Chapter 23 Rafael
Rafael
Cool cotton carrying the scent of something light and floral cradles my head as I crack my eyes open. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while. Rolling my shoulders with a groan, I smile.
Aurora Thorne.
Bloody hell, that girl can moan. I think my ears are still ringing from her eager cries of my name.
My name.
I smirk. It’s a shame her neighbour, Mike, will be enjoying his new soundproofing. The guy could have done with getting a taste of his own medicine. But then that would have meant another guy hearing the way she sounds when she unravels . . . when she really comes.
My jaw tightens. No bloody way. Those sounds are where they belong – with me, not with any other bastard.
Sitting up, I rake a hand through my hair. Aurora’s no longer beside me, and one quick glance around, and I can tell she isn’t in the tiny living and kitchen area either. Climbing out of bed, I look at the closed bathroom door.
‘Aurora?’ I call.
No answer.
I take in the state of the place as I wander across the small room.
It’s neat and tidy, with little in the way of personal possessions apart from a few framed photographs of her and her father.
Makes sense. If she’s trying to maintain the appearance that this really is how she lives, then no wonder there’s barely anything of any real consequence here.
Still, I’m impressed she’s managed to uphold the facade for so long.
I wonder where she stores everything that her and her father hid from the authorities.
A rental lock-up, perhaps? Because all of those fancy designer outfits she wears in her vlogs are noticeably absent.
Her meagre wardrobe is hanging on a flimsy rail that looks like a blind monkey assembled it.
A dazzle catches the morning light that’s trying in vain to push through the old, broken blinds at the window. Walking over, I pull the chain, opening them.
‘Hm.’ I grunt, spotting the source.
Gold sequins glitter on the rail between two dark pencil skirts – ones I bought for her, if I’m not mistaken. I slide them apart so I can admire the garment between them. The gold is bright, obvious – like it wants to blind me for having the audacity to look at it.
I caress the neckline of the top with the pads of two fingers. I’ve seen Aurora wear this multiple times. Both in photos Dove has taken, and in person. I feign disinterest every time, but really, I know every damn sequin on this top like I sewed it on myself.
She looks beautiful in it.
And now I know she’s even more beautiful beneath.
‘Aurora?’ I call again.
I told her last night was a one-off. That I needed to have her.
Just. Once. But of course, that turned into twice.
And if she didn’t have this disarming effect of making me so relaxed that I sleep like a log in her bed that smells of her, then it would have been more than twice. I’d have made damn sure of it.
It’s perfect. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.
I’ve always kept women at arm’s length. I can’t risk one caring about me enough to spill tears over me.
My mother’s cries that day are dug so deeply into my soul that I swore I’d never be in a position to hear a sound like that again.
But sex with Aurora? A woman who’s always held disdain for me?
It’s win-win. There’s no chance of hurting her if my heart ever . . .
I rub at the centre of my chest as it twinges, the dull pain serving as a reminder for me not to get carried away. Not to expect or covet having the things most men my age already have and take for granted.
Aurora’s antipathy towards me is the biggest damn aphrodisiac I could hope for.
A distant birdsong creeps in through the window.
It’s early. Early enough to argue that the day hasn’t started yet, not really, and that this is just a mere extension of the night.
My dick twitches between my thighs as I dip my head and inhale the faint ghost of her perfume lingering on the small gold discs.
‘You in there?’ I purr as I make my way to the bathroom door and rap my knuckles against it.
I push open the door when there’s no answer.
The shoebox-sized bathroom is empty.
No naked Aurora waiting for me to drag her back into bed with me.
No Beauty that’s taken up permanent residence in my head, to help me out with the aching situation I have going on between my thighs.
No bloody sign of her.
I walk to the sink. A small note has been taped to the mirror above.
Thanks for the dance last night, because that’s all that happened.
A
;)
‘All that happened?’ I snort.
Of course she’d like to take my words last night as gospel, toss them back at me. A deluded part of me thought one night with her would be enough. The part that controlled my mouth last night. But now I understand, one taste of her will never be enough. Not even close.
