Chapter 6 Octavia #2
Bracing, I wait for the thundering sound of his footsteps behind me, and the yelling, shouting, and insults, but they don’t come. By the time I sit down on the bed, in the room that still smells like sex, some of the wind in my sails has dissolved, and fresh tears are threatening to fall.
Two minutes later, I watch as he calmly steps into the bedroom, crosses to the bed and sits down beside me before pulling me onto his lap.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Narrowing his eyes, he pushes my hair away from my face. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“I overreacted.”
“I think I underreacted,” he says softly, cupping my cheek in his huge palm.
“I do have a list on my cell, but I’m not doing things to you just to check things off or play a game.
This…you are the first woman I’ve ever wanted anything with.
Before you, I assumed I’d be alone. I’m happy alone.
I always have been. But then I saw you, and I knew that you were a future I never knew that I wanted.
With you, I’ll have a home, a wife, a family.
Sex has always been…transactional. Penetration, completion, done.
With you I want…” Pausing, he sighs, clearly struggling to articulate. “More.”
More. One simple word, yet so much…more.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
“Me neither,” Knight says. “But I know that I’ll never let you go. That I’ll protect you and keep you safe.”
“God, this is,” I sigh, exasperated. “I think I need some space, some time.”
“No,” he says succinctly.
“I’m sorry?” I question.
“No need to apologize.”
“I wasn’t apologizing. I was questioning your no,” I snap.
“There will be no space and no time,” he says simply.
“You don’t get to dictate that,” I pant, feeling tension creep into my muscles again.
“Yes, I do. Where you go, I go.”
“You plan to follow me around?” I ask sarcastically.
“Yes,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
“That’s insane. I have a job, friends, a life.”
“I’m a part of all those things. I know your boss, and that she won’t care if I come to work with you. I’m friends with your friends, and your life is me, just the way my life is you.”
I feel my mouth fall open, because I don’t think he’s joking. In fact, I’m sure he’s not. “I’m going to Betty’s,” I say, shuffling to the edge of the bed and onto my feet before I realize I’m only wearing his shirt.
“I’ll go and get your case from the car,” he says, standing and leaving the room.
The moment I’m alone, I consider making a run for it. Only minutes ago, I was thinking about how, despite his outlandish claims that we’re meant to be together, I hadn’t felt the need to escape, but that’s all different now.
Abel insisted that I be part of his world, but he was never very interested in mine. Once we got together, he didn’t care about my friends or my job. He wanted me to conform to his life, to change and fit into the tiny box he created for me.
Knight isn’t willing to make a box. He just wants to plonk his ass right into the center of my existence and make everything else move out of his way, and I’m honestly not sure if that’s better or worse.
I’m still standing in the same place I was when he left, when Knight strolls back into the bedroom, my case in one of his hands, the muscles in his arm flexing under the weight, and his cell in the other hand, the screen activated with something playing.
Instead of laying the case on the bed, he carries it straight into the closet, placing it on the floor and unzipping it, before he starts to carefully unpack my things.
There’s something about watching this huge, rugged man carefully take out my frilly dresses and hang them up next to his clothes that makes warmth pool low in my belly. Okay, the warmth is pooling right in my pussy. Watching Knight reverently smooth creases from my clothes is turning me on.
I have never met a man willing to mess with his girlfriend’s or wife’s clothes unless he was being forced. But Knight isn’t just unpacking. He’s taking note of each thing he unfolds, visually cataloging my belongings. It’s…weird, but it’s also kind of sweet.
“What would you like to wear?” he asks once he’s meticulously placed the last of my things into the empty drawers in his dresser.
“It’s fine, I can—” I start.
“I’ll help,” he says, the same way he said it back in Rapid City.
“Anything is fine. I was just going to throw on some sweats—”
“That’s not how you dress,” he interrupts.
“No,” I start to protest, but then pause, because he’s right. That’s not how I dress. I didn’t even own a pair of sweats until I met Abel.
“I’ll help,” he says decisively, opening the drawer he put my underwear in and taking out a black-and-white houndstooth-patterned set that’s so sheer that even with it on, I’m barely wearing anything.
