But the truth is, this man is dangerous.
He kills people for a living. Almost killed my father.
Probably still wants to.
And yet, I feel… safe with him.
Secure enough with myself to let him touch me like this, when even the thought of being with anyone sexually made me violently ill mere months ago.
Maybe it lies within the fact that Jonas has already seen me at my lowest. The night we met, when my emotions were high and barely computing, as I stood coated in someone’s blood.
All he did was clean up the mess. Made it possible for me to accept what I’d done and move on in private, which would’ve never happened if I’d gone to Daddy. He would have announced my actions to the world, used them to spin some sort of victim-positive sentiment on behalf of Primrose Realty.
Jonas cleaned up quietly, quickly, and left me alone to deal.
There was no pressure.
No judgment.
Then again, maybe it’s just easier because he doesn’t know the full story.
Maybe being with someone loses its edge of vulnerability when that person isn’t aware that you’re fucked up.
Or maybe he’s just worse than me.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as Jonas’s hand retreats, toying with the fabric of my jeans. I watch him carefully, noting the distinct lust in his hooded gaze, but also looking for signs of unease or resentment.
Something that might make holding on to my own anger and bitterness easier.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper finally, registering how fucked up it is that I’m just accepting this but also not giving a single shit about the morality of it.
This is the reality I asked for when I approached him weeks ago.
This, him, is exactly what I wanted.
“You didn’t kill him.” Jonas chuckles, brushing some stray hairs from my face.
My heart cracks inside my chest, fissures of sadness appearing in the muscle. His tone indicates that someone did, though his hesitance makes me feel as if he is unsure who, and I can’t think of anything more sad than not knowing the identity of someone who changed your life so drastically.
The way I’ve always known his.
“That’s not what I’m apologizing for.”
28
I’ve never been big on apologies.
Don’t like giving them, and I’m not a fan of receiving them either.
Especially considering that more often than not, they’re just words. And words have no correlative meaning unless you assign them one.
Slowly, I pull myself away from Lenny, crossing my arms over my chest. Her soft green eyes are unflinching as she tips her head back, meeting my gaze, and for a moment I expect tears.
A little lubrication to make swallowing her pride easier.
She drags a hand through her golden-brown locks, twisting the ends around her fingers, and draws in a shaky breath. I tense, waiting for the onslaught of emotion, prepared to reject it.
Instead, I get nothing, and for some reason, the sudden silence irks me more.
“You’re sorry,” I repeat, prodding her along.
“I am.”
“Okay.” Pausing, I wait for more, but the little puppet just continues staring. “Well, I don’t accept.”
Confusion knits through her brows. “Why not?”
“Why should I? The simple act of regurgitating a sentiment is hardly enough to make me believe you. If you’re sorry, prove it.”
Her mouth parts, and there’s a dark shift in the air. Something unnatural that pulses between us, an undercurrent of despair I haven’t felt in her presence before. It’s like the calm before a storm, when everything becomes very quiet and very still, and you know disaster is imminent.
Reaching up, I cover her lips with my palm and give a shake of my head. “I don’t mean some sort of spiel you’ve rehearsed. You give me the truth, or…”
She mumbles something against me, the vibrations tickling my skin. I pull back just enough for her to speak. “Or?”
Shrugging, I resist the urge to press her against the island and kiss her until neither of us remembers the word sorry. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, wanting nothing more than to apologize and take responsibility for her, just so I can spread her out on the counter and feast on her flesh.
Jesus Christ, Jonas. Get a hold of yourself, you wanker.
The image of her standing on the side of the road with her knobhead of an ex flashes across my mind, pressing against the sore spot on the back of my skull, and I remind myself that I can’t do it.
“You’re an artist,” I tell her, tapping her nose with my pinkie. “I’m confident you’ll think of something.”
Pulling back, I untangle myself from her warmth and walk over to the office door. Scooping the tablet up, I smirk when I see that not even the screen is cracked, and I turn it back on, heading out to the back porch to continue surfing through hours of footage.
With my legs propped up on the railing, I rock on the wooden swing, scrubbing back to over a month ago as I try to figure out who’s been lurking.
I’m not sure what the purpose of my new security system was if they can’t even pick up a simple intruder, and I don’t particularly like the idea of Lenny being completely defenseless in the event of an invasion.
Now, I’m regretting not just bringing her to my house in the first place. At least it has an underground bunker and more than just one official bedroom.
A futon is no place for a man of my size, and yet since moving Lenny in I’ve been sleeping on one, too stubborn to face the consequences of joining her at night.
Especially now that I’ve tasted her, albeit briefly, and I know what she looks like swallowing my cum. There’s no way I’d be able to sleep beside the little puppet and not wind up fucking her like some kind of drug addict.
Something in my chest pinches, and I reach up to rub the spot.
Is that what I am now?
Addicted to a girl I barely know?
Perhaps that’s why I crave her repentance so eagerly, because if she feels bad about our situation, I don’t have to.
The glass door leading to the kitchen slides open behind me, and Lenny steps out onto the porch a moment later, hugging her biceps.
“I’m not used to this, okay?”
Balancing the tablet on my knee, I sit back, looking up at her. With the sun shining in the sky, its warm rays extending through the clouds, she looks like an angel.
Though I know her to be anything but.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Ah, but you do. I’ve explicitly told you what I wanted to hear.”
Her face flushes crimson, matching the shade of the low-cut blouse she has on. “You want my truths.”
“What’s that old saying? A confession for a concussion.”
“That’s not a saying.”
My legs drop to the ground. “No, but I believe it’s a fair trade-off.”
Throat bobbing on a swallow, she turns her head and looks out at the ocean. She’s silent for several beats, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve lost her. Pushed too hard, so she’s slipped from the life preserver and into the bottomless sea.
“Did I really give you a concussion?” she asks quietly.
Setting the tablet aside, I reach up and rub the scabbed spot on my scalp. “Possibly. I didn’t check. I’m a grown lad, and I’ve had much worse.”