“I can’t believe I let you tie me up,” she whispers.
Smirking, I brush some of the hair from her face. “Why not?”
One eyelid peels back, but just for a second. “I’m not… usually into not being able to move. It reminds me of…”
My hand curls into a fist, a sick feeling lodging in my stomach. Is it possible that everything she just experienced was through the lens of her past?
“I see.”
“Before I went to Vermont, I had a lot of nightmares.” With a deliberate sigh, Lenny rolls onto her back, folding her hands over her chest. I reach down and tug the duvet cover over us, which she pulls up to her chin. “I think I developed claustrophobia, or something, after the whole… incident, because my dreams were always about being confined or trapped.”
She sighs. “Then, when I left Aplana, they just… stopped. No extensive cognitive therapy, or a significant length of time. I just woke up at my aunt’s cattle farm and didn’t have another nightmare.”
“Cattle farm?”
“Don’t ask why I went there. I still don’t know.”
Pressing my lips together, I reach for her, yanking her into me. She goes willingly, and even though I’m not a cuddler or a dater, I let myself break the rules.
Just for tonight, I tell myself.
Just for right now.
There’s nothing wrong with indulging her for a little while.
Consider it a perk for agreeing to her contract in the first place.
“He was nowhere near my mind, if you’re wondering.”
She says it quietly, into the hollow of my throat. Almost as if she sensed I wanted to ask but couldn’t bring myself to admit it.
“Just you and me, huh?” I ask, gripping her chin and making her look up.
When she nods, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her lips, I crash mine onto hers, wanting to prolong the make believe for just a little while.
33
My wrists are raw when I wake up.
Scratch that.
The slightest stretch reveals that it’s actually every muscle that’s raw and achy, as if they’ve been wrung out and left to dry. Rolling over, I find Jonas sprawled out on his stomach beside me. His arms are stuffed beneath his pillow while his legs tangle with mine, and pieces of his hair stick up in opposing directions.
He looks… cute. Innocent and unburdened in a way I’ve never seen.
Still terrifyingly handsome, but when he sleeps, there’s a softness to the sharp edges. Something that proves he’s human, and not wholly consumed by his demons.
Emotion wells up in my throat, heavy and pointed the longer I watch him. Ignoring it, I quietly slip from the bed and head to the shower. After scrubbing my scalp with some tropical shampoo, I rinse and move on to my body, carefully cleaning between my thighs.
The memory of Jonas splitting me in half with his cock rushes to the surface of my brain, combining with the steady spray of hot water, and my body grows impossibly warm. Confining, almost, like a wool sweater I can’t escape—but also don’t really want to.
“Sore?”
Startled, I drop my washcloth and spin around, panic seizing my chest. Jonas stands on the other side of the glass door, his body distorted because of the frosted pane, arms crossed over his chest.
Releasing a breath, I nod. “A little, but nothing I can’t handle.”
Humming, he pulls open the door and steps inside. “Resilience is an attribute you seem to possess in spades.”
My face flushes at his words, and I turn toward the tile so he can’t see.
His palms skim over my hips, and I reach out, bracing my hands on the wall as he nestles his erection against me.
“Hiding already?” he murmurs, taking my earlobe between his teeth. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, love. I’ve seen everything. Quite enjoyed it, actually.”
I don’t respond for a moment, unsure of what to say. It’s not my body I’m trying to shield, but the organ inside my chest that’s been battered beyond repair.
A heart can only take so many fractures before it shatters, and Jonas Wolfe could break mine without even trying.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I say finally, and only when his fingers drift to my pussy, dragging the words out of me.
“Then turn around and let me see you.”
Swallowing, I nudge his hand away and face him, pressing my back into the wall. The tile is icy on my skin, a stark contrast to the heat otherwise crawling through me.
His violet eyes sweep over me, leaving sparks of electricity in their wake.
“It’s different in the daylight.”
Pinching my chin, he forces me to look up. “Better,” he says, pinning me against the tile.
Grabbing my hips again, he hoists me up, and I lock my legs around his waist as he notches his hard cock against me. Slick with arousal and aided by the shower spray, he slips in easily, and though there’s a twinge of discomfort as he stretches and stretches, it ebbs off into a heady pleasure when he’s fully seated.
He fucks me slow this time, but no less rough, each flex of his hips punctuated by the guttural sounds of our collective moaning.
“So.” Thrust. “Much.” Retreat, and thrust. “Better.”
Mama’s eyes narrow at me from across the table as she cuts into her baked potato. I watch her knife glide back and forth, separating skin and the mush inside, trying to understand the reasoning behind it.
It’s a baked fucking potato. The pieces are already manageable, and yet I’ve witnessed this process countless times over the years.
Bringing the fork to her mouth, she takes a tiny bite. Chews far longer than necessary.
Palmer sits beside her, sipping a beer, eyes volleying between us. Guilt lines his facial expression, and I resist the urge to reassure him that everything’s fine, because it’s not. When he invited me to supper, I was under the impression that it would be just the two of us, and yet my arrival at the little fine-dining eatery near the north marina proved otherwise.
I groan, slumping in my chair. “What are we doing, Mama?”
Her blonde brows hike. “Eating, dear. Or, I am, anyway.” She looks down at my plate of untouched salmon and asparagus. “Are you avoiding your entrée because it’s not junk food?”
“No.” Indignation puffs in my chest. “And I don’t only eat junk food.”
“Well, I should certainly hope not.” She takes one more bite and puts her plate down, dabbing at her pink lips. “Your metabolism may be high now because you’re young, but eventually all that salt and processed sugar will catch up with you. Then what will Jonas think?”
“Mama,” Palmer scolds softly, setting his glass on the table.
“Excuse me for trying to be proactive.” She shrugs, taking a sip of sangria. “You’d better find a way to lock him in, is all I’m saying. Men tire very easily, especially those who run in your father’s circles.”
Stomach full, I push my plate away and clasp my hands in my lap. “Jonas isn’t a part of Daddy’s circles.”
She scoffs behind her glass. “That’s news to me.”
“Are you drunk?” Palmer asks.