Page 55 of Fighting for You
No painting, drawing, or sketch can come close to the beauty of Margot Mason painted in my cum. It’s an image I wish I could recreate on a sketchpad, but know I could never do it justice.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brooks
By the time the water ran cold, we were finally cleaning off and using the shower for its intended purpose. I left Margot in the bathroom to deal with her hair that I thoroughly fucked up. I’d brought her a brush from my parents’ bathroom so she could attempt to tame it, but if I’m being honest, I like seeing it wild. I tried not to think too much as I walked through their room. For the first time, it felt somber and not like I was picking at a gaping wound.
My eyes catch on the microwave clock as I walk into the kitchen. It’s a little past ten in the morning. We didn’t fall asleep until past two. I should be dragging and tired as fuck, but I feel more energized than ever.
Opening the refrigerator, I grab the carton of eggs, some shredded cheese, milk, and bacon. It’ll be the second time I’ve made her breakfast, and I’m not even mad about it. Confused, sure, but not mad.
By the time I’m adding the cheese to the scrambled eggs, Margot is walking down the stairs in yesterday’s clothes. I swear to God, every time I see her, she takes my goddamn breath away.
“You’re making me breakfast again, Killer?”
I grin at the nickname. The word itself sounds so wrong yet so right coming from her mouth. “Mhmm, consider it my thank you for making my birthday great.” I don’t mean anything negative by it, but I watch as her face drops. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask, leaving the eggs in the pan to walk toward her.
Her light green eyes look up into mine as she says, “I hate that your birthdays weren’t always special.”
I wrap her up in a hug. This woman is too perfect for this world. “I just needed one,” I say, expecting it to be enough, but as I pull away to tend to the eggs, I see her face is still twisted up.
I plate the food, hoping to move away from the topic. My trauma isn’t exactly breakfast conversation, nor do I feel like I need to go into it. She walks over to the table as I set the plate down. I pour a glass of sweet tea and hand it to her, grabbing a bottled water for myself.
“Hopefully everything is okay. I know most people have coffee in the mornings, but I hate the taste, so I don’t have any here.”
Her mouth drops open in shock. “You… hate coffee?”
Laughing, I nod my head. “Yeah, growing up at the diner, the smell was everywhere. It got to a point where it started to make me nauseous. So I could never bring myself to try it as an adult. It’s weird, I know,” I say, waiting for her to poke fun at me like most do. But she doesn’t because Margot’s not most people.
“That makes sense. I love it, but only if there’s just as much cream and sugar as there is coffee.” I can’t help the laugh, and she side-eyes me from across the table. “Don’t make fun!” she says, pointing her fork at me. Her pouting only makes me laugh more.
I put my hands up in surrender in front of me. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It just doesn’t surprise me. No wonder you taste so fucking sweet, all you drink is pure sugar.” My favorite color flushes across her cheeks again, and I smile smugly.
“So,” she starts, clearly needing to veer away from the topic of how her cum tasted on my tongue. I’m getting a semi just thinking about it. “Did you, Brooks Grant, clean for me?”
Her question stops my fork halfway to my mouth. It’s not even the partially full name that gets me, it’s the fact she noticed. “It’s actuallyHughBrooks Grant, if you’re wanting to pull the full name card,” I reply instead of answering her.
“Wait—really?” The adorable shock on her face was worth sharing my horrid first name.
“Really.”
“Your legal name is Hugh Grant?” she asks in disbelief.
“Unfortunately.”
“And your brother’s name is Cary Grant.”
“Correct.”
Her head falls back as laughter fills the kitchen. It’s contagious, so before I know it, I’m joining in.
“I don’t know if I think your parents were clever or cruel,” she says, her laughter dying down.
“Oh, cruel, for sure. They thought it was so fucking funny to name us after famous actors. At least I got to go by Brooks. Cary tried to go by his middle name too, but it never stuck,” I say with a chuckle.
Margot takes another bite of her food then looks back over at me. “I know what you did there. And it’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”
I use it as my out and continue eating my breakfast. Once we’re both done, I grab our plates and put them both in the sink. As I turn around, I notice she’s looking around at the cabinets. “What?”
