Chapter 18
Mila
“ Why are we at your dorm?” I ask hesitantly as we stop at his door, my unease growing with each passing second.
Dash doesn ’ t answer me. Instead, he flashes his phone over the keypad, and the door clicks open. He pauses, scanning the dark interior before stepping in.
“ Did you think an ambush was lurking inside?” I voice, trying to mask my anxiety with a hint of sarcasm.
“ Better safe than sorry,” he replies, his tone unreadable as he finally crosses the threshold, leaving me no choice but to follow.
“ I thought you had friends in high places now,” I retort. “ Where are Dante and Cillian?” I question as I close the door behind us. It ’ s clear he hasn ’ t stepped foot inside his dorm, but everything he would need has been stocked. He opens the closet to find his clothes, uses his crutch to push open the ensuite bathroom door, and sees body gels and washes lining the shelf. There ’ s a brand-new laptop and all his school supplies on the desk.
“ Assholes,” he mutters as he takes everything in.
“ Dash,” I exhale. “ I ’ m tired, and I want to go back to my dorm. What do you need me to do?” I ’ m also embarrassed and worried because you keep peeling back the layers that comprise me.
He ignores me and goes into the closet, opening a small luggage. The items inside make me question if he is going to kill me and stuff me in that bag. He grabs a trash bag and a huge roll of duct tape.
“ I want to shower,” he finally states. At this moment, he looks like a young adult and not the monster he usually is.
“ Okay…are you into some strange kink?” I eye the bag and tape.
“ No,” he snorts, a smirk playing on his lips. “ I need you to wrap my cast so it doesn ’ t get wet.”
Oh. That ’ s why Dash needs me and not his friends. “ You don ’ t want them to see your weakness.” I step forward and grab the tape. “ If they were your friends, it shouldn ’ t matter,” I tell him.
“ Maybe it ’ s because they are my friends that it matters too much,” he retorts. Then he reaches for his shirt and peels it off.
Holy abs. He ’ s ripped like most guys here.
There it is again. Those sparks inside of me only flare with Dash. My eyes roam over his chest as I make a mental image I never want to forget.
“ Take my pants off.”
Say what?
“ Mila,” Dash sighs, “ I can ’ t bend down. The nurse helped me put these sad excuses for pants on. I need you to help me undress and then help me get dressed. That ’ s all.”
I lick my lips. I can hear the slight uptick of vulnerability in his voice that he ’ s trying to mask with coldness.
“ As soon as I ’ m finished, you can leave. Come back here at 7:30 a.m. to help me get dressed. Then we will have breakfast.”
“ You ’ re not going to The Cleansing?”
“ No.”
“ Why?”
“ Because I ’ m tired as fuck and want to sleep. I ’ ll live to see the next weekend.” He reaches for the string of his scrubs, and they begin to fall as soon as he unties them.
I don ’ t get a moment to close my eyes or try to compose myself. I start to see the low ‘ V ’ that leads directly to—
“ It ’ s just a cock. I ’ m sure you ’ ve seen plenty. Can we hurry up?” Dash grumbles.
I feel like I ’ m suffering from third-degree burns. I look at the scrubs, which are caught on the cast, halting them from falling further. Since the cast is all the way down his leg, he can ’ t bend. He could try to shimmy the pants off, but I don ’ t think he ’ d be able to get them back on by himself.
Frustrated by my lack of movement, he starts to shove the scrubs off over his cast, and that ’ s when I see it. My first cock. Contrary to what Dash King thinks, I haven ’ t seen one in person before.
It ’ s…well, it ’ s long, semi-hard, and…it ’ s got me feeling curious. Those sparks are now a roaring fire in my belly. I don ’ t remember how—it ’ s like a blur—but I help Dash get his pants off, and then he ’ s standing there naked and posing nonchalantly like the David statue for me to admire in all his glory.
I ’ m dazed and stunned as he orders me to tape the trash bag over his cast. I warn him that the tape is going to hurt when I have to peel it off, and I ’ m met with a scary reply I can ’ t respond to.
I look at his cock. It ’ s hard not to, as I kneel in front of it. I have to place the tape high up his inner thigh, and that ’ s when it happens—the back of my hand accidentally touches his sex.
