Chapter 25 #3
Of course he’s probably forgotten, given what just happened to him. Or maybe he’s just suffering, and doesn’t want me to see him in this vulnerable state.
I should leave.
Sighing, I stand up, the now-familiar pain in my bottom soothing me. I’m ready to creep away when a window pops open on the second floor, and Quill, his hair wet and naked except for his boxers, looks out.
He flashes me one of those dark looks that tell me I’m in trouble. Which he confirms a second later.
“Thought I told you to stay put,” he hisses. Then he adds, “Climb up.”
I nearly choke out a laugh as I stare up at his window.
How the hell am I supposed to climb up?
A second later, a thick rope flies down to the ground. A rope that I definitely recognize, since it seems to be a fixture in his backpack, and he’s used it to tie me up to my bedpost on more than one occasion.
This time, I actually do snort. No way am I climbing up that. First of all, because I’m scared of heights. Second of all, because we once did rope climbing in gym class, and I discovered I absolutely do not have the upper body strength necessary to get more than three inches off the ground.
Quill rolls his eyes, then disappears once more into the bedroom. Crap. Is that it? Has he gone to bed, and left me here?
I’m just starting to regret not at least trying to climb up when he reappears. He must have just secured the rope to something, because the next minute, he’s going down as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, then seizing me and swinging me over his shoulder.
“Quill!” I breathe out, but he barely gives me a second to react before he’s climbing back up the rope.
I claw at his back, terrified, my eyes looking straight at the ground that we’re rapidly getting farther away from. Especially since he’s let go of me to swing up the rope.
I know it’s only two floors, but I really am terrified of heights.
One of his hands leaves the rope for a second to smack my butt.
“Stop wriggling around or I’ll really you have it,” he growls, and I wonder if he can feel the wetness that coats my thighs with a thick sheen at those words.
I do my best to stay still as he pushes me over the windowsill, then topples in after me.
My heart is racing, and I’ve been shivering uncontrollably since I overheard the beating, but I still manage to glance around the room curiously.
It’s the first time I’m here, since we’re mostly at my place, or outside.
I don’t wonder anymore at that, now that I know the kind of home life Quill has.
His room is big but pretty bare, just a bed on one side with off-white sheets, across from which is perched a big TV on a chest of drawers. There’s a desk on the other side of the room with a laptop on it, precariously balancing on… a gun.
I don’t have time to comment on that before I feel Quill’s hand on my chin as he turns me so I’m facing him.
He’s looking… remorseful.
“Are you cold?”
No. Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m shivering. I can’t bear to tell him the truth, though.
Instead, I blurt out, “With everything you do to me, you feel bad that I’m cold?”
He gives me a little smirk, then whips the leather jacket off my shoulders, ignoring my yelp of protest, before surrounding me with the thick comforter from his bed.
I whimper in regret at the loss of his jacket, but the comforter is nice.
Especially as he wraps it tightly around me before lifting me off my feet and carrying me to his bed.
I snuggle against his chest in silence for a bit, my heart full with everything I want to tell him.
I’m so sorry. I wish I could share your pain. I’m so very sorry, Quill.
But the words can’t seem to leave my mouth. It’s rare for me to be silent, and Quill must notice something’s wrong, though he doesn’t say a word, only stroking my hair and kissing me, just as silent as me.
He’s not giving any sign of being in pain, though his eye and cheek are shiny and red, and I can tell bruises are forming there.
He’s the first to break the silence. “I want you to stay.”
I wish I could. I really wish I could.
But the words I say instead are, “Dad will be worried about me if I don’t come home soon. He’s probably already nervous. I bet he’s out searching for me or something. I bet–”
Thankfully, Quill kisses me again, stopping the word vomit that’s about to leave my lips.
I hate myself for talking so much, and for sounding so overprotected, so unlike the wild boy whose arms are still firmly clasped around me.
Also because I’m suddenly aware that his dad clearly does not give a crap about him, or about what he does.
Just as long as he’s present for his soldier training.
Abruptly, Quill lets me go and climbs back down the window.
I sit up, chewing nervously on my lip, wondering if I’ve annoyed him. But he’s back up a few seconds later with my jeans.
So I can get dressed? So I can leave?
