by Rina Kent
“M-me?”
“Yeah, beautiful. I know you come to watch me sometimes.”
My cheeks are burning hot. “I do not.”
“We have glass walls, in case you haven’t noticed, and that means I can see you through them.”
I stare down at my lap. “I…wasn’t there for you.”
“Uh-huh. Your denial is adorable.”
I glare at him. “Don’t call me adorable.”
“Well, you are. Deal with it.” He motions at my phone. “Why do you like vintage music?”
“I’m an old soul that way. I like historical novels, music from decades ago, and everything vintage.”
“But you’re in IT.”
“An old soul with a futuristic mindset.”
The corners of his lips curve in a smile before it spreads all over his face. “I like that.”
My breath catches and it takes me a few tries to swallow it down. Hearing him say he likes that while smiling makes me think that maybe he likes me.
And that’s just stupid.
If there’s anything Knox has proved thus far, it’s that whatever is between us is only sexual, so I better kill that small voice whispering inside me.
“What’s your favorite band?” he asks.
“I don’t really have one.”
“Come on, everyone does.”
“Guns N’ Roses, I guess. They make me feel powerful.”
“You mean their music does.”
“What’s the difference?”
He’s poker-faced as he says, “There’s one. It’s their music, not the men in the band.”
“No clue about the logic in that, but whatever.”
We continue eating in silence, listening to the music and stealing peeks at each other. Or I am, anyway. Knox watches me openly, periodically narrowing his eyes on me and pursing his lips as if he disapproves of something.
“What?” I ask when he continues doing it.
“I want to see your real eyes.”
“W-what?”
“The blue ones. And don’t even dare say these are real. Without the glasses, they look fake as fuck.”
“I…can’t.”
“Why not? I already know your real name and what you look like.”
“Just…no.”
“Why?”
“Because…I don’t like it. Just like you don’t like looking into my eyes during sex. Do you see me asking about that?”
“Who told you I don’t like looking at your eyes?”
“Well, you’ve always fucked me or touched me from behind. Isn’t that indication enough?”
“I prefer that position.”
“And I prefer having these eyes.”
A muscle tics in his jaw and I expect him to insist, but he does something entirely different.
His voice lowers when he speaks. “I don’t like fucking from the front. It makes me feel less in control and brings back dark shadows from a past I like to keep buried.”
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the tension floating between us, as if he summoned it and its sole purpose is to suffocate us both.
“What type of past?” I ask in a murmur.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t get to ask that when you’re hiding yours.”
“I told you about my mom.”
“She’s not what you’re hiding from, so that doesn’t count.”
I purse my lips and attack another slice of pizza.
He just leans back on his palms, watching me with a grin. The asshole. “That’s what I thought.”
“I want my butterfly back,” I blurt out of nowhere.
He’s still grinning and I’m considering the best way to wipe it off his face, aside from the obvious option—murder.
“What makes you think I have it?”
“You mentioned it the other day, so that means you do.”
“Maybe if you show me your real eyes.”
“I will not.”
“Then I don’t have it.”
“Knox! That butterfly is important to me.”
“Apparently not enough, because you refuse to compromise.”
But it’s not a compromise. He’s demanding to see a part of me that will make me vulnerable and I refuse to play that game. “Are you always an asshole or only with me?”
“A little bit of both.” His grin widens.
“I hate you right now.”
“We have all the time in the world, so I’ll convince you otherwise.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Of course we do.” His voice drops when he says the words that make me shiver, “I’m not even close to being done with you, beautiful.”
20
KNOX
“Are you sure you’re only chopping the potatoes and not murdering them?”
Anastasia stares up at me from behind the kitchen counter, a delicate frown appearing between her brows.
She’s wearing a hoodie that barely reaches mid-thigh and keeps flashing me her lace panties every time she bends over or reaches up.
Needless to say, my dick has been twitching non-stop at the view. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to let her help me make dinner, despite the fact that she’s absolutely helpless when it comes to cooking.
However, she’s taking it seriously. Way too seriously, considering the concentration that’s written all over her delicate face, accentuated by the light hanging from the ceiling.
“I am chopping,” she says matter-of-factly, motioning at the potatoes with the knife.
“They look murdered to me.”
“But I did it slowly like you told me.”
“It’s still not right.”
Her shoulders hunch as if she’s failed something monumental. “Whatever. You do it.”
“Let’s do it together.”
“How—”
I wrap my arms around her from behind and she goes still, the word she was about to say remaining stuck in the air between us.
A full-body shudder goes through her and I can’t help inhaling deeply, breathing in her orange blossom perfume mixed with her delicate natural scent.
Everything about her is delicate. Whether it’s her tiny features, her small frame, or her pale skin that can be bruised with a single press of my thumb against it.
