Chapter 9
NICOLETTE
Well, having him sleeping on the floor did nothing but keep me up all night. I might have gotten a solid twenty minutes of sleep. Catnaps were another way I survived on the run. I’m used to them. I can survive on them.
I’m sure he has no idea I was staring at the ceiling for the entire night, reliving the horror of the forest in my head, remembering that man on top of me, ready to kill me. My stomach rolls as I recall it all in vivid detail, as though it’s happening like a movie playing right before my very eyes.
Inhaling, I force the panic of that night away and instead concentrate on a much better view that’s currently out the window.
Peering out, I watch Raph wield an ax so well it’s almost sinful. That man is utter perfection. His large palms grip the handle as he slams the blade into a severed tree trunk, splitting it in half like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
My gaze dances over his bare tanned back, his muscles rippling, the veins in his triceps popping out from beneath his glistening skin. Who cuts wood without a shirt on?
Raph, apparently.
It’s like he’s taunting me. Kinda like I was when I put on those shorts. Didn’t work out as well as I had hoped, though.
I intended for him to lose his inhibitions, but instead all I got was a sleepless night. I could’ve worn the one pair of leggings I have in my bag. I never kept too much in my go bag, so it wouldn’t be hard to run with.
I sigh. Mission failed. The man is too hard to break.
I continue gawking. Maybe he’ll come through those doors, realize what a stubborn idiot he’s being, and finally kiss me.
Delusional as always. He’s never going to want you that way. He’ll fight it until his last day.
My body coils with a vengeful kind of need, wanting to sink my nails into his back. Wanting to know what he sounds like, moves like, when he lets go. When he takes a woman. When he takes me.
Stretching my fingers around the warm mug of hot cocoa he made me after we had pancakes together in utter silence, I continue to watch him.
It’s become our thing, quietly existing in each other’s space while I pretend it doesn’t matter.
That I’m not hurting inside. That I don’t wish for him to talk to me like he used to.
There’s been an invisible wedge between us for far too long, and I don’t know if we can ever break down its wall and get back to how it once was.
Once he’s done, he grabs a bunch of pieces of wood and strides toward the cabin. But as soon as he spots me here, ogling him, he freezes, and my breath catches in my lungs.
Silently, we stare at one another as though nothing and no one exists but us.
The warmth around my body is replaced with a chill, goose bumps riddling my arms. I can’t look away, and neither can he. We remain entrapped in each other’s mutual gaze, the shared attraction undeniably sizzling between us. Long, aching seconds only make me want him more.
He peers into my eyes as though he can see inside my very soul. It transports me to a time when he cared, when we could talk and laugh and be friends. I miss that desperately. Miss him desperately.
Tears fill my eyes, and I quickly look away, strutting toward the kitchen, placing the mug down, and gripping the edge of the counter.
The door opens and clicks behind me.
The thud of the wood crashing against the floor fills my ears. Slowly, he nears. I can feel the heat of his body, and my heart slams in my chest. My panting sounds louder the closer he gets and it’s almost too much. This feeling. This desire.
“Are you all right, tesoro mio?” he asks, and those words have me gasping for air.
His treasure. His love. That’s what he called me.
The tendril in his tone is laced with genuine worry, and every time he sounds that way—like he cares, like I matter—my heart leaps. My chest tightens. How can I hear him say that and still live in a world where he isn’t mine?
Rough, calloused fingers roll down my arms, and my body shivers. I come completely undone. Because that’s what he does to me. Every single time.
The tidal wave of emotions battles within me—hating him, wanting him, loving him. It’s all too much.
But I don’t truly hate him, do I? It’s a manifestation of my pain, of my unrequited love for this man I want more than anything.
The prickling of my skin returns. A traitorous thing. I know he can feel it and see it.
His exhales rival his inhales—heavy, pouncing up my nape—as his fingertips trace up and down my arms in the barest of touches. Like he’s committing the very feel of me to memory.
My head falls backward against his sweat-ridden bare chest, my eyes drifting to a close, and I groan like the whore I’m not.
But with him, I want to be.
He doesn’t stop. His feathery touch glides up to my shoulders, drawing circles there. Under his breath, he growls, the vibration of the sounds shooting through me.
I let out a moan, imagining that this is real. That we’re together. That he loves me. I’m afraid to open my eyes, knowing that with our height difference, I’d be able to see him.
