Chapter 11
I always wanted to see his room.
And even though I got a peek of it through the phone screen that one night, it still wasn’t as satisfying as actually being in his room in person. So it makes me happy. Although how I got in here isn’t something that’s going to make him happy all that much. I stole the master keycard from the housekeeping cart. But only for a minute and I didn’t even have to flirt with anyone in order to do so.
So maybe he should take that as a win and move on.
When I tell him, I mean.
I haven’t yet; because he’s not here.
I don’t know where he is, which is why I’ve had to take such drastic measures as stealing and sneaking into his room to wait for him to get back from wherever he went off to. Which happened as soon as we reached our next destination.
After his long talk with Conrad in one of those back rooms, he came out looking grim. So severely grim and rigid that I almost sprang out of my seat and went after him. I almost forgot that my fiancé was sitting right next to me. And today was the day he decided to spend his entire time sitting beside me. Maybe because today was also the day that he decided to sit up front and away from his usual spot.
And as the time passed, his grimness didn’t go away.
He hardly looked at anyone. In fact, I’m sure in the entire four hours of our journey, his eyes were firmly planted on his clipboard and his laptop screen.
In any case, I didn’t get a chance to talk to him at all. Not even through texts because I couldn’t text him on the bus, but then when we did reach it and I could, he wouldn’t reply back.
And since all else has failed, this is what I’ve chosen to do.
I stand in the middle of his room, but it doesn’t look like his room yet. As in, all his stuff is packed and sitting in a corner and every other object, furniture, the little armchairs and the desk, in the room is untouched. While I know that much of his room is probably going to stay that way, I know at some point he’s going to have to make use of the empty closet and of course bring out his books.
That he isn’t going to be able to read.
Because of me.
Because of how much I disturb his peace.
Which at one point made me happy when I resigned myself to the fact that what people thought about him was right: he is cold. But now it makes me sad when I know I was right all along: he’s as hot as wildfire.
I mean look at the way he reacted to my little accident. That, if not for his such an intense reaction, I wouldn’t even remember right now.
Which gives me an idea.
It’s terrible. I am terrible for thinking it, but I can beat myself up about it later. Right now, I need to do things. I need to know what his secret is because I’m starting to think that there is one. There is a freaking secret, which is why he thinks he’s so bad: a bad brother, a bad man.
I flit about his room, dragging his luggage from where it’s sitting in that corner by the door and opening it to look through his things. One by one, I dig through his clothes and since I’m already unpacking, I also hang his clothes in the closet. See? I can be nice. I also arrange his shoes and put his T-shirts and things away in the chest. At one point, I take my own clothes off and put on one of his coats just because being here has made me miss him more and he’s always putting me in his coats, isn’t he? I guess I’ll just save him a step and wear it myself.
His books are packed in a different suitcase—have to be for how many there are—and I bring them out as well and arrange them on the bed, like I saw them that one night, before picking out what looks the most interesting to me so I can give it to him to read and promise that I won’t distract him.
When I’ve unpacked every single thing he owns, everything very normal and run of the mill, I once again stand in the middle of his room, both relieved and disappointed. I don’t know what I was hoping to find, but I didn’t find it and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Sighing, I crawl into his bed, among the scattered books, and lie down. I decide to watch some TV to stay awake until he gets here.
And the next thing I know, I hear the shower running in the bathroom and I’m jerking upright in the bed. In the process of that, I realize that my legs get tangled up in something: a blanket.
I’m covered in a blanket.
I wasn’t covered in a blanket when I got into bed.
My eyes snap over to the bathroom. The door to it is ajar and steam wafts through it and…
He’s here, isn’t he?
He’s back.
Just as the thought occurs to me, the shower shuts off and a few seconds later, the man of my dreams is standing at the threshold, rendering me speechless.
Rendering me frozen and breathless.
Because all I can do is stare at him. At his gorgeous, magnificent, breathtaking body that’s draped in only a simple white towel. That I think makes his tanned skin, in contrast, look even darker and more delicious, shinier. Or it could be the fact that his muscles—holy God, his muscles—are still damp from the shower.
They’re actually wet if we go by the droplets, several of them, sluicing down the hills of his chest and the rugged terrain of his abs. I think it’s his hair; it’s wet, falling over his forehead and he hasn’t really toweled the water off. So the droplets are cascading down the side of his neck, tracing his veins, and his shoulders, bumping onto his sculpted collarbone, and oh my God, he has to be the sexiest man alive.
He has to be.
Even that light dusting of his chest hair is sexy.
“I love your chest hair,” I blurt out and then immediately both blush and cringe.
