Can’t blame the bloke for trying.
Unfortunately, I’ve had much longer to sit with my demons, and their festering can’t be cured except by bloodshed.
Every time I come back worse for wear, I can tell the little puppet sleeping in my bed wants to ask about it. Her sweet eyes light up, like she’s fascinated by the things that should horrify her, and her mouth poises around unspoken questions.
Perhaps it’s just boredom fueling her interest. Aside from lounging on the beach and the endless hours she spends painting or drawing, Lenny doesn’t seem to have anything else to do.
It’s almost as if she revolved around her family’s company and the PR relations she was forced to maintain, and now that she’s somewhat free of those shackles, she doesn’t know how to spend her time.
With each passing day, she seems to grow more despondent. I thought dating a socialite meant being dragged from event to event, and yet our shopping trip was the first time we’ve been out as a couple in the weeks since she moved in.
On the one hand, her despair fills me with a sick sort of gratification.
Revenge by proxy.
Alistair’s words echo in my mind, his insistence on keeping up appearances reminding me that while I don’t necessarily want to care about Lenny’s happiness, at least while we’re pretending to date, I’m supposed to.
I’m trying to convince myself that that’s why I went back to the thrift store and asked the cashier to find everything Lenny left behind. I knew she’d been lying when she said she was just looking, though I didn’t fully understand why.
The cost barely amounted to pocket change, so I can’t imagine that played a factor.
It doesn’t matter, I suppose, although I would have liked to see the look on her face when she realized I’d gone back. The idea of a smile gracing her delicate face because of something so bloody simple makes my cock hard as a fucking rock.
Reaching down, I palm my shaft, closing my eyes to relive the kiss we shared the other day. I’ve thought about it so often at this point that I can practically feel her soft body against mine, desperate to open up and let me inside.
My jaw slackens at the thought, my fist jerking in harsher movements as I envision her spread eagle beneath me, lush tits and plump little cunt on display. Wet and wanton. I’d grab the back of her neck and haul her up, just enough so she could watch me sink in.
She tastes like absolution, but I’ll bet she fucks like damnation.
Arousal draws my balls up, winding a heated spiral up from the base of my spine, and release surges through me. For a moment, I consider the fact that I told myself I wasn’t going to entertain these thoughts anymore, but all that does is make me come quicker.
The acknowledgment of the forbidden has me spilling all over my fist, a pained grunt tearing from low in my throat. Sticky semen drips down my fingers, and I brace a forearm on the shower tile, trying to convince myself that she’s out of my system now.
I can stop letting her occupy my every bloody thought.
When I step out of the bathroom a few moments later with a towel wrapped around my waist, though, it’s clear that’s not going to happen.
Lenny stands in the hall, her golden-brown hair pulled back into a single braid that falls off one bare shoulder. Bare, because she insists on wearing those fucking tiny pajama tops with the equally tiny shorts, and every time I see them I’m tempted to tear them down the middle, just to show her how easy it would be.
Her arms are crossed over her chest, pushing her tits up obscenely, and she’s scowling. If she’s at all startled by the fact that I’m in nothing but a towel, she does a fantastic job covering it.
“Can I help you?” I ask, turning my chin down to meet her gaze. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for brunch?”
“What are you doing?”
My eyebrows knit together. “Ah… I believe we call this bathing?”
“No, I mean…” She trails off, walking backward to the partially closed bedroom door. Pushing it open with her bum, she sweeps her arm to the side, brows arching into her hairline. “With all of this. Why did you go back and buy this stuff?”
Following her into the room, I look at the bed where she’s emptied the contents of the thrift store shopping bags. Articles of clothing and trinkets are piled up in the middle of the duvet, and the bags are discarded on the floor.
She clutches the receipt in one hand, shaking it in my direction. “Honestly, Jonas, what the fuck?”
Holding my towel closed, I narrow my eyes at her tone. “Are you seriously mad right now? Over a kind gesture?”
“Was it just a kind gesture?” She hooks her fingers, putting air quotes around the last two words. “Or are you trying to bribe me into sleeping with you?”
The question catches me so off guard that my chin actually snaps back, like the recoil on a bobblehead toy. She’s seething, her tanned skin flushed and clammy, genuinely pissed off that I bought the stuff she’d been halfway through ringing up before she fled the store.
According to the cashier, at least.
Taking a deep breath, I hold one hand up in her direction. “You’ve got it all wrong, love.”
“People don’t just drop hundreds of dollars on strangers for no reason,” she snaps, balling the receipt up and throwing it at me.
The wad of paper bounces off my wet chest, and she blanches as she watches it fall, her eyes seeming to get stuck on my exposed skin. Clearing her throat, she crosses her arms again, cocking a hip as if waiting for an explanation.
Amusement filters into my blood, and I inch closer. “Still strangers, are we?”
She swallows. Hard. I track the movement, my eyes desperate for the image.
“We… our circumstances don’t mean we’re close.”
One of my brows arches. “Perhaps we don’t know each other’s favorite songs and worst nightmares, but you can be soul mates and still not be aware of those things. Some connections are physical, love. Tangible. You know them when you feel them.”
I walk closer, and her jaw tenses. Spine straightens.
Bloody hell. Defiance lines the rims of her irises, blazing like tall flames in her gaze. They lick at my skin, scorching a path to my cock that leaves me a bit light headed.
“For instance,” I say, lifting my hand slowly. She watches the motion from the corner of her eye, keeping her face forward even as I skim her side, smoothing my fingers over the silk material of her top. “Do you feel hollow when we kiss?”
“What?” she breathes.
“The other day in the kitchen, when you had my tongue in your mouth. Did it feel like kissing a stranger?”
Circling her like she’s a deer and I’m the hungry wolf, I stop just behind her, letting my voice dip an octave as I bend to speak in her ear.
“When you were thinking about grinding your sweet little cunt on my cock, did that feel foreign? Wrong? Strange? Or was it just right, just crazy enough that you were as tempted as I was to spread your thighs and let me bury myself between them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “It was just a kiss.”
“Just a kiss,” I repeat, chuckling darkly. My fingers find her hip, and my thumb draws slow circles over the waistband of her sleep shorts. “So, you don’t think about it when you touch yourself at night?”