Chapter 8
EIGHT
VERITY
What the hell am I doing? I let this stranger hold my hand.
I let him feed me candy. I let him comfort me, and I let his reassuring words make me feel like everything is going to be okay.
Have I somehow ingested some kind of drug that’s making me crazy malleable?
Because I don’t trust men. I especially don’t trust strangers.
So why am I trusting Warrick? Why is he different?
The moment I step foot into the bedroom he’s allowing me to use, I close the door behind me, wishing there was a lock I could slide into place.
I know what men want from me. I’ve seen thousands of men stare at me, and they all want the same thing.
They want to possess me. They want to touch the untouchable, so why would Warrick be any different?
He isn’t. He can’t be…can he?
But I’m not as scared as I should be. I’m not as wary as I know how to be.
Something feels different, and I don’t know if I should trust that feeling or wait until he falls asleep to leave.
But being touched by him didn’t feel exposing.
When he comforted me, I felt…comforted, and I honestly don’t know if another person’s touch has ever felt that way.
My dad wasn’t a tactile person. I don’t think I ever remember him hugging me to make me feel better when I was sad. I’ve had friends that have hugged me, but their touch just felt like nothing.
I’ve never wanted the boys or men who’ve shown interest in me to touch me. So why when Warrick holds my hand, do I not want him to let go?
Is it just me craving human connection after two months of trying to be as unnoticeable as possible? Or is it something else? Could he just be a nice person, and my built-in danger detector senses that?
When he’d mentioned me taking a nap, I’d used it as an excuse to put some distance between us, but now that I’m alone, I miss his steady, constant warmth.
My hand feels chilled without him gripping it, and I feel cold without him by my side.
Which is insane, considering I only met him for the first time yesterday.
I have to fight the urge to go back downstairs just to be close to him again. Instead, I pull back the comforter and slip into the bed fully dressed. My dress will be a crumpled mess, but I can’t take off my clothes in his house, no matter how much I like his comforting aura.
Exhaling, I roll to face the door, needing to be able to see any danger coming my way. There’s no way I should be able to relax here, and yet my body feels like it’s sinking into the soft mattress and the crisp clean sheets that smell like laundry detergent and fabric softener.
I don’t intend to close my eyes, but keeping them open gets harder and harder until I’m dragged into sleep, wrapped in a sense of safety I shouldn’t be feeling.
It’s dark when the sound of my name being called pulls me back to wakefulness.
“Verity.”
Sucking in a breath, I bolt upright, blindly scanning the dark, unfamiliar room.
“Amore mio, are you awake?” a gruff voice asks from the door that’s been cracked open just enough to allow a sliver of light to creep in.
“Sorry. Yes, I’m awake,” I croak.
“What did we talk about, amore mio?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I say on instinct, apologizing for apologizing.
“Can I come in?” he queries.
“It’s your house.”
“It’s our house now, amore mio, and this is your room.” Then he says something else, but it’s too quiet for me to hear.
Shuffling out of the bed, I haphazardly pull the comforter back over the sheet, then head for the door, opening it and finding Warrick filling the doorway, his huge body taking up every inch of the space.
Something inside of me settles at the sight of him. This man I barely know looming over me should scare me half to death, but despite his size and the fact that this is his house, he’s outside the room, and not even his toes have crossed over into the space that he’s offered me to use as my own.
“I wish I didn’t have to wake you, amore mio, but dinner is ready and you need to eat,” he says, his eyes raking over me, starting at my head and running down to my bare feet.
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have slept this long.”
Reaching for my hand, he curls his much larger one around mine, then brings our joined hands to my cheeks, running a finger along my jaw. “You still look tired. You can go back to sleep once you’ve eaten.”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t need much sleep,” I protest.
“I don’t think you’ve ever gotten enough sleep, so you don’t even realize how tired you really are.”
