Chapter 19
Mila
“ Are you hungry?” I ask as I keep my eyes fixed on the stitching of Dash ’ s pants and not his sex. Is that a good question to ask while I help Dash get dressed? What question will not make me look at his perfect naked body?
“ Starving,” he responds in a husky tone.
I glance up from my kneeling position into the eyes that make my heart flutter. Why is it always the bad boys that tempt us?
A smartass smirk tugs at his lips.
“ Oh shit, I didn ’ t mean it like that. I meant for food.” Why did I ask him that while his dick is exposed to me, and to make it worse, it ’ s level with my blabbering mouth?
“ You ’ re the one who made it sexual,” he smirks. I feel my heart grow, then wither; it all happens so fast. In this moment, it feels like we ’ re just two somewhat innocent young adults twisting words playfully. I love that Dash gives me moments where I can escape. If only he ’ d allow more of those and not his mind games.
When will dealing with the devil feel normal?
Standing hastily, I pull his shorts up over his cast. I was at his dorm at 7:30 sharp, and I know this , along with his nightly showers, will be a new routine for me. Dash grabs a shirt and tugs it on over his head. I watch his muscles flex, and my sex tightens along with it.
“ How long do you have this cast, anyway?”
Dash grabs the zipper of his shorts and zips it up. The sound feels like fingertips gliding over a sensitive spot of my flesh. “ 8 to 12 weeks. If I ’ m lucky, in a few weeks I can get a mobile brace. Then I have physical therapy.” The lightness in his eyes dims. “ Counting down your days, Mila?”
Every time he speaks my name, my core clenches. “ You,” I pause, then shake my head.
“ Spit it out, Mila.”
I swallow. “ You should milk it. That cast is keeping you safe. Once it ’ s off, you ’ re a target.”
“ Worried about me?”
Yes. “ No. I ’ m concerned about that favor you owe me.”
His smirk slowly falls like the curtain on a stage. “ Let ’ s go get food. One more day before classes start. You can fill me in on what topics you ’ ve been learning here.” He grabs his crutch.
“ Oh, I skip breakfast in the cafeteria. I have dance practice at 8:00.”
He shakes his head. “ No.”
“ It wasn ’ t a question, Dash.”
He squeezes the back of his neck. “ You ’ re not skipping meals.”
“ I had my protein bar and a handful of almonds in my room. I know I ’ m thin, but I also have to maintain my muscles. A dancer ’ s body is different from your expectations.” Okay, so maybe I am a little too thin. I do eat; I just dance every spare hour of the day away. On average, it ’ s over six hours a day. That burns a lot of calories.
He shrugs, his shoulders dropping as casually as the ebb and flow of the tide. “ Don ’ t care. You have,” he looks at his phone, “ twenty minutes, and you ’ ll come with me to eat actual food, not the regimen a squirrel desires.”
He ’ s giving me his fire alright. This time, it pisses me off.
“ You men are impossible. You want a woman that ’ s thin, fit, with big tits and ass, yet eats like a truck driver.” I roll my eyes. “ I ’ m thin, but I work hard on my body. I don ’ t starve myself, Dash. I dance every single hour away. That makes me lean, but if you ’ d care to look, I ’ m also strong. I have to be in order to live this life.”
His chin dips, casting a dark shadow over his eyes making the hazel in the center look molten. “ I never said I wanted fake or a fantasy.”
“ What do you want?” I cross my arms. Why do I care?
“ Real. I want pleasure and pain. Faults and cracks. A bumpy ride is more adventurous than a smooth one, Mila.”
He strides to the door. “ Oh, and I forgot,” he points his crutch to a large brown paper bag next to his desk, “ that ’ s for you.”
“ Me?”
“ That ’ s what I said. Take it with you. I don ’ t like clutter.” His voice is laced with irritation, each word a sharp prick to my nerves.
“ You got me a gift?”
“ No.” He clears his throat, the tension in his body evident as his knuckles tighten on his crutch like a bowstring ready to snap.
With my hand on my hip, I retort, “ You should be giving me gifts if you ’ re my pretend boyfriend.”
The way his throat moves as he swallows makes me squeeze my legs together, a forbidden warmth spreading through me. The thrill of playing with fire courses through my veins.
“ If you want something from me, then ask.” His gaze flickers to my mouth, sending a shiver down my spine.
“ Would you give it?”
“ Depends on my mood.”
He traps my gaze with his, a caged glare that makes it impossible to look away. I feel like prey under his scrutiny. Finally, he jerks his eyes toward the bag. My lungs feel like they ’ re filled with lead as I take a breath. Turning quickly, I stride to the bag. “ When did you get this?”
“ A text to an employee can get me things fast, Mila.” He says, his voice grating like sandpaper on wood.
I roll my eyes but grab the bag. It ’ s heavy. I should be cautious, but instead, I look inside. “ What ’ s this?”
“ Art supplies,” he deadpans.
Inside are two sketch pads, painting paper, and a wooden box. Slowly, I grab the box, which has an antique-looking latch. I pry it open and look inside to find a dozen acrylic paints along with a fresh set of paintbrushes.
“ I,” I shake my head. This is a gift. “ I don ’ t understand,” I mutter.
“ Art is a form of therapy. You will turn to it instead of hurting yourself. You want control? Control the paint. You want freedom? Use the paint to feel free. And please, for the love of God, paint something more memorable than Pollock did. Any baby can throw paint. Purge your emotions, Mila, make me feel them.”
Another layer of myself and Dash is peeled away. At this rate, I ’ ll be completely exposed to him by the end of the week.
A sheen coats my eyes. This is thoughtful, empathic and caring, a way to heal.
I look at Dash, wondering if he ’ s the devil or an angel in disguise. Then I ’ m reminded that the devil is an angel. He ’ s good and bad, temptation and redemption, freedom and a cage, caring and selfish. Like Dash King, he suffers from a constant inner battle.
I hug the box to my chest. Dash ’ s eyes feel like a microscope looking so deep inside my soul that it suddenly feels tighter to inhale. Unable to take my show of emotions or my gratitude, Dash turns, grabs the door, and swings it open. “ Hurry up. We have seventeen minutes to get you fed properly before your silly dance class, little fox.”