Beautifully Destroyed (Beautifully Broken)

I haven’t had much time to relish in the fact that we’re a couple. That Finlay Drake’s my girlfriend.

I press a quick kiss to her lips, then stare deep into her stormy gaze again.

I start repeating the action until she laughs against my lips. I swallow the musical sound, my tongue driving into her warmth. It feels as if something clicks in place, our connection locking together like two puzzle pieces, and I let myself have this moment.

I kiss Finlay with everything I feel for her, deep and demanding.

Her arms snake over my shoulders, and her body leans into mine.

The kiss becomes more urgent until it pulls a groan from my chest. Finlay answers with a sweet moan, sending a wave of trembling need coursing through me.

My self-control slips, my lips memorizing the feel of hers, my tongue getting drunk on the taste of her.

My hands itch to explore her body, but instead, I fist my fingers in her sweater. I force myself to pull back an inch, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.

Opening my eyes, I see the desire and elation on her face. It makes her look angelic.

“So fucking beautiful,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from the kiss we just shared.

Her lashes flutter, revealing silver flecks that can rival the brightest stars in the night sky.

“God, Fin,” I breathe, in total awe of her. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

Her swollen lips curve up. “No. Tell me.”

I shake my head. “You’re the one who’s good with words.”

“Then show me.”

That I can do.

My mouth crashes against hers, and this time there’s no restraint as I kiss her until the taste of her is branded on my tongue forever.

By the time I lift my head, I have no idea how much time has passed. The world could’ve gone to shit, and I wouldn’t know.

“Wow,” she breathes, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dreamy.

Yes. Wow.

“You better pull away, or I’m just going to keep kissing you, and I need to get food in your stomach,” I tease her.

She lets out a happy chuckle, the sound weightless. “Who needs food?”

Lifting her off her feet, I carry her to the kitchen table and set her down on it. “Stop tempting me, woman. Food first.”

Finlay watches me with a carefree grin while I gather ingredients to make Dad’s shrimp casserole. “You eat shrimp, right?”

“Yes.” She starts to scoot off the table.

“No. You stay right there. You come any closer I’m done for.”

Chuckling, she shifts back into a comfortable position.

Holding a bell pepper, I ask, “Hot or not?”

“Hot.”

“Mmm… my kinda girl,” I tease her.

I make the dish from scratch, Finlay’s eyes locked on me with a fascinated look on her face.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she mentions, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin in her palm.

“My dad taught me.”

“Not your mom?”

Chuckling, I say, “My mom’s not good in the kitchen, but give her a plant, and she’ll grow you a forest.”

“My mom also loved gardening,” she says, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. “We had the most beautiful rose garden.” She lets out a sigh. “Then I accidentally killed them.”

My eyes dart to her face, and seeing she’s still relaxed, I continue getting the ingredients ready.

“Can you cook?” I ask, wanting to keep her talking.

“I can make a mean lasagna and meatloaf, but that’s where my talents end.”

“I’ll cook, and you can sing.”

Finlay jumps off the table and grabs her guitar from the living room. When she comes to sit on one of the chairs, I ask, “You going to play me Finlay’s favorite hits?”

Her lips curve up as she nods.

I continue to chop the red onion as she begins to strum the guitar’s strings, then she starts to sing a song I recognize. You Are The Reason.

My hands stop moving, and my eyes meet hers as her voice fills my home. There’s something so powerful in her hoarse tone, it demands my attention, and then she hits a pitch that has goosebumps spreading from my head to toes.

When the melody changes to something gentle, and a new song starts, I remember I’m busy making food.

With a private performance from my girlfriend, time fades away, and soon the aroma of our late lunch fills the kitchen.

I take a seat across from Finlay, staring at her as her lips tempt me with shy smiles and the pure magic flowing from them.

When her voice fades with the last chords, I feel relaxed from the spell she cast around me.

“I wanted to open a store. Sell old records, instruments… everything music-related,” Finlay admits one of her dreams to me.

“Wanted? Why past tense?”

Finlay shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I still want to open the store.”

“You should.” I reach across the table, and she places her hand in mine.