Chapter 14
And this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell him. Because somewhere deep down, I knew he’d use the pregnancy as an excuse to entrap me.
Which is exactly what’s happening now.
He pulls me out of his bedroom, into the hallway, and down the back stairs. In the kitchen, there are a couple of people sitting in the breakfast nook, eating cereal. I recognize them as members of the Burning Crown, but I don’t know their names.
“He’s kidnapping me,” I yelp as we breeze by.
But the fucking assholes just watch as Roman drags me across the kitchen and out the back door. What the fuck is wrong with people? Seriously.
Roman’s car is sitting in the driveway, and he opens the passenger-side door, shoving me inside. When he slams the door shut and walks around to the driver’s side, I contemplate escaping, but he slides into the driver’s seat before I can even reach up and grab the door handle.
The engine roars to life, and we head straight to the main highway.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
His arm is slung over the steering wheel, and he twists his head to look at me. “Somewhere safe.”
I laugh under my breath. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the last couple of years it’s that safety is just an illusion. It’s a fantasy we comfort ourselves with, but really, it doesn”t exist.
We’re on the road for about fifteen minutes before we pull into a familiar parking lot. Exeter House’s twin towers loom ahead, framed by palm trees, the Pacific Ocean stretched out in the background.
Roman pulls under the canopied entrance and pops out of the car, dropping his keys into a valet’s hand. Someone opens my car door and helps me out. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, Roman is by my side, taking my hand.
Inside the lobby, Roman walks up to the reception desk and addresses the woman behind the counter. “I need a suite. You can charge it to the Rush tab.”
The receptionist’s questioning gaze slides to me briefly before settling on the computer screen in front of her. Why do I feel like that look was filled with judgment? She types something, then looks up at Roman, eyelashes fluttering. “Of course, Mr. Rush. We have something available on the third floor. Would that be acceptable?”
“Sure,” Roman says quickly, glancing around. It’s almost like he expects James to jump right out of the potted palms or something.
She hands him the key card with a flirtatious smile, and he takes it, pulling me toward the elevators. I’m not even trying to escape him at this point, because his obvious paranoia is starting to freak me out. And if James really is out there wandering around, it probably is smart to hole up somewhere off campus.
As much as I hate to admit it, Roman might have been right about that one, single, solitary thing.
When we get to the suite, relief swamps me. It’s huge with a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two full bedrooms.
Awesome. I can just pick a bedroom, and shut myself inside for as long as we have to be here. With any luck, I won’t have to interact with Roman at all.
Roman shuts the door, and bolts it, then turns back to face me with a sigh. “I’ll ask the guys to bring our stuff later. You hungry? I can have groceries delivered.”
I wander into the living room area. There are a pair of French doors that open out onto a balcony with an ocean view. The water is so close, we’re practically on top of it. I unlock one of the doors and open it to let in the fresh ocean breeze, then I turn to glance at Roman. “You are going to cook?”
I’ve never seen Roman cook. I can’t even picture it in my mind. Anything we’ve eaten over the last few weeks has been ordered from a restaurant and delivered.
He shrugs. “It can’t be that hard.”
It’d be easier to order room service, but watching Roman try to cook might be entertaining. We can always order food later if his culinary experiment ends up being inedible.
I shrug casually. “I could eat.”
I’m starving, actually, and I’m starting to feel nauseous, but for some reason, I feel like I need to underplay that fact. I guess I’m just uneasy about telling him anything he could use to his advantage.
Roman makes a quick call down to reception, and it only takes about twenty minutes for someone to deliver the groceries to our room. There’s no way they had time to run to the grocery store, so they must have pulled it all from Isca, the restaurant downstairs. The bellhop puts everything away, and even washes the fruit and vegetables, then sets them out to dry on the counter. When he’s done, he ducks out of the suite silently.
As soon as the bellhop leaves, I follow Roman into the open-concept kitchen. The countertops are a gorgeous white marble and all the chrome appliances gleam. Inside the fridge, there’s everything from milk to butter, eggs, cheese, fruit, vegetables, and bread. Pretty much anything we might need to make a basic meal.
