Chapter 23 Olena
OLENA
My phone buzzes beside me on the nightstand. With some effort, I crack one eye open, quickly taking in my surroundings and remembering where I am with a smile. Noticing Jude’s not beside me, I roll over and reach for my phone. His text reads:
JUDE
good morning, beautiful. went to get breakfast. stay put. x
He must have found my phone and put it here for me.
I let it fall against my chest and smile, biting my lip as the memories of last night wash over me in flashes.
Oh my God. Jude’s lips brushing mine on the porch.
Crashing through the doorway in his arms. His head between my legs.
‘Again,’ his throaty growl echoes in my mind.
I put my hands over my face, the memories enough to bring back the heat in a wave of delicious pleasure. Curling into the pillow, I’m grinning so hard I might pull a muscle. I let out a long breath to steady myself.
I decide to get dressed, though my shirt is nowhere in sight.
I see a flannel shirt of Jude’s hanging on the back of a chair across the room and go to pick it up, bringing the fabric to my face to breathe in his scent.
Dear God, this man smells so good, I think to myself as my eyes flutter shut.
I slip the shirt on. Buttoning it up halfway, I notice it’s enormous on me and hangs down below my ass.
Loving the feeling of the fabric swishing against my bare skin, I pad through the house to locate my own clothes.
I find my panties and jeans near the bedroom door and put them back on, the cold fabric chilling me slightly.
I scrunch the sleeves of Jude’s flannel over my hands like makeshift mittens and hug my arms tight to my chest. My nipples are hard from the morning chill and I relish how sensitive they feel rubbing against Jude’s shirt.
Another flash of memory hits me: Jude’s tongue flicking and sucking, sending ripples of pleasure through me…
I flush at the thought and continue smiling like a fool all by myself.
The house is quiet; Jude must have taken Murphy with him when he left. I flick on the bathroom light, taking in my rumpled reflection in the mirror. I wet my hands and use them to comb down the most unruly sections of my hair.
After hunting around for my purse and realizing I’d left it in Jude’s truck, I locate a chopstick in one of the kitchen drawers and use it to twist my hair up into a messy bun.
Pleased at my resourcefulness, I renew the search for my shirt, remembering with a smile that we were near the front door when Jude ripped it off me.
My eyes land on it and I walk over to pick it up.
Shirt in hand, I’ve barely stood up when someone suddenly pounds on the front door and my head snaps up, eyes wide. My heart leaps into my throat. Another loud pounding sound has me stumbling backward several steps.
Jude? Why would Jude be knocking on the door? This is his house… Surely, he has keys… Doubt crawls over my skin as I realize someone else must be out there and my pulse quickens. Stepping back another few paces, I bump into the edge of the kitchen counter and stop.
“Jude!” a rough, deep voice calls from outside.
My stomach drops and I freeze, my shirt clutched tightly in my fist.
“Jude, man, you home? I just came to see if you—”
I hear a stumble and a crash outside.
“Oh, shit,” the voice exclaims, then there’s a rough, strange laugh.
Something’s not right. This guy sounds drunk. Why is some drunk guy banging on Jude’s door at 9am on a Saturday?
Three more loud bangs. He mutters something I can’t quite hear.
“Jude, buddy, I need to talk to you!” the voice shouts.
I flinch as he rattles the door handle roughly. The memories rush back: me in my Seattle apartment, hiding behind the couch as two men shout outside our window, Sean’s terrified, wide eyes watching mine as the glass shatters.
My breath comes fast now and my ears start to ring. This isn’t happening. Not again.
I try to focus on finding somewhere to hide but can’t move my feet.
I’m breathing hard now, my heart racing in my chest and pounding in my ears.
My muscles start to feel weak and I crumple toward the floor in slow motion, landing in a heap between the kitchen cabinets.
I scramble backward until my back crashes against a cupboard door.
I flinch at each pounding sound on the door and cover my ears, hiding my face in my knees.
My hands grasp at the sides of my head and my fingers dig into my hair, knocking the chopstick loose.
I don’t even hear it clatter to the floor, my desperate gasps and the ringing in my ears drowning out the sound.
The pounding at the door sounds farther away now, as if I’m deep under water.
I gasp for breath as I sit there, shaking, my stomach roiling and sweat gathering on my forehead. The room spins around me. I feel like I’m going to die.