8. Anders #5
Growling, I start the engine and peel out of the parking lot, reluctantly turning my car in the direction of the freeway and not the mountain.
Tension fills the small space the farther away from Rockhead Point we get, and by the time we hit Bozeman and Henry starts to direct me toward his apartment, I’m practically vibrating with the need to take complete control and get him the hell out of here.
Leaving the bright lights of the city behind, he directs me toward an industrial suburb filled with warehouses and run-down buildings. The moment he points out his apartment, I feel like my teeth are going to crack from how hard I’m gritting them together.
“Show me your place,” I demand, parking on the street and killing the engine.
“I’m pretty tired,” he says, glancing at me warily.
“Boy, I’m not leaving until you prove that it’s safe for you to stay here.” There is zero room for argument in my tone, and he must realize it, because he nods.
He’s already halfway out of the car by the time I come around to his side, and he avoids taking my hand when I hold it out to him. Locking my car, I feel eyes on us as I follow Henry down the sidewalk.
A group of three men follow our path, watching us from the street corner, their gazes shrewd and assessing.
I’ve lived all over the country in cities and towns, some safe, some not.
But this area has an ever-present air of danger that makes me want to bundle Henry back into my car while I inform him in no uncertain terms that he’ll never be coming back here again.
Tamping down the urge, I follow him into the building, noting the minimal security and total lack of CCTV cameras. He’s silent as he enters a dimly lit stairwell and starts to head down.
It takes every bit of my self-control not to curse as I follow him into the basement.
At the bottom of the stairs, there are two doors, one looks to be a storage room with a single lock and a peeling sticker that says “No Entry.” Henry steps up to the other door, pulls out a bunch of keys, and starts unlocking the row of locks one by one.
After he turns the key in the last lock, he twists the handle and pushes the door open, glancing behind at me with wary eyes. “It’s not much,” he says, his tone full of worry. Stepping inside, he flicks on a switch, and the tiny apartment floods with light.
Honestly, calling it an apartment is probably a stretch.
The majority of the space is filled with a neatly made queen-sized mattress, lifted off the floor by a base made of pallet wood and cinder blocks.
In one corner beneath a bar-covered half window is a tiny shower stall, a toilet, and a sink.
On the wall beside the door is a single kitchen cabinet mounted on the wall with a countertop just big enough to hold an ancient-looking hotplate and a tattered-looking dorm refrigerator resting on the floor beneath.
Instead of carpet or hardwood, the floor is concrete, covered by an ugly blue area rug. There’s no closet, just a pile of clear plastic totes stacked against the wall that seem to hold clothes and things.
Considering the state of the place, it’s clear Henry has tried to make it homely, but honestly, it’s a dump.
But I can see why he feels the illusion of safety here.
The window isn’t big enough to be used to gain entry, and just like he said, he doesn’t really have anything to steal if anyone were to bother breaking in.
My heart hurts, but I force my expression to stay neutral.
“I know how it looks, but it’s affordable, and it’s not like I need any more space,” Henry says quickly, clearly embarrassed.
“It’s nice,” I say, then cringe at how fake my words sound.
“No, it’s not.” He scoffs. “But it’s home, and I actually saw places that were way worse when I first moved here.”
“Come home with me,” I coax, pulling him into my arms.
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
“Please,” I coo, collaring his throat then kissing him and swallowing his quiet moans.
His eyes heat with need and want, but he still shakes his head.
“Boy,” I growl, lacing the single word with a warning. “I can’t fuck you in that tiny bed.”
“Anders,” he whines.
“You want that, don’t you? You want me to stretch your virgin hole out and claim you with my dick, don’t you?”
“Anders.” My name on his lips is a plea, but I don’t know if he wants me to stop or keep going, and that’s enough to have me pulling back to look at him.
“Tell me what you want, Kitten,” I order.
“I…I don’t know,” he admits.
It’s not what I want to hear, but I appreciate his honesty. “I’m staying here with you tonight,” I tell him, kissing him hard before I step back and kick off my shoes.
“What?” he splutters. “You want to stay here…with me?”
“I’d prefer it if you’d come home with me, but you don’t want that. So yeah, I’m staying here.”
“But…” His lips are parted, his gaze clouded as he tries to think of a reason why I can’t stay. But it doesn’t matter what he says, if he’s staying here, so am I.