Crouching low, he holds out the tiny panties for me, not speaking as he waits for me to step into them.
Pulling them up, he runs his finger beneath the waistband to make sure it’s lying flat before he helps me into the bra, his eyes narrowing at the way my pebbled nipples protrude indecently through the mesh fabric.
I wait for him to reach out and touch, but instead, he turns away, slowly perusing the rail of clothes until he eventually pulls out a pink satin skirt with attached bow suspenders and a white blouse with puffed capped sleeves and a huge bow that ties beneath the collar.
For most guys, picking out an outfit for a woman would be an achievement, but Knight doesn’t just pick out the basics. Once he’s helped me into the blouse and skirt, he selects a black layered net underskirt, white knee-high socks with pink bows on the sides, and black heeled ankle boots.
It’s not an outfit I’ve worn together before, so I know he’s not replicating something he’s already seen me wear, but it’s adorable. Leaning more toward Lolita style than gothic, it’s totally something I’d have styled myself.
“How did you know what to pick?” I ask him, too curious to stay quiet.
“Reconnaissance,” he says simply.
“Reconnaissance,” I repeat beneath my breath, struggling to process his response.
Once I’m fully dressed, he leads me into the bathroom and positions me in front of the mirror, while he opens a drawer, revealing a stockpile of bows, ribbons, and hair ties in black, white, and pink.
Some are patterned, some plain, some so extra, I immediately want to pick them up and examine them.
Silently, he brushes my hair, then instead of putting it in bunches like I’m expecting, he blow-dries the length until it’s a glossy mane, then positions a hair band with a black-and-pink bow perfectly behind my bangs.
“I’ll fetch your makeup,” he says, stepping out of the bathroom and returning moments later carrying my makeup case.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A part of me expects him to smile, or prompt me to be grateful or praising, but Knight’s expression stays serious, like the only important thing that’s happening is me getting ready.
For a moment, I consider questioning him again, asking him what he’s getting out of this, why he learned how to do my hair, why he researched my style, and why any of this is important to him.
But I get the impression his answers would confuse me even more.
So instead, I do my makeup, ignoring the furrow in his brow while he watches me like he’s learning how to defuse a bomb, not watching me do my eyeliner.
Once I’d done, I slowly spin to face him, gnawing at my lip with my teeth.
“Beautiful,” he says simply, taking my hand in his and towing me back into the bedroom. Lifting me off my feet, he places me on the end of the bed and strides over to the closet, reappearing moments later in black jeans and a white T-shirt that clings to his huge biceps.
The moment he’s close enough, he reaches for my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine and carefully tugging me off the bed. “Let’s go.”
His hold is firm, but not tight enough to hurt, as he leads me downstairs and into the garage. I pause by the SUV, but instead of stopping, he keeps walking until we reach a huge black machine on wheels.
“What is this?” I gasp.
“An ATV,” Knight says, letting go of my hand for long enough to scoop me into his arms. Placing me in the passenger seat, he climbs into the driver’s side.
“I’ll help,” he growls, pushing my hands away as he fastens me into the harness, running the side of his finger over my nipples as he checks the straps are tight enough, but not too tight.
I’m starting to notice a pattern to Knight’s “help” with picking clothes, bathing me, doing my hair, strapping me into cars, airplanes, and now this ATV. His help is always a caregiving action, and although I’m not ready to say it out loud, I like him wanting to take care of me.
It’s been six years since I lost my mom, but it feels like I’ve been alone for much longer.
My brother, Denton, moved to Australia when I was thirteen, but even though he has a life and a family over there, I think a part of me thought he’d come home when Mom got sick.
But he didn’t. I called him when the doctors said it was almost the end, and he spoke to her over video chat, but he never offered to help.
He never asked me if I was okay or how I was coping.
He flew in for the funeral, asked me to send him his half of the money from her estate, then flew home two days later.
I’m not a child. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, but having Knight want to look after me makes me feel a little gooey.
Once he’s satisfied that I’m secured, he starts the engine, and the vibrations make me feel a little more than gooey.
In fact, if you combine Knight, his attentiveness, and now the strong vibrations pouring through the seat of this huge, ATV-shaped vibrator, I’m feeling positively wet.