Chapter 16
Amy
Curling up in bed has never felt so good after going to dinner with my grandparents and the Irish Demon. I’ve showered, peeled off the layers of makeup, and put on some comfy clothes. I’m exhausted. It feels like I ran a marathon with no sleep.
I try to distract myself with some TV, but my mind keeps drifting back to revisit every interaction with the Alasdair.
I admit, calling him that is kind of losing its appeal.
I initially didn’t want to call him that at all, but once I met him and realized how dangerous he is, I used it to remind myself what he was.
Except I’m confused at what he is exactly.
I know he’s dangerous. I know he’s done terrible things and isn’t someone to look to as a role model, but I don’t think he wants to be one.
The thing is, he doesn’t seem like the terrible monster my grandparents warned me about.
He seems…kind. At least he’s nice to me.
He honestly doesn’t seem that nice to anyone else, which confuses me and excites me more than it should.
But, at this point, not much about this situation isn’t confusing. I don’t understand half of what’s going on. And I don’t know what to do with the information that I do understand. This weird rivalry that Mr. Alasdair and my grandfather have going on, for example.
Okay, calling him Mr. Alasdair is kind of weird, too.
And he seemed to think so too when I called him that.
I think he found it funny. After all, someone’s fiancé calling them that would be…
odd. But, I don’t know, calling him Kerry doesn’t seem right, yet, either.
It’s too close, too personal. Even if it does call to me, beckoning me like the fruit tempted Eve, and the Irish Demon is the serpent…
The calm end to this day almost feels odd. Everything happened so quickly today, one thing after another, and none of it felt particularly pleasant. The only thing that has come close is Kerry.
I look over at my phone that’s on the nightstand.
I know I needed to reach out to my parents about what’s going on, my mother especially, but the thought exhausts me.
I’m not ready to hear the panicked words that slur together from her tears, and then the eventual I told you so’s about having anything to do with my grandparents.
As if they wouldn’t have sought me out to do this arrangement even if they never met me. As if she didn’t agree to let me have a relationship with them so they’d pay for stuff.
I wish I could just text her about it, but she’d freak out if I did that. She’d call me anyways, and say I was rude for not calling my own mother about such a big thing. And maybe she’s right and that would be awful of me.
I’d have to calm her down and talk her through it, even though I was the one in the middle of this.
I just didn’t have the energy to do it. I know I needed to, but…
not tonight. Tomorrow, when I’m resting, I’ll do it.
I know I need to do it soon if the wedding is actually next week, though.
It’ll be nice to at least have my own mother at my wedding. Imagine that, what a concept.
I stare at my phone. That fact that he’s one text away is…alarming. And yet, somehow a relief, too. I know he has my back, which I don’t really feel from my grandparents. How he managed to earn at least that level of trust in only two meetings, I don’t know, but it’s there nonetheless.
I chuckle as I think about how he told me to contact him even at my slightest inconvenience.
I wonder what his definition of that would be.
It amuses me to think of texting him for any real reason.
Oh, hello, Irish Demon? Yes, this is Amy.
I ran out of toilet paper, would you fetch me more?
Oh, yes, and while you’re at it, make them lower the temperature of the entire hotel. I’m a bit warm in here.
Something whispers in the back of my head that, if I asked him to, he would. And with his money, power, and charisma, the hotel would probably cater to his every whim.
Is his power my power, too? Will he really offer me the world if I just ask it of him?
And could I ask for other things, too? Ask him to use that power on me?
I dismiss that silly little voice and sigh, pulling the covers up to my chin.
The comforter tickles my cheek, reminding me of how his fingers had grazed against the skin there.
He had been so soft, so gentle, like he almost always was with me.
He only ever used a harsh tone when he was talking about other people, mostly my grandfather.
It never seemed aimed at me. In fact, it always kind of felt like it was in my defense.
I would wonder if he likes me, but there’s one thing stopping me from thinking that.
