I think about telling him to fuck himself, maybe turn around and stomp off, but I don’t. Instead, I lick my lips as I continue to look up at him. Clearing my throat, I lift my hand and wrap it around the side of his neck.
“They do whatever men tell them to, Mountain. At least women like me do. Maybe others don’t, maybe they have an option, but girls like me, we’re at men’s mercies.”
“Are you now?” he asks, his voice rough and husky.
“You know that I am.”
There is a moment of silence, a long stretch where I think that he’s going to drop it and we’ll finish our shopping trip. He doesn’t. Instead, he dips his chin, his lips brushing mine gently—too gently.
“You’re at my mercy, but you like it there, mi reina. I’m not your father and I’m definitely not his men.”
“Aren’t you though, at least in your own way?” I ask, keeping my voice low and breathy, mainly because that’s exactly how he makes me feel.
He hums and I think that the conversation is over, again, and again, he surprises me. “Not hurting you like that, Leighton. Not hurting others like that. You’ll see.”
“Oh my, I’m sorry,” a voice says, interrupting our moment.
Turning my head to the side, I see Shelby. She’s standing in front of the sodas, her eyes wide as she watches us, then she shakes her head before she clears her throat.
“I think maybe you shouldn’t call me,” she mumbles before she turns tail and practically runs down the aisle.
Mountain grunts, shifting his gaze back to meet mine. His black eyes are dancing again, and I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of their return. We don’t say anything, we don’t mention Shelby or my father, being at anyone’s mercy, or anything else. Instead, we finish our shopping, then head home.
Home.
Our home.
Because right now, that’s exactly what it is. Ours. Until one day it becomes his and I go… elsewhere.
Chapter Ten
LEIGHTON
Dinner is quiet, too quiet. We’re awkward, or at least it feels that way. I don’t know if it’s really the case. I wash the dishes, they aren’t anything fancy, just plain white. I wonder where they’re from, they’re simple but still kind of pretty. I think about what color of cloth napkins would look good against the stark white of the glass or porcelain, whatever they’re made of.
That’s how Mountain finds me, staring at a basic plain white plate, my head tilted to the side as I try to imagine red, turquoise, no, black napkins against them. Though it doesn’t really matter, it’s not like I’m going to be throwing any dinner parties any time soon.
“Toss ‘em if you don’t like ‘em,” he says as he enters the room.
Spinning around, I look at him with wide eyes. “Why would I do that?” I ask.
“They’re old as fuck, babe. They were my mom’s. Doubt they cost anything at all. You want something else, figure it out and buy it.”
Turning slightly, I set the plate down on the kitchen counter before I face him again. “Why do you keep wanting me to spend your money and buy stuff?” I ask.
He grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. I try not to look at the way his shirt stretches across his bulging arm muscles, or how the denim of his jeans stretches across his thighs—I try and fail. He clears his throat, still not saying anything.
I stand, waiting in the silence as he watches me, his gaze shifting over my entire body. I can practically feel his touch as he looks at me. I want it, too. I’m almost desperate for it, and I hate myself a little bit. I shouldn’t be ashamed at all for wanting him. He’s the only man who has ever made me feel anything. He’s also the man who holds my fate in his hands.
“Just want you to have the things you need,” he murmurs.
Pressing my lips together, I roll them as I think about his words. They’re a lie of course. He doesn’t give a fuck if I have what I need. I am for all intents and purposes, his prisoner.
If he locked me up in a room, never to see the light of day, nobody would even know. Nobody even knows I exist, nobody but his men. I have no friends, no family, nobody. My father and his sick, sadistic buddies were the only ones who even knew of my existence.
Anyone that I met in my five years as a runaway, they were living life in the shadows as well and probably don’t even remember my name. There wasn’t anyone that I got remotely close enough to tell about myself, or my life. So, to them, I’m just whatshername that they met once, somewhere.
“Why?” I chance asking.
He tilts his head to the side, his eyes watching me. “Why not?”
Licking my lips, I take a step toward him. His dark eyes turn an inky black color as I approach. They don’t dance with humor or mischief, but his breathing becomes a little heavier as I stop directly in front of him.
Tipping my head back slightly, I keep my gaze connected to his. “I’m temporary, Mountain. Why do you give a shit about me having what I need and want? Dishes aren’t a need, they’re a want.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. His nostrils flare as he watches me, not speaking for what feels like nothing short of an eternity. Then without a word, he lifts one of his hands, fisting it in the back of my hair before he roughly tugs my head back.
I let out a moan, unable to keep it inside. I love it when he does this. I can’t believe I’ve only been with him for a few days and I already crave certain things from him, this being one, orgasms being another.
“You think you’re temporary?” he growls.
If I could snort at the question at this angle, I would. “I know that I am,” I say, my voice sounding strained from the angle of my neck.
He hums, then I feel his lips touch mine before his teeth nip my chin. My eyelids flutter closed and I inhale and exhale through my nose, trying to keep my breaths even and calm as his mouth moves down my throat, stopping at the middle of my chest.
“Change my mind, change yours,” he rasps, lifting his eyes to look up into mine.
“Change your mind?” I breathe.
He releases my hair, his hand sliding down my back and stopping in the middle. I feel his warm palm press against me, the other hand is at my hip, gripping me tightly. His black eyes are now dancing as he watches me.
“Yeah, babe. Change my mind. Make yourself not so fucking temporary.”
“How?” I exhale.
Slowly he straightens, his chin tipping down as mine lifts so that we don’t break eye contact. His expression is full of his arrogance, of his stubbornness as he watches me, waiting for me to say something else, perhaps to beg? But I don’t.
I wait for him.
I’ll keep waiting for him, because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to change his mind, I have a feeling once that is set, there is no changing anything about it. He made up his mind about me the second he laid eyes on me, he’s just playing with me right now.
I’m the mouse to his cat.
“I’m sure you’ll think of a way,” he rasps.
His voice is soft, giving the illusion of tenderness. I know he doesn’t possess that tenderness, not that I’ve seen and even if I want to believe that it’s there, I refuse to allow myself the fantasy.