Chapter 39 Aston
Aston
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, but the second I throw open the door and lay eyes on Vale, I feel something settle inside me. Like all the wings battering in my stomach just…stop to hover weightlessly.
“You’re here,” I squeak, quickly biting down on my lip to hold my grin in.
Dressed in a form-fitting black henley and dark jeans, my little mouse looks utterly delicious filling the doorway.
His stony black gaze flits down my body. And when his jaw noticeably ticks, I can’t help but notice there’s a fine smattering of dark stubble where there never was before. Not that I’ve seen.
It makes him look older. Dangerous even. Disheveled too, much like his hair, which is equally dark and messy in a way it normally isn’t.
And if I’m not mistaken, there are shadows under his eyes I’ve also never seen before.
Aw, was he worried about me?
Well, shucks. My little deprived heart squeezes at the thought.
With a gallant spread of my arm, I step back, holding the door wide open for him. It takes only a moment’s hesitation before he blows out a sharp sigh and steps through.
Closing the door behind me, I watch as he sweeps his eyes over my room, brow furrowing ever so slightly.
“Excuse the mess. I didn’t know I’d be having company,” I rush out, my voice cracking, clasping my hands together under my chin.
Still not looking at me, his face does that thing it used to do when we were kids, when he’s trying not to smile, or show how much I amuse him. Just a little scrunch of his lips and nose, before he quickly smooths it out with a blank, unreadable mask.
Only back then, I found it adorable.
Now, I find it—
Hot, I think ravenously with a snap of my teeth.
His gaze snaps to mine. “Excuse me?”
I cup my hands over my mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”
He glares at me.
From the stereo in the corner, the chorus of “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You” comes on. It’s the most serendipitous moment ever. Pure cinema.
Move over J.D. and Veronica. Our love is God.
Something flickers in Vale’s gaze, like a single, threadbare crack spider-webbing its way through thick, dense ice.
When it drops to scour over my exposed throat, my chest, my flat stomach…
those normally hard, frozen black pools nearly shatter completely.
Revealing the oily substance beneath just begging for a spark to light it up.
I lower my hands to my sides, and all but stick my chest out so the kimono gapes further, giving him an unobstructed view of the marks he left on my throat and hips last night.
Little moon crescents from his short nails.
Rosy watercolor blooms from the punishing pads of his fingers.
I’m a canvas of his own making, and hell if I’m not dying for him to paint me all over again and again.
His gaze dips lower to my briefs that leave very, very little to the imagination, lingering there.
Tilting my head, I wet my lips, studying him, wondering what he’s thinking. If the cord-like tendons jumping along his throat are any indication, it’s all dirty things.
God, I swear on Madonna’s cone bra, if he doesn’t kiss or touch or lick me soon, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. Not one little bit.
“We need to talk,” he says.
I blow a raspberry, taking great pleasure in his responding scowl.
He should be scowling. Talking is stupid, and it’s the last thing we should be doing when he’s standing there, and I’m standing here, Heart is playing, and there are things like boning we could be doing instead.
“Nooo,” I say cajolingly, like I’m scolding a child. I draw closer to him, reaching for him. “We need to kiss.”
He stiffens when our chests brush, and just as I’m about to launch myself at his mouth, he grabs me by the shoulders, halting me with a bruising grip.
Stumbling back on my heels, the breath whooshes out of me in a disappointed huff.
“No,” he says harshly, holding me in place with bruising fingers. “See, that is not at all what we need to do. Ever.”
I roll my lips together, fighting another smile. I tip my chin down, glancing up at him through my lashes. “And fucking me last night? Did you not need that too?”
He makes a face. It’s a mean face, but it’s also a cute face. One I want to squish and squeeze, just like that little butterfly’s chest.
Unlike my winged princess, though, Vale won’t break.
No, he’s too big and strong for that.
I grin wider at the thought, clenching my hands in fists so as not to clap in glee like a total loser.
He’s perfect, a voice purrs.
“Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you today?” he growls, all but shaking me.
Then, as if realizing he’s still touching me, he freezes, before roughly releasing my shoulders, practically shoving me away.
I pout as I watch him whirl toward the door, hands clasped around the back of his head.
Did I miss something? I wonder. It wouldn’t be the first time I zoned out or missed a beat in conversation. I do that sometimes. Peopling be hard work.
“You really are out of your fucking mind, aren’t you?” he mutters.
He says it like a question, but it doesn’t really feel like a question.