Blinking, I look up at this stranger and wonder why he looks like he cares. He doesn’t know me. But if he’s not expecting sex in exchange for his kindness, what does he want? Parting my lips, I start to ask him, but before I can, he smiles at me, and every thought in my head fades away.
“Let’s go and eat.”
Mute, I nod and let him lead me down the stairs to the small dining table I hadn’t noticed earlier. The table has been laid with two place settings beside each other on the same side of the table, so close that our arms will probably touch.
Pulling out my chair for me, he releases my hand, then sits down beside me. Just like I thought, his arm brushes against mine, his massive thigh pressed tightly against my knee the moment he shuffles his chair into the table.
Without asking, he picks up my plate and serves me before himself, scooping out a portion of white fluffy rice, some broccoli florets, then a massive chicken breast covered in a thick tomato, pepper, onion, and chorizo sauce that smells rich and delicious.
Placing the plate in front of me, he unscrews a bottle of water and places it beside my plate before he repeats the action for himself.
“Thank you,” I whisper, shocked by his attentiveness. He cooked for me, then served me first, like it was instinct not chivalrousness.
“I assumed you weren’t a vegetarian,” he says, nudging me until I pick up my silverware and start to eat.
“Thank you, this looks delicious,” I tell him, cutting off a chunk of chicken and bringing it to my lips.
I try not to groan as the rich, smoky taste of the sauce fills my mouth.
Apart from the odd meal, like the stew I ate with the people at the campground the other night, my diet since I got to town has mainly consisted of hot dogs and burgers, the kind of food campers bring to cook over a firepit.
I’m not used to food this good, and I wish I could finish the entire plate, but after the pizza at lunch and the sandwich I ate in the tent before he found me, I’m full.
“I’ll do the dishes,” I offer the moment I place my silverware down on my plate.
“That’s okay. You should get an early night, you still look tired,” he says, collecting up the dishes and carrying them into the kitchen before I have a chance to get them.
“Oh. Err. Okay,” I say, feeling dismissed.
Pushing to my feet, I turn to leave, but his fingers curl around mine, stopping me.
As he turns me to face him, the look in his eyes makes the food in my stomach turn to acid.
It’s not the angry lust Benito looked at me with or the depraved desire of the men at the club, but there’s something in his gaze that puts me on edge.
This is it. This is the moment he tells me to get on my knees or bend over. This is the moment he becomes just like every other man that wants to use me.
But instead of unzipping his pants or ripping at my dress, his expression softens.
“Sleep well, amore mio, I’m glad that you’re here.
You have my word that I will not step foot in your room without your explicit invitation.
This is your home now and that is your space, and I want you to feel safe there. Okay?”
The breath in my lungs puffs out of me in an inelegant huff.
Laughing softly, he leans in and presses another gentle kiss to my forehead.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Verity. Feel free to eat or drink anything you find, except for any alcohol, not that there’s much in the house anyway.
You do not and will not ever require my permission to help yourself. Do you understand?”
I nod, bewildered, but once again comforted by his thoughtfulness. “Good night, Warrick,” I say quietly, waiting until he lets go of my hand to head for the stairs.
The moment I close the bedroom door behind me, I scan the room and realize that there’s nothing to block the door. The bed is literally the only piece of furniture in here. But Warrick promised me I was safe. He promised me he wouldn’t come in here, and even though it’s dumb to believe him, I do.
But belief isn’t enough to keep me safe.
So I ignore all of the instincts that tell me he won’t hurt me, and circle the bed, then shove it across the room until it’s against the door.
The moment I’m barricaded in, my bladder screams, reminding me that I should have thought to use the bathroom before I moved the bed, but I ignore it, crawl beneath the sheets in my clothes, and immediately fall asleep.
It’s barely light when my need to pee forces me out of the warm, comfortable bed, and I’m fully awake. Grabbing my bag that I positioned beside the bed, close enough that I could touch it, I find clean underwear and the cleanest and least rumpled shirt and shorts I have and pull them out.