“Nicolette,” he groans, all raspy, tortured. Every syllable filled with longing and regret.
My hand finds his thigh, and I grip hard, massaging the solid muscle beneath. I can’t believe I’m even touching him this way.
He groans, and my pulse comes alive, faster now.
Every part of me is awakened with hope and desire. With dreams of being his. Loving me. Accepting me. But if he won’t do that, if he doesn’t want something real, then I want one thing instead.
I need him to be my first. I need it badly. I refuse to give that to someone else. Would he even do that for me? Would he give me that one thing?
I finally take the risk and flip my eyes open, and there I find him pinning me with a hungered lull behind his gaze.
His jaw muscle spasms, and the bulge pushing into my back is the only indication that he’s not just hungry, but ravenous.
Will he give in? Will he take the first bite?
He roughs his hips into me, and another sound of pure ecstasy slips from my lips. I don’t even care. I’m not myself right now.
I want him desperately in this very moment.
He’s insanely hard, and I wonder what he’d taste like.
I’ve never done that either. I’m pathetic.
He’d probably internally laugh at my inexperience.
A man like him has definitely had his fair share of women.
He wouldn’t want someone who doesn’t know what to do.
He continues to touch me, to look down at me while his body is pressed up to mine. There’s an insatiable thirst building in his eyes as they continue to hold me in their inexplicable grip.
A tantalizing hum of something wicked, something warm, courses between our bodies.
It’s palpable. Tastes sweet on my tongue. I shudder with desire for his touch.
His hand clenches and unclenches around my arm. He fights this yearning between us, holding on to his self-control like it’s the most important battle of his life.
“What are you doing to me?” His throat bobs with a deep sigh, his gaze unrelenting.
“The same thing you’ve been doing to me,” I murmur.
He shifts back as those heavenly eyes of his drift to a close. And I can feel it. That connection between us severing, like a thread gradually unraveling.
“You have to take your meds.” He clears his throat and slowly backs away until he’s completely off of me, leaving me lonely.
Just like I’ve felt every moment of every day since he stopped being my friend.
I don’t even have time to process what just happened or when he had time to get my meds, but he now appears before me with two pills in hand and a glass of water. My heart still races as I take the meds without eyeing him and drown them in my mouth with a gulp of icy-cold water.
He takes the cup from me, then stares at my shoulder.
“I need to change your bandages.” He places the back of his hand on my forehead.
“I don’t have a fever, Raphael. I’m fine. Just a little pain. You don’t have to worry about me.” I try to control my breathing, but my heartbeats still thrash in my rib cage, and this time, I can’t escape the desire to glance up at him.
“I’ll always worry about you, little one.” The back of his hand trails down my cheek as he intensely stares right into my eyes, his voice a soft gentle sway, unearthing all my deep-seated emotions. “Worrying about you is what I’ve always done. What I’ll always do, whether you realize it or not.”
“Liar,” I breathe, and I don’t know if he even heard me.
If he did, he chooses to ignore it, marching off to the bathroom to retrieve the things the doctor left behind.
He returns a few seconds later. “Sit.”
He motions toward the sofa with a slant of his head. I follow him there and lower onto the soft cushion below, right beside him.
“Take it off.” The commanding grip of those words has my head spinning.
I realize he means just my cardigan, but my body hasn’t caught up yet, thinking he wants me naked. The idea of being bare for him makes me shy, yet thrills me.
I wonder if he’d find me pretty. It was hard growing up with a sister who constantly made me feel like I was ugly.
That I wasn’t as thin or as pretty as her.
I think if it wasn’t for Raph and his constant support, I would’ve developed an eating disorder.
He saved me in that way. He made me accept myself the way I was.
I pull out one sleeve, and when he sees me wincing and struggling with the other, he drags it off with care.
“I’ve got you,” he reassures me, holding my hand in his, staring into me like he never wants to let go.
Squirming a little, I shift uncomfortably.
“Does it hurt?” He pitches me a concentrated stare as his jaw tics. “Do you need more pain meds?” He peers at my shoulder, starting to unwrap the gauze.
I shake my head, the concern stitched on his features has my stomach tightening with knots. I’ve been without it for so long—his affection—it’s almost foreign, yet comforting all at once.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, glancing to catch his eye.