The whole whiny wife thing. Which he clarified he didn’t think that I’m the complaining type, which was nice.
But still, there’s something that makes me think that he sees me as a duty.
Like he’s obligated to take care of me because I’m going to be his wife.
There’s nothing more I hate than someone acting out of obligation. Especially something like loving or taking care of me.
He’s distant, too. Which I suppose makes sense, we’re just getting to know each other, after all.
It’s not like he’s going to wear his heart on his sleeve.
But there’s something about his cold attitude that makes me think he doesn’t actually like me, not really.
Like he’s hiding something when it comes to me, something just under the surface.
Perhaps he likes using me to one-up my grandfather, or he likes the idea of having a wife to show off or something, but I don’t know that he really likes me.
It’s a strange situation. One I’m not really sure I’ll figure out for the time being.
He seems like a thoughtful man, and he’s certainly able to read me better than most. But I don’t know.
Everything is still so new and terrifying.
It’s possible that the trauma I endured is coloring everything.
But it’s hard not to see everything through those lenses. That trauma is my world now.
And, considering Mr. Alasdair is a major part of this world, how could he not be colored by it, too?
Still, my monkey brain, the damn thing, doesn’t seem to care about those reasons.
It leads my thoughts back to his soft touch, and, with just a little imagination, I can picture his gaze being more heated, his hand on my cheek drifting down to my neck, which he grips with a firmness while still being gentle.
In my imagination, he doesn’t need to say anything.
His eyes tell me everything I need to know.
And when his lips crash against mine in this little daydream of mine, I let my hand wander down between my legs, slipping under the waistband of my pajamas and gasping as I find myself already wet, just at the thought of him.
In my head, he’s quick to put me up on a counter and step between my legs, grinding himself against me to show me just how much he wants me. It’s thick and long, and already hard just from knowing he gets to have me.
He’s practically frenzied as he strips off my clothes and sinks into my heat.
I imagine this just as I plunge my own fingers into my slit, trying to mimic what’s happening in my daydream as much as I can with little to work with.
I suck in a ragged breath as I match his imaginary pace with my fingers, the other hand trailing down there too to circle my clit.
It doesn’t take me long to come, not when I’m picturing him whispering sweet praises in my ear, groaning and telling me how good I feel.
I stare up at the ceiling afterwards, trying to catch my breath.
Well, shit. I just did that. Maybe fantasizing about him like this isn’t the best idea.
Not when I feel like it could open up feelings in me that could be exploited.
I don’t want to create a blindspot towards him, that would be the dumbest thing I’ve done yet.
But, yet again, the animal part of my brain and my body don’t seem to care.
They want him, and that’s all that matters to them.
I mull over what I’m going to do with myself and basking with the happy feelings in the afterglow of my orgasm.
I don’t even realize I’m drifting off, until I wake up in the middle of the night with the tv still on and a crick in my neck.
I rub at the tense muscle as I get up, turning off the tv and going to the bathroom before collapsing back in bed.
I wake up late the next morning, my head feeling heavy and my body weighed down, like it’s overencumbered in a video game. I take things slow, putting on some fresh clothes and rummaging through what minimal drinks and food I have left. It’s pretty sparse, so I’ll have to order some room service.
I’m looking over the menu when there’s a knock at the door. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever’s to come. Who knows what’s on the other side of that door.
Thankfully, no one familiar is there when I peek through the peephole. It looks like hotel workers, with carts full of food, even though I haven’t ordered any room service yet.
I prepare myself to be seen in my comfy clothes, not that the workers care, but still, my social anxiety seems to. As I open the door, I’m almost prepared for them to realize they’re in the wrong room, but instead they smile widely and ask if I’m Ms. Astero.
They bring in a beautiful spread of pastries, eggs, sausages, bacon, and fruit. There’s also all sorts of drinks. Everything from orange juice to sodas, but most notably, several bottles of white wine.