Secrets & Submission

“Call me Ella … please.”

“Ella,” he echoes, seemingly testing out my name,his deep voice caressing each syllable. It stirs something inside of me, something that buries my previous thoughts, making me grateful for him repeating my name.

There’s a quiet moment before he picks up the conversation again.

“What kind of music do you like?”

With a smirk I think the topic is one step above asking my opinion of the weather. Although given how kind he is, and how pleasant he is simply to look at, I’d talk about whatever he’d like.

“All kinds,” I tell him and finding my own answer lacking, I elaborate before he can respond. “I have two favorites I used to listen to: “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato and “Sit Still, Look Pretty” by … I forget who sings it.”

I peek over the counter at where he’s seated to find an amused expression.

“Daya, I think.”

I soothe each of the burning words with a spoonful of milk. My gaze drops to the streaks of gray that marble the pristine counter rather than holding his any longer. I haven’t the energy to keep up with the pretense of yesterday. Regardless of my pride, he’s practically my prison warden.

“You know them?”

“Not a clue,” he answers and a bubble of laughter warms my chest.

He starts to say something, getting my attention but waves it off. “What?” I push him but he taps the empty coffee cup on the counter instead of answering.

“I have a coffee maker,” I say, picking up the spoon and point with it, “if you’d like to make a cup.”

“I’m fine with this. Thank you, though.”

“You’re a coffee drinker then?” I ask him. Yet another topic that’s one step above the weather. Just doing my part in this ice breaking, I suppose.

“I am.”

“Let me guess how you drink it.” He grins slowly, taken aback by my tone. Even I’m surprised by the eagerness in my voice.

“Black with sugar. No milk?”

“Why do you think no milk?” he questions, not telling me if I’m right or wrong.

I shrug and he shakes his head. “Milk, no sugar.”

“Oh,” I say with mock dismay, “so close.” I can’t hide the semblance of a smile.

“Let me guess how you drink yours?” he asks and I nod, biting down slightly on my lower lip. “Lots of sugar and no milk.”

“You just took my guess,” I say accusingly.

“You didn’t say ‘lots.’”

“Well, you’re wrong anyway,” I say between more spoonfuls of milk.

“So how do you like it?” he asks and my body reacts to his words as if the way he posed the query wasn’t innocent. As if he was asking how I like something else entirely.

A mundane conversation with this man feels just as dangerous as playing with fire. Whispering, and not feeling any pain at all, I confess, “I don’t drink coffee. I drink tea.”

His eyes spark and it’s in tune with a thump in my chest. Then I’m met with a rough huff of humor. “I knew that,” he comments.

Even with the quietness surrounding us, I simmer. There’s something about him that pulls me in, but there’s also something that warns me to stay the hell away from him.

I’ve never been good at obeying warnings, though.