Chapter 13 #2
“Then maybe bad karma is done with you for a while,” he strokes his hand down my back. “You’ve certainly had enough of it.”
The elevator begins to rise, smooth and quiet. Too quiet. Even the elevator is rich. It doesn’t rattle or jerk or smell like old pennies. It just glides upward like it has too much dignity for gravity.
I catch sight of myself in the mirrored wall and wince. Victor sees that too, and I feel foolish. Jumping at the sight of my own reflection. What’s next? Tripping over my shoelaces or slipping on a banana peel?
“I can feel you thinking something insulting about yourself,” he growls.
“You can feel that?” I squeak. “I wasn’t going to say it, but I guess my mind was doing the work for me.”
“I can’t feel it, exactly, but your scent changes when you let that creep in,” he explains. “I notice it because I’m your mate.”
I look at him and raise a brow. “Does my scent change for other things?”
“Yes,” he rumbles, chuckling under his breath. “Sometimes I can’t smell anything but your arousal. You’ve been aroused a lot today. The fragrance seeps out of your pores.”
I blush and look away. “That’s really not fair.”
“I didn’t say it was fair, but it’s useful,” he purrs.
“For you maybe,” I say, sniffing my arm.
“For you too,” he says. “It means you can’t hide when something hurts you or makes you mad. Or turns you on.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve gotten good at hiding. Great at it. Gold medal in pretending I’m fine. Put me on a cereal box. But Victor looks at me like every mask I’ve ever worn is made of wet tissue paper.
The elevator dings, and the doors open into a private foyer. Not a hallway. A freaking foyer. For a hotel room!
There’s a small table with a flower arrangement, a lovely painting on the wall, and double doors ahead of us. Victor uses the keycard again, and the doors unlock with a soft click.
Then he opens them and I gasp.
The penthouse is enormous. Not big. Enormous.
There’s a wide living room with plush furniture arranged around the fireplace.
The fireplace! Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, showing the city of Covington below and the picturesque river beyond it that is on all our postcards.
The afternoon light spills over everything.
There’s a dining table big enough for a family I don’t have, a wet bar, a separate sitting area, and artwork that looks expensive enough to have its own insurance policy.
I take one step inside. Then another. My mouth is open. Stuck in a gasp. I know it is. I can feel it. Victor slams the doors behind us and it jolts my mouth closed.
“This should work for now,” he says.
“For now?” I turn to him. “Victor, this is bigger than my grandmother’s entire house.”
“It’s smaller than I’d like,” he complains. “I like lots of space and an open floor plan. Maybe some plants.”
I stare at him, unsure if I’d change a single thing. I’d be too scared of ruining it.
He just shrugs, like he’s looking over junk in a garage. “The ceilings are decent.”
“The ceilings are decent,” I repeat, glancing up at them.
“They are,” he chuckles.
I laugh. I can’t help it. The sound bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s probably a little hysterical, but it’s real. Victor watches me like he’s fascinated by every second of it.
“What?” I ask, still laughing.
“I like that sound,” he says.
“My nervous breakdown?” I ask, my laughter dying off.
“Every sound you make is beautiful,” he says. “I’m still learning all of them.”
That quiets me fast. Warmth spreads through my chest, soft and dangerous.
“Oh,” I whisper.
Victor walks closer and brushes his fingers over my cheek. “Keep doing it.”
“I’ll try to schedule more emotional collapses,” I mutter.
“No, I just need to find more reasons to make you smile,” he says gently. “More reasons to make you laugh. One day, maybe all you’ll do is smile, laugh, and take my cock like a good girl.”
The words roll through me like warm honey. I hate that it affects me so much. Hate that something sweet and filthy and vulgar makes me wet. No, that’s not true. I don’t hate it. I don’t know what to do with it, but I don’t hate it. The mating bond makes sure of it.
I turn away before he sees too much on my face and drift deeper into the suite.
The floor is so clean and glossy I’m afraid to step too hard.
The couch looks softer than my bed. There’s a bowl of fruit on the table, a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket, and a plate of tiny desserts that look too pretty to eat.
“Did you order all this?” I ask, looking back at him.
“No. Hotels do that when you pay them enough,” he replies.
“Hotels have been holding out on me,” I chuckle dryly.
“You’ve been staying in the wrong places,” he returns.
“I’ve never stayed anywhere,” I admit, touching the back of one of the chairs.
“Not really. We went to a motel once when Shana’s parents took us to the beach in high school, but Madison and I had to share the pullout couch.
Shana got the bed. It was big enough for all three of us, but Shana’s parents were afraid we’d keep her up all night.
They didn’t want her too tired to enjoy the vacation. ”
Victor’s expression darkens.
I wave my hand quickly. “It wasn’t a big deal. We were teenagers. I was just happy to go somewhere.”
“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.
“I know,” I say quietly.
And I do. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m starting to see the point of things I used to shove into the little mental drawer labeled don’t complain, at least they let you (fill in the blank). Right next to the drawer labeled don’t complain, at least you’re not homeless.
Victor’s hand moves to my back again. “Show me the rest.”
“You haven’t seen it?” I ask.
“No. I booked it. I didn’t inspect it,” he answers.
“Very reckless of you,” I say.
“I was distracted by my mate wearing clothes with holes in them,” he rumbles.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again as I walk toward the bedroom. Then I stop dead in the doorway.
There’s a huge bed with crisp white sheets, a mountain of pillows, and a headboard that reaches halfway up the wall.
More windows. More views of Covington. Soft lamps.
A sitting area. A television hidden inside some kind of cabinet that probably costs more than the car I was saving up for before my uncle decided that money needed to go toward the rent.
And the bathroom. I see it through an open doorway and forget the bed exists.
“Oh my goddess,” I breathe out, in absolute awe.
The bathroom is marble and glass and shiny chrome. There are two sinks, a vanity, a huge walk-in shower with more showerheads than any human being should need, and a deep soaking tub positioned near the windows. I walk straight to the tub like I’m being summoned by a porcelain deity.
“There’s a bathtub,” I say, leaning over, realizing it might even be big enough to fit both of us.
I don’t hate that my mind went there.
“Yes,” Victor growls from the doorway. “Most bathrooms have bathtubs.”
“No, you don’t understand,” I say, running my fingers along the edge.
“I haven’t had an actual bath in years. Just showers.
Cold showers half the time, if Frank used all the hot water upstairs.
I used to love baths when my grandmother was alive.
” I realize I’m rambling before I can stop myself.
I close my eyes and shake my head. “Sorry. That probably sounded pathetic.”
“No,” he scowls, shaking his head.
He closes the distance between us, his body heat wrapping around me before he even touches me. His hands settle on my hips, and his mouth lowers to my ear.
“Take a bath,” he purrs. “Use every bottle, oil, salt, and rich-people stuff they put beside that tub. Soak until you forget what cold showers feel like.”
I swallow hard, my eyes stinging for some ridiculous reason. “You’re not going to make that sound dirty?”
“I can,” he says. “But I’m trying to behave for at least five minutes.”
“That sounds difficult for you,” I tease.
“It’s agony,” he grins and my heart lights up.
I laugh softly and lean back against his chest. His arms close around me, and for a moment, I just let myself stand there. Let myself be held. No diner. No basement. No Frank yelling my name like I’m a badly trained dog. No damp walls. No cheap candles trying and failing to hide the smell of mold.
Just warmth and safety.
And Victor.