Gripping my reasonably clean clothes to my chest, I push the bed back across the room, and unblock the door.
Opening the door a crack, I peer out and scan the landing.
The house is quiet, so I rush to the bathroom and shut myself inside, locking the door behind me.
The moment I’m sure I’m safe and alone, I dart for the toilet, barely managing to pull my panties down before I start to pee, finally relieving myself.
Turning on the faucet, I wash my hands, then look at the door.
I should get changed and then leave, but the temptation to take a shower in a bathroom that isn’t a stall and that I won’t be sharing with dirt, leaves, grass, and a handful of insects is hard to resist. The pile of fluffy towels on the counter calls my name, and when I spot the brand-new bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo, my resolve to leave as quickly as possible withers away.
Warrick told me that he doesn’t use this bathroom, so he put these things in here for me.
I don’t want to take advantage of his kindness, but the call of getting clean and the almost guarantee of continuous hot water is too tempting to resist. Reaching over the tub, I turn on the shower, and steam starts to billow into the air immediately, while a tiny moan of pleasure squeaks from my lips.
Checking and rechecking the lock on the door, I strip, fold my clothes into a neat pile, and place them on the closed toilet lid, then I slip naked beneath the water.
Bliss, glorious, forgotten bliss, consumes me, and I have to swallow down the tears that threaten to fall as the deluge of warmth washes over me.
In the last two months, I’ve felt lucky that I’ve been able to sneak into the campgrounds’ bathrooms to shower, but this is the first time since I ran from my apartment that I feel properly dirt-free.
My skin is squeaky clean, and I actually groan with pleasure when the shampoo lathers luxuriously in my hair, unlike the free stuff they put in the dispensers in communal shower blocks.
When I first started dancing at BJ’s, Heather insisted that I have laser hair removal.
At the time, I’d been disgusted when she’d told me that as an innocent little virgin, I couldn’t have body hair, because the men who were willing to pay a lot of money to watch me dance and rub teddy bears against my naked breasts wanted to believe that I was the little girl I dressed up to be.
She said that seeing stubble or even pubic hair would ruin the fantasy I was selling them.
But given my situation of the last few months, it’s been a relief not to have to think about shaving or how much more homeless I’d look if I hadn’t. Heather did warn me I might have to have maintenance treatments, but so far nothing has grown back, and I’m still completely hairless.
As I rub soap over my body and between my legs, a thought pops into my head. Will Warrick like that I’m completely bare down there? As the thought filters through my mind, I freeze, my palm cupping my sex.
It doesn’t matter what Warrick likes or doesn’t like, because he won’t ever see me naked, let alone have an opinion on my hairless crotch.
But at just the thought of him, heat starts to warm between my thighs. What the hell is happening right now? I don’t remember the last time anything inside of me…heated. In fact, it’s been years since I’ve had even a hint of sexual arousal, so why is this happening now?
Without realizing that I’m doing it, I part my folds and run my finger experimentally over my clit.
I might be a virgin, but I’m not ignorant to my body.
My sexual desire might be on deep freeze, but after a few enlightening health classes, I did some personal exploring to make sure I had everything everyone else does.
After I realized that nothing I did to myself made me feel particularly good, I never bothered to touch myself again…
until now. I know that this is not the time or place for me to have a sexual awakening, but as the pad of my fingertip brushes over my clit, a surge of something bursts to life inside of me, and I have to swallow down the noise that tries to break free of my mouth.
I do not remember it feeling like this the last time I touched myself there. Unable to resist, I do it again, closing my eyes as I picture Warrick’s hand between my legs, his huge muscled arm flexing as his fingers touch me, making me feel…
No. Nope. No way. Ripping my hand away, I turn the warm water to cold and stand under the stream until I’m shivering and all I can think about is how freezing I am. When I’m confident that I’m once again numb below the waist, I turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel.