Blame It On Pride

C h a p t e r F i f t y - T w o

Y/n's POV:

We're leaving tomorrow...

I am not so excited to leave this place, these few days have been so eventful, in a good way, just the two of us, we did it everywhere...

In ever room and corner inside the house...

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'My little-fucking whore!" He groaned in my ear.
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Everywhere outside, in the ocean...

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'Fuck Y/n, what are you doing to me?...' He moaned.'
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In the sturdy woods, we were supposed to go brambling and ended up against the tree, hid hands around my waist, holding me tightly towards him, the pace was so quick that even poor birds were awoken...

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'Look at you, giving it all to me as always...' He teased...'
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As besides that, him singing in french on rainy days as I sit on his lap, his hands manoeuvring mine on the keyboards, as I can already play some chords on my own, he rewarded me by fucking me against that piano...

—-

It was evening by now, me and Rafe were debating on if he can cook,

'Have you ever even tried?' I ask, internally knowing the damn answer,

'I didn't have to.'

'Right, everything was on the plate for you.' I scold, reaching for milk, he grasps my arm and pins it against the cupboard, other hand captivated by his left one,

'Mind saying that to my face, if you're feeling so brave today.' He taunts, searching for my face,

'I didn't say anything offensive, you're just lucky, there's nothing bad in that.' I mutter as he frowns, he cups my chin,

'That doesn't mean that I can't cook, watch and learn.' He says, retrieving a package of pasta from the cupboard, 'you're about to be blessed, physically later.' He continues as I smile warily, examining what he's doing

He looks like he can actually do something, he begins it boil the water, meantime grating the Parmesan and frying meatballs, classic, but I like it.

I sit across the counter, surveying the way he grates cheese, he folds his sleeves higher, revealing his muscles, as he carries on,

I balance against my palm, my eyes lingering and over the counter that he's working at.

—-

After a while, Rafe was finishing up, settling the dish, as he walked towards the switch that I've been questioning this whole time,

Once he pressed it, I widened my eyes by seeing the way the front terrace lit up with modicum lights that scattered around the whole carcass,

He then opened the door, offering me his hand and leading me outside,

The railing of the wooden terrace was tangled elegantly in beautiful lights, as the top lanterns were exhibiting warm pool of artificial lightning...

"I didn't know that you were into decorating, do you by chance have a garden?" I tease, he looks at me, serious,

"I didn't decorate and I'd never have a garden, assume that again and I'll leave you here." He responds,

"Fine, I'm sure I'll find better friends than you." I mutter, folding my arms,

He chuckles and leans over my ear "You'll never find anyone better than me love."

He then places the plates of pasta, clad in meatballs and Parmesan cheese on top, as he retrieves a blanket from the little cupboard attached to the wall and scathes it over me,

A swathe of waves in distance, seagulls flapping at a great yonder, as Rafe sits next to me, his hand placed on my thigh,

"Are you cold?" He asks,

"No." I respond, smiling, he rolls his eyes at my salacious grin,

"Why are you grinning like that?" He asks.

"Like what?" I ask,

"Like that." He responds, looking at my lips and back at me,

"I'm just happy." I respond,

"Right..." He mutters, "eat, the food will get cold." He continues, waiting for me to take the first bite,

I slice the meatball and poke it with the fork, I struggle to put spaghetti on the fork as well, as Rafe slides closer to me, holding my hands, he takes a spoon,

He then, by controlling my hands, scoops a little bit of spaghetti on the spoon and later twirls it with the fork, forming a swarm of pasta with a meatball in the middle,

"Open your mouth." He commands, as he then inserts the pasta with meatball inside of my mouth,

"Well?" He asks, awaiting my answer, I smile and nod in approval,

"It's good, I like it, you're not that rubbish at cooking." I taunt, he tuts and whilst gliding his hand on my thigh, initiates to consume his dish himself...

"Finish it." He orders...