“What do you normally do once you get home?” I ask, climbing onto his bed and settling against his thin pillows.
“I usually…I have a shower, then dinner, then I go to sleep.”
“Well, we already ate, so why don’t you put those leftovers in the refrigerator, then you can shower and we can sleep.”
“Sleep…together…here?”
“Yes, Kitten, right here.” I pat the bed beside me.
“Do you want to shower?” he stutters, fumbling over his words.
“No, I’m fine, you go ahead,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him expectantly.
“Oh.” He’s flustered again, and I have to swallow back my grin.
Pulling my cell from my pocket, I tap the screen and pretend to be paying it attention as he scurries over to the corner that holds the plastic totes and starts to open them.
I want to turn and watch, but I don’t until I hear the sound of the water running.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and I hear the stall door open then close. Once I’m sure he’s under the water, I turn to watch him, unabashedly staring at his nakedness as he rushes to wash in the tiny cubicle.
I wait for the small space to fill with steam, but it doesn’t, and I furrow my brow as I watch Henry’s frantic movements. I’d assumed he was rushing because I was here, but as the minutes pass, I realize that’s not what’s making him move so quickly.
I’m on my feet before I even process I’ve moved. Henry squeaks with surprise when I pull the stall door open and plunge my hand under the icy cold water.
“What the fuck?” I snarl, reaching in and turning the shower off. “The water is freezing. What the hell are you doing? You’ll make yourself ill.”
“What?” Henry asks, his teeth chattering.
“Get out here and get warm,” I snap, grabbing the towel that’s hung over the edge of the sink and wrapping it around him. It’s not large enough to cover him properly, so I rub at his skin frantically trying to warm him up.
“I still have soap on me,” he protests as I roughly handle him.
“A little soap is better than hypothermia. Why the hell would you shower in cold water?”
“All the hot water is usually gone by the time I get home,” he says, his teeth still chattering, despite being mostly dry.
“Get into bed, you’re freezing,” I order.
“I usually wear pajamas,” he mumbles, his cheeks blushing pink as his eyes dart to a pile of fabric on top of the toilet.
Releasing the towel I’ve been holding around him, I grab the pajamas and unfold them, revealing a pair of Halloween-themed fleece pj’s.
The top is orange with embroidered eyes and a toothy grin clearly intended to make it look like a jack-o’-lantern, and the bottoms are black and orange stripes.
They’re truly hideous, but I don’t say a word as I yank the top over his wet hair, then hold the bottoms out for him to step into.
The fabric drowns him. The pajamas are at least two sizes too big, making his slim frame look positively petite and so fucking young.
Once he’s fully covered, I drag him into my arms and hug him, pinning him to my chest. It takes a moment, but eventually he wraps his arms around my back, and we stand in the middle of his shitty apartment cuddling.
Neither of us speaks, and after a while the silence thickens. I want to beg him to let me take him home, to give himself over to me and let me take care of him. But I was the one who said we had to take things slowly, and me demanding to take control of his life right now would scare him.
Why the fuck did I say we’d take things slow? If I’d claimed him the other night, he’d be in my bed, completely beneath my control right now, not wearing too-big pj’s in a crappy apartment with no hot fucking water.
“Get into bed,” I order, unable to keep the gravelly dominance out of my voice. Releasing him reluctantly, I stalk him to the bed, pull back the too-thin comforter, and crowd him as he climbs beneath the covers.
“How cold are you?” I ask, quickly stripping out of my own clothes except for my boxers and dragging him into my arms, holding him tightly against my chest.
“You’re being dramatic, I’m fine,” he says, his voice muffled against my skin.
“No more cold fucking showers, Boy. I’m serious.”
Instead of agreeing with me, he chuckles softly, the sound barely audible, although I can feel the vibration of his chest against mine.
“Go to sleep, before I stop trying to behave and take you fucking home,” I growl.
“I need to lock the door and turn off the light,” he whispers.
Huffing dramatically, I lift him off me, then stomp to the door and make sure all five of his fucking locks are secured.
Flicking off the light switch, I navigate the three steps back to the bed in complete darkness, then climb back in, reaching for him and positioning him so his cheek is resting on my chest and his entire fleece-cocooned body is encased in my arms.