It also doesn’t feel like the words are for me.
When he turns his head, darting those hardened eyes all over my face, I can’t help but notice there’s something else there too. Something more…calculating. Maybe even…wary.
It has a chill skittering down my spine, and this time, it’s not the fun kind. “I am what I am,” I find myself saying quietly. Dangerously.
Images flash across my mind.
Beer bottle.
A shard of glass.
Recliner.
A shard of glass.
Blood.
Beer.
A paneled wall.
A shard of glass.
Vale’s little face.
His face…
SNAP!
Flinching, I blink Vale back into focus—this Vale. The grown-up one. The one who’s lowering his hand from where he just snapped it in front of my face.
I wouldn’t say his expression has grown soft—I don’t think he’s capable of such a thing. When he was little? Yes. But I see now how misleading that was.
Nevertheless…there’s definitely something gentler about him now. Something contemplative to the way he watches me. Giving me the impression that whatever’s about to spill from those broody, delectable lips will be profound. Life-altering. Heart-squeezing. A revelation worthy of sonnets…
I just know it.
This is gonna be good.
“I didn’t use a condom.”
“I love you t—” Hold the phone. “Wait, what?” I blink rapidly, waiting for him to repeat what I know I must’ve misheard. But he doesn’t. He just scowls at me. And that’s when what he said finally registers.
He didn’t use a condom. Last night. He’s talking about last night.
Cocking my head, I say with mock confusion, “You didn’t?”
He crosses his arms tightly. “I was drunk. Got caught up in the moment. It was a mistake.”
I roll my eyes. This again? “It was totally not a mistake. And if it takes a little alcohol to get you to loosen up and get your freak on, who am I to judge?”
Ignoring that, he says. “I’m clean, just…just so you know.”
Oh, no, he didn’t.
“Negative,” I bite out sweetly. “You’re negative. STIs don’t make a person dirty.”
Still acting as if I didn’t speak, he goes on, “Coach makes us get tested regularly. And I always use a condom with Seth.” He says it casually. Too casually.
Use. Present tense. Does that mean…
I blink. Hard. Holding off the fury suddenly exploding through my veins.
He fucking wouldn’t…
The urge to punch something, or scrape my nails over my skin until I draw blood, comes over me like a tidal wave. Fast and brutal. I feel like I could explode from it.
Vale’s eyes narrow, like he can sense it—feel my restraint slipping.
But unlike everyone else who’s stared into the face of a loose cannon, he doesn’t seem scared of me. If anything, he looks bored. With just a hint of casual intrigue.
Right….because he’s a psychopath.
Don’t think I forgot! I just got…distracted—I gesture broadly at the sex god standing before me—by all that.
“What are you—”
“Why are you really here?” I demand accusingly, cutting him off. “Because it’s certainly not to talk safe sex, or to check up on me.”
His brows fly up, his shock visible.
Yeah, buddy, I’ve got your number now.
Walking around him, I take a seat on the bed, my fingers sliding under the pillow. “Is it a thank you you’re after?” I say casually.
His jaw clamps together, ticking in the corners. “A thank you for what?”
I bug my eyes at him, mouth curving into a smile as I say, “For coming to my rescue, silly. I would’ve been toast had you not come forward.” Despite how annoyed I might be right now—how paranoid I suddenly feel—I can at least acknowledge that much.
“You didn’t do it,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“So?” I sniff. “Facts are changed all the time,” I tell him lightly, fingers curling around the knife handle.
He freezes at my words, and for a very brief moment, I catch something flash across his face—something that starkly contradicts the cold, hard, apathetic demeanor I’ve come to associate with this grown-up version of Vale.
Worry.
It’s there and gone before I can blink, but I know what I saw.
Curiouser and curiouser…
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he finally says, his voice stony. His eyes dart to the knife in my hand when I stand up, but other than that, you’d think he didn’t even notice it by how unfazed he is.
Arms hanging loosely at my sides, I slowly prowl toward him. Surprisingly, this time, and much to my satisfaction, he doesn’t back away or shove me. Even when I reach up to touch him with my free hand.
Just two fingers, trailing down his neck…his sternum…
His heart pitter-patters against my palm through his shirt where I end up resting it. And I can’t help but smile and melt a little inside when I feel how warm and solid he is.
I bet he’s even warmer and more solid under all these layers…
Tension radiates off him, pulling the air between us taut, like a bowstring being drawn back.
He wants to grab me. Throttle me.