I know I really should leave, but I wish Quill hadn’t given in to me so easily. Still, I love Dad so much, and I would feel so guilty if I worried him.
But instead, Quill rummages in the jeans’ pockets till he finds my phone.
He puts in my code, and I just have time to wonder how the hell he knows it when he starts typing out a message.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Telling your dad you’re staying at a friend’s house.”
“Quill!” I sputter. “He’ll know I’m lying. He knows I don’t have friends!”
He merely shrugs, completely unbothered, and clambers back onto the bed.
“Give me the phone. I need to at least tell him a better lie,” I groan.
Instead, he tosses the phone straight out of the window, and I hear a soft sound as it lands in the shrubbery below.
“Quill!” I gasp out yet again. “My parents paid a lot of money for that! If it’s broken, I won’t be able to get another one!”
He pins me down to the bed. “It’s a cheap model. Can’t have cost you more than two hundred, can it?”
“That’s two hundred more than they can afford.
” I twist my hands nervously, wondering if my phone really is dead.
I don’t use it for anything other than to call my parents, but I know they won’t want me to be without a phone.
Well, Mom wouldn’t care. But Dad would get nervous if we had no way to reach each other.
He’d buy me a new one, even though he really can’t afford it.
Quill pauses, his face inches from mine, looking like he’s suddenly deep in thought. “You know I’ll take care of you, cricket,” he says at last. “That’s my job from now on, not your parents’. I won’t let you worry about silly things like money. I’ll take care of you.”
I let out a shuddering sigh as I cross his gaze, which is more tender than any look he’s given me before.
It’s like suddenly, he’s not seeing me as a possession that he fully believes is his right to punish whenever he feels like, no matter how I feel about it–though luckily, it just so happens I feel pretty good about it.
Now, he’s looking at me like I’m his. Not just my body, but my mind, my heart. I’m his, not just to own, but to love.
I want to show him how much that means to me, but instead, my stupid mouth blurts out, “But you’re apparently not getting a cent from your dad, so I don’t see how you can buy me a new phone.”
His eyes darken, and I bite my lip, wishing I could take back those words. “Quill,” I stammer, “I wasn’t trying to overhear, it’s just…”
After a short pause, he kisses me again. “I’ve got my first contract coming up, and I’m going to spend it all on you.”
No, no, no. I don’t want him to kill for me, if that’s what he means by contract. I’d make my dad pay for a thousand phones before I’d want him to spill one drop of blood.
I’m shaking my head furiously, but he merely deepens the kiss, ignoring my frantic reaction. Then he draws back suddenly and says, “What’s your favorite movie?”
“Uh…” I’m not much of a movie watcher, plus, I’m kind of taken aback by the sudden turn in conversation. “I guess anything with a good mystery. I like mysteries.”
“Yes, you do.” He gives me another kiss before flipping over, his hand reaching for the remote control that’s on the floor beside the bed. Then he turns on the TV.
Oh, okay. We’re watching a movie now? I’m kind of intrigued by this new, nonsexual way of spending our time together, but at the same time, just being near him makes my hormones go into overdrive, so this is definitely a disappointment.
“What about your favorite movie?” I ask, leaning back on his one pillow, wishing he’d replace it with his arm. But he’s sitting up, flipping through the channels until he finds something that looks mystery-ish.
“My favorite movie is your favorite movie,” he says simply, as he turns to me with a wicked look in his eyes. “Anyway, I won’t be watching.”
I frown in confusion as he tosses off the comforter that’s already loose around me, nudges my thighs apart then settles himself between them.
“Take your shirt off,” he orders, and blushing, I do as he says. Then I look down at him, but he adds, “And keep your eyes on the movie.”
It’s hard to follow that instruction when I feel his tongue suddenly lick my folds. “Quill!” I squeak out.
His hands travel up to tweak my nipples hard, and he growls, “Behave, cricket,” before giving me another lick.
I’m already squirming around beneath him, between the pain searing my nipples and his tongue licking my folds, when one of his hands leaves my nipple to travel to my butt and pinches it even harder.
“Eyes on the screen,” he threatens again, and swallowing a protest, I train my gaze back to whatever stupid, boring movie he’s just put on.