I don’t think that was very cool of me, just blurting things out like that without context. On the other hand, though, he does know my obsessive tendencies, so what the hell.
In any case, I can’t really tell what he’s thinking because his features are all blank, his eyes cool. “You should put some clothes on.”
I fist the blanket. “What?”
He walks farther into the room and goes straight to the chest. While getting his drawstring pants out, he says, “And I’ll bring you back to your room.”
I dig my heels on his bed as if planting them even more firmly. “I’m not going back to my room. Where…”
I had more to say, I swear. But then he drops his towel on the floor, and I forget all the words in the world. Because I get to see his ass for the first time and… I guess what they say about being able to bounce a quarter off an ass is actually a real thing.
It’s reality.
I could bounce a quarter off of Stellan Thorne’s ass because Stellan Thorne’s ass is a work of art. It’s tight as a drum and round. And he actually has these dips on the sides that means that just like his chest and abs and arms and thighs, every inch of his butt is made of tight, sculpted muscles.
And I want to bite it.
I do.
How come I didn’t get to bite his ass last night? How come he’s keeping himself away from me like this?
Once he’s put his pants on, he turns and commands, “Let’s go.”
I keep my fingers fisted around the blanket and my heels digging into the mattress. “Where were you?”
His chest moves with a large breath as he repeats, much closer this time, “Let’s go.”
I jump out of bed then, my heart racing. “I texted you. But you never got back to me.”
Another breath, but this time it’s accompanied by his gaze flicking up and down my body. Very quickly and almost impassively. “I was busy.”
I take a step toward him. “With what?”
He doesn’t like my question as evidenced by his sharp exhale. “Can you just put some clothes on so we can go? I’d like to get some sleep tonight.”
“No,” I state.
This he definitely does not like because his sharp exhales are followed by a muscle on his cheek jumping. “No?”
“No, I won’t put any clothes on.”
“You—”
“Because I already have clothes on.” I wave my hand down my body. “Your coat.”
“That’s—”
“So if you’re so eager to make me leave, you’re going to have to drag me out of here, kicking and screaming, wearing just your coat and nothing else underneath,” I declare.
He looks down at me and I realize I started this conversation when I was by the side of the bed, but I’m finishing it only a few feet away from him. Meaning, I’ve been walking toward him all this time and somehow I have no recollection of it.
Somehow my body already knew what to do, my legs already knew what direction to walk in.
His.
And now that I’m here, it’s harder to maintain this minuscule of a distance.
It feels cruel that I don’t get to touch him when I’m so close to him.
“And what about him?” he asks, his voice growly.
“What about who?”
“Your fucking fiancé.”
Oh, right.
I have a fiancé.
Still.
I didn’t get to talk to Shepard either today. Even though we spent all four hours sitting side by side—me pretending to be busy with reading for my drama class and him playing games on his phone—I never brought up the subject of our engagement. I mean, I wasn’t going to bring it up with the entire soccer team present, including the coaches. Including him.
And when we reached the hotel, he disappeared as well. I take full responsibility for the fact that I was busier trying to track down the love of my life than my fiancé, though.
Guilt sits heavy in my stomach, but for now, I’m going to ignore it and focus on this asshole in front of me. Who’s not really an asshole but likes to act like one sometimes.
“How do you think he’s going to feel if I drag you out of here, kicking and screaming, wearing only my coat?”
“My fiancé is your twin brother. So maybe, just maybe,” I say, looking up at him, “you could answer my questions instead of fighting with me. And we could avoid this whole hallway drama and be respectful to him.”
He advances on me then, his eyes narrowed, flashing with threatening things. “You think I want to be respectful to him?”
Swallowing, I start stepping back. “He’s your brother.”
“Yeah,” he rumbles, his face dipped as he keeps gaining on me. “And he put his fucking ring on your finger.”
My heart’s racing. “The ring that you won’t give back.”
“Because why should he get everything, huh? Why the fuck,” he bites out, leaning down farther, “should he get every fucking thing in this world?”
“But—”
“He gets to fucking marry you, doesn’t he?” he cuts me off. “He gets to make all your childish dreams of love come true. He can live without you wearing his fucking ring on your finger for a few fucking weeks.”
“Love is not childish,” I say, my heart twisting.
“It’s a fucking nuisance, though.” He leans closer. “A nuisance I don’t fucking need right now. Like you.”
A second later, my back collides with the wall and I say, my breaths harsh, “You know you sound completely irrational right now, don’t you?”
His jaw tics for a few seconds. “Yes.”
“So—”
“But you’re still not getting the ring back.”