“ I ’ m sorry!” I exclaim. “ I didn ’ t mean to.”
I look down. Stop looking! It begins to harden, slowly turning into an upright position.
Oh! Oh...
“ Dash!” I scream. “ Stop. Make it stop!” He ’ s getting hard in front of me!
He snickers. “ What did you expect? You side-swiped it and have been ogling it. I can ’ t control its actions, Mila.”
“ Oh my god!”
He laughs again. “ You ’ d think you ’ ve never seen a dick before.”
“ I haven ’ t!”
His laughter dies. “ Why?”
“ Why haven ’ t I seen a,” I can ’ t say it. However, my eyes hone in on Dash King ’ s not-so-little prince, as if they have found their fountain of youth.
“ Why?” Dash presses again.
I shake my head and try to peel my eyes away. It feels just as hard as trying to remove those irritating price stickers on the visible side of a product. I swear a sadist puts them on and is secretly giggling, knowing I ’ m going to chip my nail trying to remove it.
“ I…I don ’ t know.”
“ Lies. You could see a cock at this school easily.” Dash tilts his head, those blue eyes zooming in closer on me. I feel like an artifact under his microscope. Knowing him, he ’ s trying to figure out a way to turn me into a weapon of mass destruction. “ Why haven ’ t you let someone in?”
“ No one has made me feel.” If a statement used to be true, does that make me a liar? It was true until I met you.
“ A lot of people fuck so they don ’ t have to feel.”
My lips tug up. This is why it ’ s so addicting to dance with Dash. It ’ s the push and pull, the highs and lows. “ True.” I lick my lips before I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. My eyes are worse than a paparazzo ’ s lens. I can ’ t help but look back down at his sex.
How would having sex with him make me feel?
Something crosses his face; it looks like remorse. “ I ’ m going to shower, then I just need you to help me change. You ’ re free to go until the morning.”
He leaves for the bathroom and closes the door. I ’ m left standing there, and it isn ’ t until the shower switches off that I realize I haven ’ t moved an inch.
The bathroom door opens with steam billowing out. Fresh from a shower, Dash King looks...like someone I could fall for. Clean and pure.
Too bad it won ’ t last long.
He grabs a pair of boxers, then drops his towel. This time, however, he uses his hand to cup his sex.
He ’ s shielding it from me. Trying to make me more comfortable. Why is he trying to protect me?
I reach for the tape, my fingers gliding over his damp skin. The air thickens. “ I ’ m sorry, this might hurt,” I whisper as I peel the tape off. If it does hurt, he shows no sign. I grab the boxers and touch his foot, guiding him to lift it slightly so I can get his boxers on. There is something intimate about grasping his leg and raising it. Guiding it. He allows me to control this entire moment, and all my stress, worries, and fears diminish.
I stand and swallow. “ I ’ ll see you in the morning.”
He nods. “ Give me your phone fast.”
“ Why?”
He raises a brow, and I watch mesmerized as a droplet of water falls off it and rolls slowly down his sharp cheek. He really is so stunning. “ I want you to have my number.”
Slowly, I get my phone and give it to him. The tips of our fingers touch; I feel his eyes look at my index finger, which I poked with the needle. He pauses at the wallpaper image on my phone. “ I didn ’ t picture you as a Pollock fan. I thought you ’ d have a ballet shoe as your background.”
“ You know Pollock?” I reply in surprise. I never thought Dash would know art.
“ Everyone does, Mila. Being ‘ known ’ doesn ’ t make you special.”
“ What does?” I ask.
What does Dash King find ‘ special ’ ?
“ Being exposed does,” his voice deepens, carrying a weight that demands my attention. “ Stop trying to please others. Find an artist that truly speaks to your soul.” He clears his throat, his eyes locking onto mine with intensity. “ And stop insulting my intelligence,” he adds, crossing his arms over his hard chest, his tone both challenging and commanding.
I snort. “ I just figured you ’ d be more likely to know the names and works of serial killers than artists.”
He watches me, those cold blue eyes both haunting and thrilling me. “ Oh, I know those too. But just because I can name a few killers doesn ’ t mean I can ’ t appreciate art.”
“ Multifaceted, are we?” I tease, unable to hide my amusement. I forget who he is, and it feels like we ’ re just two young kids flirting.
