many times I had her, it never seemed to be enough to snuff out my burning desire for her.

I could spend a lifetime loving her, and I’d never stop wanting more.

Within thirty minutes, we had the kitchen cleaned up, and we were lounging on the couch with slices of fresh pizza.

“Best Thanksgiving meal ever,” she said before taking a big bite from the crust of her second slice.

“Absolutely.”

Amid flickering candles and cheesy holiday music, we ate pizza and talked about our lives. It was one more memory of Lailah I could add to the growing pile I had stored away in my mind. Each and every one, I cherished like a precious gift, knowing that none of this would have ever been possible if it weren’t for that beautiful new heart beating inside her chest.

We finished eating and headed to bed, going through the nightly rituals couples do to prepare for sleep. Once teeth were brushed and Lailah removed her makeup, we settled into bed, pulling the down comforter up around us.

“Want to play a game?” I asked, cuddling into her.

“If that is a sexual innuendo, you’ve got to give me an hour or so. My heart might be new, but it’s not a machine.”

I chuckled softly. “No, I meant an actual game.”

“Like Monopoly?” she asked, her eyebrows rising with curiosity. “’Cause you know I’m terrible at that one.”

“No. I was thinking something a little less structured,” I offered.

“Good. I’m not sure my brain can handle much more at this hour.”

“Okay, roll over,” I instructed.

I laughed as I watched her suspiciously eye me, but she did as I’d asked and rolled onto her stomach.

“Oh, and take off your nightgown,” I added.

Her head popped up to look at me as I innocently waved my hands in front of me.

“Just trust me.”

She lifted slightly as the hem of her nightgown rose above her head and fell into a heap next to her.

Opening her nightstand beside the bed, I pulled out a bottle of sweet-smelling lotion she loved and dropped a dollop on my palm. Warming it a bit, I began smoothing it up and down her soft skin in deep circles.

“Not that I mind”—she nearly groaned—“but this doesn’t seem to be much of a game.”

“Just wait,” I said.

Using the tip of my finger, I traced a pattern across her skin. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” she answered, her head tilted toward me as she laid on her stomach.

“What did I just draw?”

“A heart,” she replied, a small smile appearing from the corner of her mouth. “Do something else,” she said.

This time, instead of a shape, I made letters turning into a word.

“Wife,” she whispered.

“Yes.” I bent down, kissing the bare skin of her shoulder.

She turned and pulled me close, our lips touching softly like two young lovers meeting for the first time.

She pulled back, enough to slide her hand down toward the hem of my T-shirt before lifting it over my head. Then, the tips of her fingers skimmed my sensitive skin as she traced along the hard ridges of my stomach. Her eyes never left mine as she wrote invisible words along my flesh.

“I love you, too,” I whispered, closing the distance between us.

No other words were needed as we came together once more, claiming each other with silent promises, tender touches, and the moving melody of our souls.

“RISE AND SHINE, sleepyhead,” Jude called out from the hallway.

He appeared at the bedroom door with a large tray overflowing with food.

“Breakfast in bed?” I asked, rising up to take a peek at what he’d brought.

“Well, sort of. Since we didn’t quite get our Thanksgiving dinner experience last night, I thought we might try again.”

I frowned. “Please don’t tell me corn pudding and stuffing are on that plate, Jude. I might have eaten some weird things in my hospital days, but even they didn’t try to feed me dinner for breakfast.”

He smirked, setting the tray down beside me. I began to inspect the contents—as well as him.

“This doesn’t look half bad,” I said as my fingers bent down to check everything out. “But what is it?”

I looked up to Jude and found him grinning. “Well, I found a recipe for a leftover egg soufflé, and then I thought the mashed potatoes would be good, kind of like grilled pancakes.”

“But hardly any of this stuff was actually made, so they can’t really be considered leftovers, Jude.”

He just shrugged and started pouring a cup of coffee for me from the French press.

“How long have you been up?” I looked down at the feast before me, trying to contemplate how long it had taken him to make the individual dishes and then combine them into a soufflé.

“A while. I wanted you to have a Thanksgiving meal.”

I steadied his hand and watched his gaze meet mine. “You’re amazing. Thank you.”

After handing over a steaming cup of coffee, he disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he was ready to begin the not-so-pleasant part of the morning.

“Mood killer,” I complained.

“You know me—highly punctual and responsible,” he said, shaking the box of pills marked off by the days of the week.

“So sexy,” I retorted.

Although I had a new heart and was as healthy as I could be, I would never be able to outrun the pharmacist. Transplant patients, whether with a heart like mine or any other organ, had one major fear that ruled their lives—the possibility of rejection.

This heart now beating inside my chest was a stand-in, a counterfeit for the damaged sick one that I’d been born with. At any point in my life, my body could reject this perfect organ and this life. Everything I held so dear could be over in the blink of an eye.

Tossing my head back, I dutifully took my morning pills before diving into my breakfast. “Oh, wow. This is good.”

“Yeah?” he asked, scooping a chunk of cheesy soufflé onto his plate.

“Absolutely. And the mashed potato thingies . . . yum,” I said between bites.

He laughed at my enthusiasm as he dived into his own breakfast. The comfortable silence settled between us while we ate.

“Are you sure you’re okay with going alone today?” he asked after he’d set his plate back on the tray.

I was going back for seconds but nodded as I licked butter off my thumb.

“It’s just a checkup, Jude. I have them every month, which seems a bit of an overkill anyway.”

He ignored my comment about the frequency of doctor visits and sighed. “I know, but I always go with you.”

Briefly setting the plate down, I looked up at him. “I know, and I appreciate it, but go spend a little time with your mom. She doesn’t come into the city that often anymore. Take her to Bloomingdale’s and get some shopping done. I’ll meet you for lunch.”