I look up, my fingers pulling and twisting the hem of his coat. “What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Tell him you lost it.”
“He’s doing this for me, okay? He put this ring on my finger because he’s helping me and?—”
“He’ll live.”
“You’re being completely?—”
“Irrational, I know.”
“You…” I shake my head. “I don’t even know how we got here. I didn’t come here for the ring.”
Although it occurs to me that I should have.
That I may have to think of something to get it back from Stellan. So I can give it back to Shepard when I break things off.
“So then why in the fuck did you come here?” he growls.
“Because I wanted to talk to you, okay? I was worried about you. We didn’t get to talk all day. You wouldn’t return my texts. You wouldn’t even look at me on the bus. You…” I shake my head, searching his face for some clue as to what even happened this morning. “You looked so… horrified this morning. So angry, so agitated, so worried, so… I don’t even have a word for it. What… You were about to beat him up, weren’t you? Shepard.”
His chest flares with another breath. For a second, it looks like he won’t answer. But then, roughly, “He didn’t save you.”
“From bumping my head against the door?”
Things ripple through his features. Some reminiscent of this morning, some new that I don’t recognize at all. “Yes. Among other things.”
I let go of his coat and put my hands on his chest, damp and hot, so strong as I say, “Listen, what happened at the bus was an accident.” I press my hands on his chest like I did this morning, to soothe him, to get him to hear me. “It was an accident, Stellan. There was no way anyone could’ve saved me from it, okay, let alone him. Plus, nothing even happened. Look.” I point to the spot where I hit my head. “Nothing. Not one little scratch. As I told you this morning, I’m fine. It was embarrassing, but that was the worst of it.”
“I would have,” he rasps.
“You would have what?”
“Saved you from the accident.”
My heart races. “You… That’s impossible. That’s?—”
His eyes swivel over to the spot I pointed out. Then, reaching up, he presses his thumb on it like Shepard had, but his fingers are extremely gentle, careful. As if handling a piece of fine china or the velvet petal of a rose.
“Or died trying,” he finishes both his thought and his perusal, taking his hand away.
I dig my fingers on his chest then. “Please don’t hate him because of me. Please, Stellan.”
“I don’t hate him,” he says.
“So why does he hate you?”
In response, his jaw tenses.
Still, I press, “Why can’t you be there for him? You said that last night.” Last night that feels like forever ago right now. “What does that mean? What does that?—”
He steps back. “You need to leave.”
I shake my head, keeping at it. “What did Coach Thorne say to you? Back on the bus. Why did you look like that when you came out of the room? So… So grim. So rigid and?—”
“You need to fucking leave,” he growls angrily.
“No.” I put my foot down. “I’m not leaving. I’m not?—”
“Look,” he says loudly, with a biting tone, and then proceeds to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This is not a good time, all right? This is a bad fucking time. Wrong fucking time. When I say you need to leave, you need to listen to me. You need to fucking listen to what I say. I can’t… I can’t be trusted right now. I’m not fucking safe. I’m not… Now”—a deep, deep breath expands his chest and hollows out his stomach, twitching his muscles—“I’ve had a very long day that I’d like to put an end to. So why don’t you grab your clothes from over there”—he motions with his jaw—“put them the fuck on and let me walk you to your room.”
I look in the direction he said my clothes are. I see the light pink dress I wore here, on one of the armchairs, along with my white panties and bra that I’d also taken off when I donned his coat. I look at my clothes, on top of each other, and what strikes me the most is that they’re so neatly folded. All their edges are clean and smoothed like he had all the time in the world to do that after a very long day that he wanted to put an end to.
Like how he had all the time in the world last night when he sewed my dress together. After he dropped me off at my room at four in the morning.
Taking a deep breath of my own, I smooth my hands down his coat and reply primly, “No.”
He breathes out so forcefully, so impatiently at that, it’s a wonder that I don’t blow away from the strength of it. “Jesus, fuck. You?—”
And then I shut him up.
Because I’ve had it with him. I’m not going anywhere. He can’t make me. By arguing about it, he’s just wasting my time now. So I lower myself down on my knees, the coarse carpet scraping against my skin, and look up at his shocked face.
“You say that word a lot,” I tell him, looking into his dark eyes. “Bad.”
His chest shakes. “You?—”
“But I’m not going to argue with you,” I continue. “Because you just said you’ve had a long day.”
“Dora, I?—”
“So I’ve decided that I’m going to make you feel better.”
“What?”
I nod, folding my hands in my lap, looking like the picture of patience. “I think I’ll give you a little blow job first and then you can fuck me.”
