Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
I squint my eyes open, blinking against the light that streams in from the windows.
My head aches with the dull throb of a hangover.
I roll over and shove my face into the pillow, hoping for a few more minutes of rest. With my face in the soft fabric, I inhale deeply.
My thighs clench at the deliciously masculine scent within its threads.
Sex and sugar cookies, the words pop into my head.
My eyes fly open and I suck in a gasp, because this is not my bedroom.
My eyes pan around the room and I’m surprised by what I find.
This isn’t the bedroom I expected a psychotic, murdering stalker to have.
I expected, well, I don’t really know what I expected, but not this.
The room is huge and impeccably decorated.
The walls and curtains are dark blue. Abstract paintings in blues and yellows are neatly placed around the room along with a few well-placed sculptures.
The furniture is modern and black. Everything looks incredibly expensive and it has me wondering what a man like Gray does for a living.
I roll off the bed, keeping my footsteps light as I make my way to the attached bathroom.
My fingers fumble around the wall before finding the light switch.
When the lights come on, I stifle a gasp.
The tiny, old-fashioned bathroom in my house is no comparison for this room.
It’s easily five times its size and filled with sleek, black marble.
I run my finger along the edge of a stone bathtub that could easily fit three people.
“No, no, no,” I whisper to myself, “you cannot be impressed. You absolutely cannot. He’s a psycho.”
Stepping toward the counter, my head bobbles from side to side, as if I could shake out my admiration. Bad men shouldn’t have such nice damn bathrooms.
My reflection blinks back at me from the mirror above the double vanity.
My hair is messy and matted, but the dark circles under my eyes seem to have lessened.
I comb my fingers through my hair before looking down at my body, which is covered only by a long t-shirt. A t-shirt that doesn’t belong to me.
My thoughts become horses. The stable doors burst open, and they sprint away, unable to be caught or brought to heel.
Did he strip me and put me into his clothes?
Did he touch me? Grab me, shove me onto his bed, press his fingers against my heated skin?
Did he run his tongue along my pussy until I begged? Oh, crap, did we have sex?
My body pulses with energy that rockets straight to my clit. I clench my legs together as the stupid, horny thing pulses with need. Trying to ignore my body’s screaming for his touch, I force my mind back to last night and how the Hell I got here.
Everything is fuzzy at first. I remember the bar, the drinks, the stupid texts I sent him. I remember him carrying me out of there like a damned caveman and putting me in his car. But what else happened?
Suddenly, a memory comes crashing back into my mind and I wish it hadn’t.
I told him about my father. I told him everything.
He knows what he did to me and Mom, how he hurt us.
He knows how broken I am. My heart clenches, thumping rapidly in my chest. Anxiety claws at my insides, ripping my stomach into ribbons.
He knows how damaged I am now. Why does that scare me so much?
I shove the thoughts away, tucking them into the little box inside of myself that no one can see.
As I shove the fear deep into that hidden place where feelings die, my lungs finally pull in enough air.
My heart rate slows to a steady thump, thump, thump in my chest. I pull my eyes back to the mirror and focus on the more pressing issue at hand, my teeth.
My mouth tastes like sawdust and old alcohol.
There’s a single toothbrush sitting in a cup on the counter, his toothbrush. I stare at it for several minutes, its stupid little bristles taunting me with promises of a fresh mouth.
“Screw it,” I mumble before loading it up with toothpaste and shoving it in my mouth.
That asshole has invaded my space and privacy a hundred times, so I don’t feel bad about invading his.
I keep that in mind as I tiptoe out of the bathroom and back into his room, where I rummage through his dresser drawers.
I’m a little surprised to find that everything is organized, clothes neatly folded and tucked into their respective places.
I always assumed that criminals were less structured than the average person, but that’s clearly not the case for Gray.
I mutter curses under my breath when I can’t find my own clothes. I do at least find a fresh shirt. It’s long, like a dress that reaches almost to my knees. Armed in only a shirt and my bare feet, I stand in front of the bedroom door, staring holes into the wood.
“You can’t hide in here forever,” I huff. “He’ll just barge in, anyway.”
My feet don’t move. My toes don’t wiggle. Absolutely nothing happens.