For some reason, her softness always drags out the primal part of me, the part that needs to claim her every second of the day, then repeat it all over again.
The part that can’t get enough, no matter how many times I’ve fucked her, touched her, and made her scream my name.
Despite loving the feel of her writhing body beneath me and how she demands the roughness I give, I’m starting to think it’s not only due to the need to fuck her. Or else I wouldn’t have shown up here every single day for the past week.
I knew I shouldn’t have stayed when she asked me to. I shouldn’t have given in to the temptation of her gentle voice and her inviting warmth, but I did.
And now, I can’t force myself to leave.
I can’t bring myself to spend a single night without her wrapped around me as if I’m a lifeline. In a way, I’m thankful for her small sofa that only allows us to sleep when we’re glued together or she’s lying partially on top of me.
Now, I feel it again. The way she relaxes against me as if her little body belongs in the crook of mine. My jaw clenches as my dick begins tenting against my trousers, but I refuse to let him take rein this time. I refuse to bend her over the kitchen counter and take her rough and hard.
At least, not at this moment.
For some reason, I want to keep feeling her like this, in the silence, with her body so attuned to mine that we breathe in sync.
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me chop potatoes?” she whispers when I grab each of her hands in mine but don’t do anything.
“One moment,” I murmur against her hair, rubbing my nose in it. “I haven’t gotten my fill of your smell.”
She squirms, a tremor going through her h
and. “I can feel it, you know.”
“It?” I ask with a note of amusement.
“Your…thing.”
“It’s called a cock, not a thing, Anastasia.”
“Yeah, well, it’s poking my ass.”
“That’s because my cock is demanding access.”
Her face turns a deep shade of red. “Pervert.”
“Me or my cock?”
“Both!”
“Then you’re stuck with two perverts, beautiful. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
She wiggles again and that only serves to aggravate the state of my unsatisfied erection.
“You might want to stop that unless you’re planning on being my dinner.”
I feel the hitching of her breath against my chest as she goes still, then murmurs, “What about me? I don’t get dinner?”
“You can choke on my cock if you want.”
“Stop it.” She laughs, elbowing me. “I want real food.”
Her hit isn’t strong, but I stagger back due to the force of something entirely different—her laughter.
It’s such a rare occurrence to hear the musical sound of her laughter. Her eyes close slightly and her head tips back a little as if she can’t contain it.
I’m trapped in it, in how fucking carefree she looks. Ever since I first met her, she’s been a bit reserved, careful, and always counting her steps. But over the past week, she’s been slowly but surely getting more comfortable around me.
The fact that I’m the only one who brings out this side of her fills me with a raw sense of possessiveness and a deep feeling of pride.
I’m the only one she laughs around.
Only me.
“Come on. We need to make something before the movie starts.” She nudges me when I remain frozen, completely and utterly fucking smitten with a view that meant shit to me in the past.
“You mean, I need to make something since you’re hopeless at it,” I joke to camouflage my inexplicable reaction to her. “And I’m not watching another Harry Potter film tonight.”
“Why not? They’re fun!”
“They’re unrealistic.”
“It’s fantasy, so that’s the whole point.”
“Still not my thing.”
“You’re weird.” She rolls her eyes. “Next, you’ll tell me you didn’t read the books.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh my God, who are you and where have you been living?”
“In England, where those books were set and I’m still not interested.”
“How about Lord of the Rings? The Hobbit?”
“No and no.”
She gasps inaudibly, her mouth closing, then opening a few times. “How is that even possible? Wait. Are you from another planet?”
“Nope, earthling through and through.”
“This won’t do.” She shakes her head with pity written all over her face. “I’m going to have to fill in the gaps you’re missing. We’ll start with the books and then the movies.”
“Why in that order?”
“The books are always better, duh.”
I smile at the way she says “duh.” It’s a new word for her, something that she most likely learned from Gwen.
“What if I don’t like any of them?” I ask with a poker face, egging her on.
She takes the bait, a frown appearing between her brows. “Then we’ll reread them until you do.”
“We?”
“Yeah, I’ll read them for you.”
“Hmm. Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not I get to touch you during the process.”
Her face goes red again and it’s fucking adorable. “Does everything have to include touching?”
“If I can help it.”
“Fine. But you need to focus on the story.”
“I’m good at multitasking.” I grab her by the waist and lift her up on the counter. She squeals, her fingers latching onto my gray T-shirt. “Which book are we starting with?”
“Which one do you want?” she asks breathlessly.
“What’s your favorite fantasy book?”
“Peter Pan.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to think I was Wendy when I was a kid. She was a free fairy and could fly away any time she wanted.”
“Is that what you want?”
Her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she lets out a low, “Maybe.”
“Even now?”
