Chapter 32 #2
“Sit,” he says.
Yanking my shirt down over my legs, I pull myself onto the stool. My fingers rub circles on the white marble countertop, grounding myself with the feel of the cool stone. I almost dive out of my seat when the clatter of metal hitting metal rings out, echoing in the minimalist space.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching Gray drop a frying pan onto the stove.
He pulls eggs and a package of bacon out of the refrigerator. “Making us breakfast.”
Making us breakfast? Making us breakfast!
? I groan, shoving the heel of my palms into my eyes.
My stalker is making us breakfast. The big, raving lunatic is just making us breakfast willy-nilly, like this is no big deal.
My murderous shadow stands half-naked, looming over the stove like a muscle-bound Grim Reaper, and he’s making scrambled eggs.
“We’re not dating!” I bark. “I’m not your girlfriend, so stop acting like it. I don’t need to have breakfast with you. Just give me my clothes and call me an Uber so I can go home.”
Gray goes still. The muscles in his back twitch as his spine straightens.
In the back of my mind, an alarm sounds.
The instinctual warning system all humans have that alerts us to the presence of a predator, something higher on the food chain than us.
Gray is that kind of predator, a monster inside of an alluring shell.
With painful slowness, he turns to face me, his eyes filled with dark promises. He didn't like that, the frightened voice in my head squeaks. He didn't like that at all.
My legs quiver, the muscles tightening, preparing to run. They spasm beneath my skin, and yet, I can't move. I'm frozen in place as he steps toward me. He moves slowly. Closer, closer. My heart rate ticks up with each inch until I think it might explode from my chest.
His fingers grip my thighs and my breath catches in my throat. He shoves them apart, pressing his body between my legs. I turn my face downward, staring at my boobs to avoid his gaze. His finger presses beneath my chin, forcing me to face him.
He looks down at me, his mouth quirked into a taunting smile.
“Are you sure? It seems an awful lot like you are my girlfriend.” He holds up his index finger.
“You texted me when you were upset, wanting me to bring you home from the bar.” His middle finger pops up next to the first. “You woke up in my bed, wearing my clothes.” He leans in, his soft lips almost brushing against mine.
His nostrils flare and he stretches out a third finger. “And you used my toothbrush.”
I shove my fists against his chest. Putting all of my strength into pushing him away, I grunt out a very unladylike sound.
He doesn’t move back an inch. If anything, he presses himself closer.
My nipples pebble beneath the thin cotton shirt as they connect with his stomach.
The heat returns to my cheeks, if it even left in the first place.
Whenever I’m around him, I feel like my face is on fire.
My face pinches into a scowl. “I didn’t ask you to kidnap me, you psycho.”
“No?” he asks, his eyes gleaming with humor.
“But you knew I would when you texted me. You’re a smart woman, Ava.
” His finger moves from my chin to my throat.
His hand wraps around my neck. His grip is soft, a warning, a reminder.
His hand doesn’t squeeze, and yet, I can’t breathe.
I won’t let myself take a breath, because if I do, I’m not sure I can stop the sound that might come out when I let it go.
The threat of his rough touch does something to me, something it really shouldn’t.
The heat of his hand on my throat seeps into me.
It spreads through me, rushing downward, sending a flood of arousal to my core.
He’s a monster, I force the thought into my head, pounding it against my skull over and over, hoping it will stick.
Of course, another traitorous voice inside of me counters, a monster you want to fuck you, claim you, keep you.
“You knew I’d come for you,” he says, “and we both know that’s why you texted me. You wanted to see me. You missed me.”
I loose a breath, my lungs unable to hold it any longer.
His grip on my neck tightens, a renewed threat, a reminder that I’m playing games with a dangerous animal.
My fingers wrap around the edges of the stool beneath me, gripping it until I feel my tendons crackle.
The rational part of my mind grapples for control, desperately trying to hold on to my resolve.
It screams inside of me to not submit to him.
The entirely irrational part of me, however, moans under Gray’s powerful grasp.
His fingers dance along my thigh, lifting the hem of my shirt. “Show me how much you missed me, little bird,” he growls into the shell of my ear.
Cool air whispers against my folds, reminding me that I’m stark naked under my borrowed shirt.
