“God,” he says hotly, “keep talking. Spread your legs? Go on.”
Useless, all of it. I might as well be arguing with a block of cement for all the good it will do me. “Forget it.”
He takes my hand and curls it around his massive erection.
Into my ear, he whispers, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you, but I want you even more now that I know how you sound when you come. Now that I know how that beautiful mouth feels around my cock. The way you claw my back and scream my name when I fuck you. The way you never hold anything back.
“But even more than all that, I want you to feel safe with me, and to trust me, and to know that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy, including putting a bullet in someone’s head.”
When he pauses, I open my eyes and look at him. His voice turns dark.
“And if it’s going to make you happy to keep that delicious wet pussy to yourself, so be it. I might force you to stay with me, but I’d never force you to fuck me. I won’t ask again.”
He releases me abruptly, rolling away to stand at the edge of the bed and drag his hands through his hair. Then he stalks off to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.
The shower goes on.
Wait—he’s mad at me?
Disoriented, I listen to the water run for a while until it goes off. After a few minutes, Liam reappears from the bathroom, nude. Without sparing me a glance, he goes to the closet.
He emerges moments later fully dressed. Black suit, black tie, white dress shirt, black leather shoes. He’s the wolf again, dark and dangerous, his expression closed off and his eyes unreadable.
On his way out the bedroom door, he says over his shoulder, “Your books are in the library. Enjoy your studies.”
He leaves without a backward glance.
20
Tru
It takes me a while to gather the presence of mind to decide I should shower, too, get into clean clothes, and find something to eat.
First things first. I’ll work on the bigger problems later.
The shower in the master bathroom turns out to be amazing. It has one of those rainfall showerheads in the middle of the ceiling that make you feel like you’re bathing outdoors on a tropical island during a summer storm, along with half a dozen strategically placed jets on the walls that spray pulsing water at your body from all sides.
My toiletries are lined up neatly along the counter behind one of the two marble sinks. I comb out my wet hair, brush my teeth, and put on deodorant, using all my own stuff, pilfered from my apartment.
Half of me marvels at the trouble Liam went through to get me here, the other half of me wants to kick in his front teeth.
Another part—a small, hidden part that I’m actively ignoring—tells me I like this crazy plan and should stop whining and get on board with it.
After all, I won’t have to listen to Ellie and Tyler scream in conjugal ecstasy for weeks. I can study for the bar in peace and quiet. And considering I’m an introvert whose idea of a perfect date is sitting on opposite ends of a sofa reading in silence, being trapped indoors for weeks on end with a sex bomb of a man who doesn’t talk much could be nirvana.
It could also be living hell.
Unfortunately, I suspect that if I somehow managed to get out, I’d be right back here within hours. I’d have to smuggle myself out of the country in someone’s suitcase to escape from the reaches of Liam Black.
I dress in clean jeans and a T-shirt, then pad barefoot through the apartment, wandering from room to gargantuan room.
The main living areas are designed in an open format. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and black granite. The living room and dining room are separated by a thick sheet of tinted glass suspended from the ceiling. A media room sports a giant flat screen TV and triple rows of comfy lounge chairs, like a theater. The library is on the opposite end of the apartment from the master suite, and is almost as large.
Next to the library is an office.
Liam’s office.
I stand at the open door with my handle on the knob and my heart starting to pound, staring at his desk.
It’s big and black, because of course it would be. It has all the usual things a business desk would have: blotter, cup of pens, computer with a big screen. The only thing I don’t see is a phone. There weren’t any in the other rooms of the apartment, either.
I spend a few minutes debating with myself about whether or not to head over to that computer and turn it on, but end up deciding that Liam would undoubtedly have a password.
And if there’s a camera in the elevator, there are probably cameras in here, too.
So I go back into the library for a look around.
All my study materials, school books, and test prep aids have been placed neatly in piles on a large wooden table near the unlit marble fireplace at one end of the room. My laptop is there, too. There’s no television in here, but there are rows upon rows of books in bookcases, lined up all the way to the ceiling. A rolling ladder rests against one of the cases, waiting for someone to climb.
I walk in slowly, trailing my fingers over the back of a big leather sofa the color of coal, marveling at the atmosphere of understated luxury and reveling in the smell of old books.
The room is a bibliophile’s dream.
I spend a while browsing through the bookcases, growing more and more impressed. First editions of Proust seem to be Liam’s weakness, but his philosophy collection impresses me the most. He’s got everything from Aristotle to Nietzsche, Descartes to Kant. From a shelf, I select a battered copy of Meditations by the ancient Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, open to a dog-eared page, and read a highlighted passage aloud.
“Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, do good.”
I stare at the words, perplexed. A man in charge of an international criminal empire is highlighting quotes about doing good? Maybe this book originally belonged to someone else.
I flip to the front. There’s an inscription in looping feminine handwriting on the title page.
My love,
Some words of wisdom from a wise man, because you enjoy that sort of thing.
Happy birthday.
Julia
It’s dated August tenth, eighteen years ago.
I stare at the note with a dry mouth and the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Then I snap it shut and slide it back into its place on the bookshelf, feeling skittish, unnerved, and vaguely guilty, as if I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have.
Like I’ve looked through a keyhole into a locked room and spied a ghost.
I shake the feeling off, telling myself that I’m being silly.
Whomever Julia is or was, there’s no evidence that book was a gift to Liam. She didn’t write his name, after all, just a non-specific “my love.” Liam could’ve bought that copy of Meditations at a used book store. It could have belonged to quite a few people before it made its way into his hands.
Besides, eighteen years ago, he was very young. Younger than I am now. I don’t know the exact amount of years we are apart in age, because he refused to tell me, but anyone called “my love” by a woman named Julia would probably be older than Liam was then. It all sounded very sophisticated.