“ Don ’ t act so surprised. Nothing and no one is as they seem, Mila,” he says, smirking.
“ Well, you ’ ll never cease to amaze me,” I admit, feeling a bit more relaxed. “ Maybe next you ’ ll tell me you ’ re a secret chef.”
His smirk deepens. “ Now that would be telling. But I wouldn ’ t hold your breath. My knife skills aren ’ t used on vegetables.” The lightness in his voice starts to vanish, and I ’ m back to remembering that we aren ’ t normal.
I grab the trash bag and tape we used and toss them in the trash. Then I pick up his towel and set it on his bed. “ Sometimes I wish I could just be normal. Do you ever wish that, Dash?”
“ Wishing is for people who hope, Mila. Hope isn ’ t taken or claimed; it ’ s often watched as it slips away. If I want something, I have to take it before someone else does.” His eyes find my lips, and instinctively I roll them in so he can ’ t pry them open with more replies.
He leans closer and hands my phone back to me. “ I don ’ t think Pollock suits you.”
I grasp it, feeling the warmth from his touch. “ Why?”
“ He ’ s too generic, too popular. He ’ s not rare enough for someone like you. You don ’ t have to be conventional, Mila. Let your darkness shine.”
I let out a dry laugh. “ Isn ’ t it supposed to be ‘ light, ’ not darkness?”
“ We were never born with light, Mila. One day you ’ re going to have to accept that and stop wishing for an escape.”
There ’ s his cruelty again. It ’ s like we get close, glimpse inside each other, and then he pushes me ten feet back.
He shifts back to sit on his bed. “ Text me when you get to your dorm. Make sure you lock the door.”
“ Why?” I grip my phone tighter, suddenly feeling smaller, like an intruder in his space.
“ Don ’ t be stupid, Mila. Lock the door and text me if you suspect anything.”
“ Y-you think someone will come at me because I ’ m helping you?”
He runs a hair through his blonde hair. “ I might want to break you, little fox, see what you ’ re hiding inside. That doesn ’ t mean I ’ m going to allow someone else to try. Leave and text me after you ’ ve locked your door.”
I glance down at the phone to his contact, but instead of seeing his name, I read something else. “ BF? What does that stand for, brooding fucker?” I ask in confusion, my brow furrowing.
He snorts a laugh, his eyes glinting with amusement. “ Try again, little fox.”
BF? What? “ Boyfriend?” I ask, feeling vulnerable, my voice softer.
“ Consider it our new title and an amendment to our deal,” he replies, his smirk widening.
I shake my head, my heart pounding. “ No.”
“ You forgot the second word. Problem. ‘No problem, Dash. I ’ d love to make the school think we are dating,’” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“ You want me to fake date you?” I cross my arms, trying to steady my breathing.
He pushes back and sits on his bed, his eyes never leaving mine. “ There will be benefits.”
“ And consequences,” I retort, narrowing my eyes.
“ Only if you grow actual feelings for me. Consider this a warning. I am not responsible for breaking your heart further,” he says, his expression darkening.
“ What if I say no?” I challenge, my fists clenching.
He leans back, fluffing his pillow before laying his pompous head on it. “ You wouldn ’ t dare.”
“ Why?” I press, my pulse quickening.
I watch as he tries to adjust his cast, his movements slow and deliberate. “ Because it ’ s safer this way. Don ’ t ask questions that are attached to answers that will keep you up at night. We ’ re a team, we share burdens. I ’ ll carry this one. Now run along, I ’ m tired.”
When I remain frozen, he peers over at me and smirks. “ Unless you want to stay and cuddle?”
“ I ’ d rather cuddle an alligator than you,” I snap, my lips curling in disdain.
“ They do have fewer teeth,” he purrs, his voice low. “ Be a dear and turn the lights off when you leave.”
“ I hope you have nightmares,” I hiss as I turn and walk to the door, my steps heavy with frustration.
“ I always do,” he chuckles, his voice trailing off as I exit.
I close his door and stand stunned in the hallway. I feel dizzy, confused, excited, embarrassed. Basically, the Webster dictionary of emotions is happening inside of me.
“ What have I done? I made a deal with the devil himself.”