“Okay, just go. You got this!” My soft encouragement is ridiculously directed at my own feet, but this time, I force them to move.
I push the door open, padding quietly down the hallway.
When I reach its end, I find myself standing on a raised balcony, overlooking a posh loft.
Smooth, concrete walls scrape upward to a high ceiling, where black light fixtures dangle, looking less light lamps and more like modern art.
My eyes lower, taking in the glossy tile floors, fluffy, gray area rugs, and a pair of feet.
Wait, feet?
My gaze jumps up, immediately meeting with Gray’s.
His mouth tips upward into a devilish grin that has me yanking down the hem of his shirt to cover more of my legs.
He stands in the middle of his fancy living room with a phone pressed against his ear.
His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, drawing my eyes to his chiseled abs and that tantalizing line of muscle that dips down below his waistband.
He pivots with a smirk, giving me a full and very intentional view of his muscular form.
Forcing myself to look absolutely anywhere else, I lock my eyes on his chest and the tattoos that swirl around his upper body.
The black rose at the center of his throat branches off into twisting vines.
The thorny black offshoots whirl, morphing into branches that crawl along his collarbones and shoulders.
The spindly branches flow like shadows, wrapping around his body.
They look like I imagine his soul does: dark, twisted, and hauntingly beautiful.
“A little bird just flew into my living room.” His voice hits me, knocking some sense back into me and ending my perusal of his half-naked form.
He chuckles into the phone before his eyes find mine. “No, I’m thinking about getting a bird cage and keeping it as my pet.”
I bristle at his words. My anger rises, a little storm inside my belly that has me stomping down the stairs toward him.
“What do you think, little bird?” he asks, dropping his cell phone onto the stupidly pretty, velvet couch.
“I’m not your freaking pet, you freak,” I spit, infusing as much anger as I can into the words.
“Hmm,” he hums, “we’ll see.”
I stand several feet away, keeping distance between us. The distance doesn’t stop my anger from melting into anxiety. Embarrassment floods through me and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
“Did we…uhh…we didn’t…right?” I stammer.
“Didn’t what, Ava?”
“I…” the words get stuck in my throat, “you know…”
My face is on fire now and I’m certain my cheeks are beet red. I’m not a prude. Sex isn’t new for me. I’ve been with men before, plenty of times, and never thought anything of it. Talking about it with Gray feels different, more intimate somehow.
A devious smile lights up his obnoxiously handsome face. “Are you asking if I fucked you? You want to know if I shoved my cock into your needy little cunt? Made you scream? Made you beg to come on your master’s cock like my good little slut?”
The words dry up in my mouth, so I just nod. My belly spasms at the obscene picture he paints in my head. I’ve been called a slut before; every woman has and it’s terrible every time…except this time. My core floods with arousal. I pinch my legs together, feeling it drip down my thigh.
He steps toward me, his long legs eating up the distance between us.
My feet stumble backwards. He moves again, refusing to let me get away from him.
I shuffle back until my back bumps into a wall.
He doesn’t care about my need for space.
He steps into me, pressing his hands against the wall to cage my head between them.
His head dips, his nose running a line from my shoulder to my ear like, he’s scenting me.
I pinch my lips together, blocking the sound that clings up my throat when his breath tickles my ear.
“No, precious, I didn’t fuck you,” he whispers, “I want you to remember every time I touch you.” I shudder as his teeth scrape against my earlobe. “And as I’ve said before, I’ll only fuck you when you beg for it.” He lifts his head and grins at me. “But, you did try to kiss me.”
I shake my head. “I would never kiss you.”
His eyes harden, the sparkle of humor winking out as he presses his face closer to mine.
His breath ghosts against my chin, drawing my attention.
His lips are inches from mine. I stare at them, remembering the way they crashed against mine after I ran from him in the forest. My mouth dries up, all the moisture in my body seems to have changed course, heading south instead. I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip.
He hums a sound of approval. “That’s what I thought. My needy girl.”
He pushes off the wall and grabs my hand. “Come here,” he says as he leads me into the kitchen.
He motions to the stool at an island in the center of the large kitchen. I raise my eyebrows in question.