My muscles tense as his fingers press against me.
They swipe over my wetness, drawing a line from my center to my clit.
When he touches that bundle of nerves, my hips buck, pressing into his hand.
I can’t stop the husky cry that jumps from my mouth.
He hums approvingly. “That’s my good girl. My perfect little slut. So wet, so responsive to my touch.”
I pant in little, breathless gasps as he slowly circles my clit.
My walls clench around nothing. He’s barely touched me, but I can feel the pressure building in my core.
My hips press forward, grinding against his hand, searching for release.
He pushes me to the edge of orgasm, and just as I’m about to tip and fall off the precipice, he pulls away.
I whine at the loss of his hand, a needy, pathetic squawk.
He turns and walks back to the stove, licking my arousal from his fingers. I sit in stunned silence, mortified and fuming. My mind ticks through a list of all of the reasons that I hate him. Murderer, psycho, stalker, guy who seems to think I can’t feed myself, teasing, horrible bastard.
I try to ignore the savory scents filling the room.
I don’t want him to cook for me. I don’t want him to take care of me.
No one has ever tried, not since Mom died.
Don’t give in, the frightened voice inside me whimpers, he’s lying to you.
He’ll hurt you and leave you, just like everyone else. You’re nothing, nothing, nothing.
My stomach, however, seems to have no such qualms about him feeding me.
It releases an embarrassingly loud grumble.
He chuckles and it’s different. It’s a warm, happy sound that bubbles up from his throat.
Nope, nope, nope, my mind chants, do not read into that.
Monsters are not happy. Monsters are not good. Monsters do not care.
* * *
The piles of eggs, bacon, and toast on my plate taunt me. Steam rises from the plate, along with the smell of something I so rarely get to have—a home cooked meal. It invades my nostrils, beckoning me, demanding that I give in.
“Eat, Ava,” Gray demands, his voice soft with an edge of bite that indicates that this is most certainly not a request, but a command.
The fork, clenched tightly between my fingers, doesn’t move.
Gray’s lips tip into a knowing smile before he stabs a piece of the fluffy egg from my plate and pops it into his mouth.
His eyebrows quirk up with expectation, only lowering when I snag a piece of bacon and stick it in my mouth.
I chomp on it slowly, holding back a pleasured groan as the grease trickles over my tongue.
Gray eats with a cocky grin plastered across his face, his movements significantly more graceful than my own. He moves slowly, small portions of food delicately making their way from his plate to his mouth, while I shovel eggs hurriedly into mine.
“I…I…” I stumble over my words, needing to say something, but entirely unsure of what. “I don’t even know anything about you…”
“So ask me, baby.” He takes a sip of orange juice, staring at me over the rim of the glass. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. “You will?”
“I’d never lie to you.”
I shouldn’t believe that. I shouldn’t even want to believe it, but there’s something in his eyes that sparkles with sincerity. Has he ever actually hidden anything from me? He’s unabashedly admitted to murder, proclaimed his obsession for me, and said he has no intention of killing me.
My eyes pan around his gorgeous, expensive home, and I ask the first question that pops into my head. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m an assassin.”
The fork slips through my grasp, clattering loudly against the ceramic plate.
Little chunks of egg pop up, splattering onto the table.
I shove my body sideways, my chair screeching across the floor, putting precious inches between me and the murderer sitting beside me.
With shaking fingers, I snatch a butter knife from the table.
Sunlight from the large dining room windows sparkles off of the metal as I point the dull tip toward Gray.
His eyes dart from mine to the knife. Something that looks oddly like pride glimmers in their blue depths. “I’d never hurt you, little bird,” he says with a soft smile. “You’re everything to me.”
My mind races, thoughts whirling and tumbling like leaves on the wind.
Everything? The frightened little creature inside of me perks up.
Not nothing? The knife drops from my fingers, clunking onto the table.
Suddenly, the revelation that he’s a murderer for hire holds less weight than his admission that to him I’m something more than the nothing I’ve always been.
“Don’t get shy on me now.” Gray chuckles, pulling me from my thoughts. “Ask me something else.”
“I…uh…how old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” he replies, “close to your age.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Pizza.”
“Favorite color?”
“Green.”