Roman purses those tempting lips, looking everything over, then glances at me. “I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.”
My stomach grumbles. “Okay.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the counter and watch Roman get to work. He scrambles around the kitchen, opening drawers, and looking for all the things he’ll need. It’s pretty amusing, actually.
As he’s grilling the first sandwich, he’s so stressed out that sweat starts beading on his temples. “Damn, it’s hot in here,” he says, pulling his t-shirt off, and tossing it aside, exposing his tanned, muscular back to me. And fuck me, but seeing him stress out over my grilled cheese sandwich is so damn endearing.
Ugh, what’s wrong with me? He’s the worst possible guy for me, so why do I find my gaze wandering over his back, watching the way his muscles flex as he flips my sandwich?
And God help me, but his ass looks so good in those jeans. I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to sink my teeth into one of those perfect globes. Mmm.
When the first grilled cheese sandwich is done, he cuts it in half and brings it over to me. I reach out for it, but he holds it just out of my reach like he wants to feed it to me.
Normally, I’d probably refuse, but I’m really hungry, so I lift a brow and allow him to hold it to my lips. When I take a bite, he watches me intently. It’s surprisingly good. He put garlic on the bread.
He’s standing close to me, one hand holding the sandwich, the other resting on the counter beside me. He feeds me another bite, and this time, he uses his free hand to tilt my chin up gently. It’s not an overtly sexual thing, but the way he watches me, the way his thumb brushes across my skin, it’s turning me the fuck on.
This is the absolute worst thing about having chemistry with someone, especially the kind of volatile chemistry Roman and I have. No matter how badly that other person shatters you, you’ll always want more. You’ll always hunger for that ecstasy that only they can give you. And you’ll pay the price willingly, whatever it is, even if it costs you your soul.
That’s addiction, I guess.
And Roman Rush is definitely my addiction.
But even as I look up into his icy blue eyes, hating him to my very core, remembering all the fucked up things he’s done, my channel floods with heat, and my clit starts to throb.
It would be so easy to let him fuck me right now. To take what I want from him, then discard him just like he planned to discard me.
If only I could set my emotions aside.
He holds the sandwich back up, and I take another bite, chewing slowly. His gaze drops to my mouth, and his hips push forward, so I’m up against the counter, and he’s pressed against me. Through his jeans, I can feel the hard ridge of his cock, and it turns me on like the flick of a switch.
Putting the sandwich down, he braces his hand on the counter beside me, so I’m cadged in, surrounded by his beautiful golden body. He’s looking at me like he’s starving, hungry for a taste of me, and I have to admit the feeling is mutual.
God, I hate him so much. I hate that he can do this to me.
He dips his head, and brushes his lips over my cheek, not kissing me, but I can tell he wants to. “I need to fuck you,” he says, his voice low and rough.
I suck in a stuttering breath. This isn’t a good idea. I know that logically. He’s just going to hurt me again because, ultimately, that’s what Roman does. He inflicts pain; physical, emotional, psychological. Doesn’t matter.
But ask me if I care about any of that right now. Yeah, no. Right now, all I can think about is Roman pounding my clit, giving me a dose of that all-consuming pleasure that only he can deliver.
“Whatever happens between us, is going to be on my terms,” I say, looking up at him. My breasts feel heavy, the sensitive peaks rubbing against my lacy bra.
He shakes his head, his mouth is hovering over mine. “Anything you say.”
“No, Roman.” I reach up and grab his face, my fingers gripping his jaw, holding him away from me. “I’m in control now. I say what happens between us.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—anger, maybe—and it flashes quickly before he catches it. The last time I took control, I left him wanting, and maybe he’s afraid that will happen again. But too bad, so sad. It’s a risk he’ll have to take.
He doesn’t answer immediately, but he must know it’s the only way anything is happening between us, so eventually, he nods.
“Say it.”
“You’re in the driver’s seat,” he responds, hesitation dripping from every syllable.
I push his face, which causes him to stumble back a little. He leans back on his heels, watching me. Waiting.
Now, let’s see how well this boy can listen.