She lifts her head and her fake eyes meet mine, but the emotions in them are guttural and so fucking real, they stab me in the chest.
The moment she opens her mouth to speak, her phone vibrates on the counter beside her and she startles. I’m about to throw the fucking thing away, but the moment she sees “Sandra” flashing on the screen, Anastasia grabs the phone and wiggles away from me.
She hops down from the counter and escapes to the living area. “Hey, Sandra. Is everything okay…? No, yes, I mean, of course I can talk…”
I tilt my head to the side, watching as she flops onto the sofa, her complete attention on what Sandra is telling her.
Ever since that time in my office, they often talk on the phone and it’s had a positive impact on Sandra’s mental state. I’m a bit annoyed at my client for interrupting me, but at the same time, I admire how selfless Anastasia is when it comes to Sandra. She went out of her way and waited outside during the pretrial hearings of the civil case, despite having a form of social anxiety that makes her antsy in public places.
When I told her she didn’t need to come anymore, she vehemently shook her head and said, “What I feel is nothing compared to what Sandra is going through. She needs as many friendly faces as possible in there.”
Still, Sandra has the worst timing.
She cut Anastasia off when she was about to say something monumental. I release a breath and go to salvage the mess she made of the potatoes.
All I keep thinking about is why the hell I don’t want to ask her what her reply would have been.
Why the hell am I fucking frustrated that she might’ve said yes?
That if given the chance, Anastasia would become her favorite fucking Wendy again and fly away from this world.
Me included.
21
ANASTASIA
A rustling startles me awake.
For a moment, I think I’m back in my house and there’s an emergency and everyone needs to evacuate the property.
But before I can stumble from the bed, the ceiling with stars that glow in the dark comes into view.
A breath whooshes out of me, but it gets stuck in my throat when I make out the reason behind the rustling.
Knox.
I’m lying partially on top of him like we’ve done every night for the two weeks since he started living here. Because I’m usually a deep sleeper, I only wake up when the alarms go off. Plural. This is the first time I’ve been hauled out of sleep in the middle of the night; it’s because of the Red Bull I had with Gwen and Chris yesterday afternoon. I told them caffeine messes with my system, but they called me weird for never trying an energy drink in my twenty-year-old life, and my pride was kind of wounded, so I drank it.
I’m glad I did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen the scene beneath me.
Knox’s eyes are slammed shut and sweat covers his naked chest and glistens against his tattoos. The samurai looks gruesome in the darkness, haunted even. I click on the flashlight of my phone, bathing the room in soft white light, then slowly shake his shoulder.
He seems to be having a nightmare, a really bad one, judging by how his lips are pursed and the way his beautiful face appears to be in agony.
It hurts. Seeing him so deep in torment is similar to being slashed open and bleeding out.
“Knox…” I whisper. “Wake up.”
My free hand strokes his cheek and I try to smooth the lines between his brows, but they get deeper with each passing second.
“Knox…please wake up�
��”
My words turn into a yelp when he grabs me by the shoulder and hauls me off him. I think I’m about to fly off the sofa and land on the floor headfirst, but my back hits the cushion and a large body hovers over me.
Knox.
He stares down at me with a glassy look, the hazel in his eyes muted and his shoulder and chest muscles flexing. One hand grabs my shoulder and the other shoots to my throat. But he doesn’t grab the sides of it, where I get a bit lightheaded but absolutely delirious with pleasure, like he usually does.
This time, he chokes my windpipe.
As if his sole purpose is to suffocate the hell out of me.
My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and I try to thrash beneath him, my nails digging into his arm, but it’s like an ant is wrestling a buffalo. I’m unable to move him even an inch.
And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to be seeing me.
“K-Knox…” I choke out.
He blinks a few times and he freezes. He doesn’t release me, but he’s not actively trying to suffocate me to death either.
Slowly, too slowly, the golden gleam seeps into his eyes and he pushes off of me with a sudden shove, then scrambles to his feet and runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck!”
I drag in copious amounts of air through my nose and wince at the burn of every inhale and exhale.
Before I’m able to get my bearings, strong hands grab me by the shoulders, pulling me into a sitting position. I stare into Knox’s eyes and a wild sense of comfort slams through me.
The thought that I’d lost him even for a moment filled me with damning trepidation.
“Are you okay?” He inspects me, then his face scrunches with pain when he focuses on my neck. “Bloody hell.”
“I’m fine.”
“The red marks on your neck indicate otherwise.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not fucking nothing. I almost choked you to death just now.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Why the fuck did you even touch me? You’re usually out of it until the morning.”
“Wait…does that mean this happens a lot?”
He’s silent, his sharp jaw flexing as if he’s suppressing something.
Inching closer, I place my unsteady fingers on his cheeks, cupping them. “What’s plaguing you so much that you have constant nightmares about it?”