One night can’t rid me of this maddening obsession with her.
And now I understand she’s safe to get close to, I can indulge this overwhelming need to be near her.
To fuck her until she admits what she knows.
Until I finally get the truth. And whilst I take delight in George Thorne’s infuriatingly beautiful daughter’s body, I can quell some of this anger inside me whenever I think about how much her father cost me.
I need Aurora. I want her. Not just for what she might know, but for everything else.
Her way of getting under my skin with her snarky little comments.
The way she acts like she wants to fight me but then submits like a goddamn angel.
The way she looks when she’s arguing with me and it makes me burn inside with hunger, rather than hate.
The softness of her voice when she’s confiding in me, even though she admits she doesn’t know why she’s telling me things.
And most of all, the way her perfect aquamarine eyes light up when she sees me – even though she’ll swear they don’t. But I see it. They light up like she’s looking at a man worthy of her attention. Of her admiration.
Aurora Thorne looks at me like she sees a man she could be proud to know – if she didn’t claim to hate me, that is. And fuck, the idea of her being proud . . . The ramifications are too huge to digest right now.
I turn my focus to the note and squint at it.
The little smiley face beams at me with smugness, its eyes staring right at me like it knows something.
Beneath it, pushed up against the skirting board, is a small rubbish bin without a lid.
There, sitting alone inside it, like a glaring beacon, is a wad of tissue, thick with my cum.
I knew I’d never last with her if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands last night when I stepped through the door. Her scent was everywhere in here. I was a condemned man the moment I crossed the threshold.
Where the hell are you, Beauty?
I walk back into the main room, gather up my crumpled clothes from last night and pull them on. As I shake out my jacket, a stack of mail falls off the small table beside me.
Bending, I gather up the documents.
Final notice.
Missed payment.
Last warning.
The pile of demands goes on and on. Phone bill, heating bill, credit card bill, a bank statement showing she has exactly thirty-seven pounds and fifty-one pence in her account. She even has a goddamn unpaid parking ticket for overstaying in a supermarket car park.
What the hell is this? The numbers – or lack of them – swim in front of my eyes. I check the company headers on each paper. These are real. They aren’t a part of some elaborate plan to make out she’s poor, when in reality she’s sitting on hidden piles of stolen money.
I glance around the bedsit, seeing it through new eyes.
This really is all she has left.
She’s goddamn skint.
The back of my neck grows clammy, sickness washing over me. I step backwards clumsily and drop on to my arse on the end of the bed, the papers crumpling inside my white-knuckled grip.
I’ve spent months assuming Aurora knew what her father did with the money.
That she was his accomplice, or at the very least a silent enabler.
I’ve never allowed myself to consider that she wasn’t involved in some way.
But what if she wasn’t? What if she knew and tried to talk reason into George Thorne?
Scared she could lose her one surviving parent?
The way she talks about him, it’s obvious they’re close.
But if that were true, then how can she be in this situation?
How can a man with all the money he’s stolen stand by and allow his only daughter to live like this?
She’s barely making ends meet. Is it all to maintain the appearance of his innocence?
Would he really do that? Leave his daughter to fend for herself for all those years he’s inside, so that when he does get out, the money is safe, ready for them to disappear together, no questions asked?
If that’s true, then my hatred for the man has just increased ten-fold.
George Thorne will be living in conditions better than his daughter. No one’s threatening to cut his heating off. No one’s shoving payment demands through his door every day. His ‘debt’ ended once they slammed that cell shut.
I shuffle through the papers until I get to her bank statement again. Multiple entries for payments made to the same business come up over and over.
‘Bloody hell,’ I hiss, recognising the name of the specialist law firm. The one I vaguely recall Dove asking me about once in passing, specifically wanting to know if they were good at taking on criminal appeal cases.
Aurora’s not hiding a bloody thing. Except the fact she’s living on the goddamn breadline. She’s spending every penny she has fighting for her father.
Can I really have been this wrong for so long?
I hang my head and rub at my temples with my free hand.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter.
I stand and place the papers back where I found them.
There’s only one man who can clear this up for me.