He opens his mouth to say something and I’m ready for it. Whatever it is. Whatever obstacle he’s going to throw in my path.
But all that comes out is a puff of air at first.
Followed by a disbelieving, “You think you’ll give me a little blow job and then I can fuck you.”
“Yes,” I confirm, nodding. “I figure that should make you feel better.”
“You figure that should make me feel better.”
“You know, repeating everything I say is not going to change my mind. I’m sucking your dick one way or another.”
He clenches his jaw as he stares down at me and into my defiant eyes.
He clenches his jaw again when I lift my chin to show him how determined I am. And I would’ve kept doing that, kept being all determined and stuff, but he decides to bend down in a flash and fist my hair, tugging my head back.
Then, his harsh face fills my vision as he growls, “Does the fact that the dick you’re dying to suck is a ten-incher change your mind?”
I grip his waist. “No.”
His fist flexes in my hair. “You’ve seen me, haven’t you? You know I’m not kidding. You know how much I made you bleed. What do you think is going to happen when I stick it in your mouth?”
“I don’t care.”
His nostrils flare. “If I stick it in your mouth, I’m going in your throat. And if I’m going in your throat, I’m fucking the fuck out of it.”
I raise myself up on my knees. “You can.”
“I can, huh. I can throat fuck you. Like I fucked your little pussy last night. Like I want to fuck your tiny little asshole one day. And if you thought your sweetheart pussy hurt with my daddy cock, then I’m going to fucking wreck your sweetheart asshole. You’re going to cry like you’ve never cried before and you’re going to whine so loud that they’ll call the cops on me. How about that? Does that change your mind about making me feel better?”
I raise myself up even higher, my pussy waking up just by the mention of it in his growly voice. “No, because I’ll tell the cops that you’re my daddy and I wanted you to fuck my asshole. That I begged you to fuck my asshole. I wore short skirts. I went without panties. I fucking bent down every chance I got. All because I wanted you to stick your dick in my ass. I’ll tell them that I wanted you to fuck my pussy too and I wanted your cock in my mouth. I’ll tell everyone that. Which I don’t think you want me to do. Because you want everyone to blame you, don’t you? You want everyone to think you’re making me do things, that you’re forcing me, which is not true at all. So I don’t care. I don’t care what you do. You can do whatever you want to me as long as it makes you feel better. Because the thing is, Stellan, you always know how to make me feel better. How to be there for me even when it looks like you’re not. So let me do the same. Please, let me do the same.”
It's true, though, isn’t it?
He always knows. At the bar last night when he came to my rescue; then again when he took my virginity and I was so hell-bent on him being rough, but he was so careful. The night we met when he warned me against getting in that strange man’s car.
He always does that.
He always knows what I need and that I need to slow down when I want to speed up.
He knows.
So it’s only fair that I get to know him too.
“Please, Stellan. You can’t love me, can you? You can’t even share parts of yourself with me for some reason. So give me this. Let me do this for you. Share this with me. Or I’ll stay here until my knees are bleeding and I collapse.”
He won’t say yes, will he?
He’ll never say yes.
He’ll never give me any part of himself.
That’s why he’s letting go of my hair, isn’t he? That’s why he’s stepping back from me. Even though he keeps our gazes locked and connected, he’s moving back, his features impassive.
And then he hammers the last nail in the coffin when he breaks that connection too, when he turns back and away from me, walking to the chest of drawers as if I wasn’t in the room.
I wasn’t kneeling at his feet.
Ready to skin my knees and bleed for him.
He opens the drawer and gets something out. It takes me a moment to figure out what it is: a black leather belt. I think I’ve seen him wear it or one like it on several occasions. He lets it unravel first, the loose circle of it, before slowly, very slowly and deliberately looping it around his fist.
I don’t know why he’s doing that.
I don’t know what it means.
But my heart is pounding something fierce.
When the belt is all snaked around his fist and forearm, with only the tail end hanging, he walks to his left and sits in one of those armchairs, his thighs sprawled, his abs bunched up and looking even stronger that way. He goes for the cigarette pack that sits on the side table, something I hadn’t seen until now. The Zippo lighter is right next to it, and after getting a stick out, he lights it with quick movements.
Once lit, he takes a long drag and releases a thick cloud of smoke.
Taking the cigarette out of his mouth and keeping it pinched between the fingers of his belted fist, he says, “Lose the coat.”
It’s softly spoken, but it’s a command. I can hear it.
Eager and shaken and excited and nervous, I do as he says.
Then, finally, finally looking at me and taking another drag, he says, “Crawl to me.”