Chapter 33 Reverie
REVERIE
Dreadful Sharpe told me he’s in love with me.
And now, he’s pissed. Again.
He made a point to state he’s not mad at me, just the situation. Yet, he’s seething like I’m the culprit, and I’m sitting here wondering what the hell he expects me to do about it.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’ve only been awake for approximately two hours.
I spent one of those hours on all fours getting absolutely railed, and I refuse to be ashamed of how many times I tried to run.
Alas, I kept getting dragged back to hell by the demon intent on turning me into a spit roast with his dick.
Turns out, he was taking out all his anger on my vagina, and I’m pretty sure I’m missing a goddamn vertebra or three.
Now, he fumes at me from across the room, standing with his arms crossed and jaw set. His carry-on suitcase is next to him, and I’m pretty sure if he had an ounce less of maturity, he’d kick it just to make a point.
Meanwhile, I sit on the edge of his bed so I’m facing him, mildly annoyed. The only reason I’m not more frustrated is the damn backward hat on his head. I’m convinced he knows how much of my weakness it is.
He and Rogue have to fly out to Florida today for the D1 National Championship for their college swim team, meaning he’ll be gone for the next three days, and he’s having a total meltdown over it.
Technically, he’s been having a meltdown since he came home from practice yesterday, having been reminded of it.
We got back from the cottage two days ago, and I guess, with everything going on and him perpetually sticking his dick inside me, he’d gotten the dates mixed up in his head and thought he wasn’t flying out for another week.
“Come with me.”
I roll my eyes. It’s probably the twenty-seventh time he’s said that since yesterday. I’m fully prepared to summon Satan himself to come get a handle on his minion and tell Dread to leave me the hell alone.
I’m so. Fucking. Sore.
“We’ve had this conversation so many times in so many different ways, I could write a play about it,” I complain.
“I told you, I can’t. Midterms are this week.
And no, you can’t go hunt down my professors and demand they let me test early just because you want me to come.
They probably wouldn’t even allow it if you tried. ”
He narrows his eyes. “It’s not just because I want you to, Reverie. You have a serial killer or five stalking you, depending on how many fucking people Lionel has convinced to help him. I’m two seconds from demanding Barry put you in fucking witness protection.”
I tip my head back and groan loudly.
“Only if they hide me from you, too.”
The second I drop my chin, my stomach drops, too, and I immediately realize my grave error. He stares at me with his brows raised while the muscle in his jaw pulsates.
“Say that one more time,” he challenges, his voice deepening. Every hair on my body stands on end.
Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.
I force out an awkward laugh. “Just kiddin’.”
He doesn’t laugh. My lips press into a thin line, and I turn my attention to the side to admire the window. The sunlight shining through the blinds looks super pretty. It’s even creating sparkles and shit on the surface of his desk nearby.
Absolutely stunning.
“Rev.”
“Hmm?” I return my focus to him with a tight-lipped smile, trying my best to appear innocent.
My palms are sweating.
He uncrosses an arm to point to the floor between us.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there doesn’t appear to be a single obstacle in the five feet between us that would prevent me from bending you over my knee and spanking your ass raw.”
I grimace then clear my throat before nervously responding, “It would, uh, appear you are not wrong.”
The tense silence continues for several more beats, and just when I’m prepared to throw something at him and bolt, he shakes his head and scoffs. “You’re really fucking lucky I respect you now.”
I slump and expel a sigh of relief. “Great, because I’m pretty sure my vagina has its own heartbeat.”
His lips twitch. “You walked out of the bathroom hobbling, and that’s the only reason you can still sit.”
Arching a brow, I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “I can barely do that now.”
I narrow my eyes. The dickhead looks far too pleased by that response, and I decide I hate him again.
His lips twitch as he approaches, closing the distance between us before crouching and pressing his chest into my knees. His massive hands grab my calves, and I barely suppress a shudder from the feel of his skin against mine.
I’m only wearing a pair of underwear and one of his T-shirts, which I’m swimming in, reaching mid-thigh. He almost tore it right back off again when he first saw it on me, but he refrained as soon as he clocked my agonized expression with every step I took.
He peers up at me, and my heart skips a beat as I take in the dark blue rings around the outer edge of his irises. A divot forms between his brows, and the corners of his mouth curve down. His concern is palpable, and I can’t help but melt.
I lift my fingers to his face and run my thumb over his upper cheek, right where his dimple hides. He leans into my touch, and his lashes flutter, as if the simplest brush of my thumb is orgasmic.
I’m not used to… this.
I’ve gotten somewhat used to the sex part. It’s easier to accept when I can justify it as basic carnal instinct between two individuals with really fucked-up chemistry.
But the softness? The feelings? Love?
That’s where I struggle. It feels so alien to touch him like this, to see him gaze at me with care and warmth.
It used to feel so cold when he’d turn his eyes my way. Now, I finally understand why he’s like the sun, because now, I’m only cold when he looks away.
A part of me still resents that, though, which is why I can’t find the voice to say how I feel. He’s said nothing about it since after the cottage, but I have a feeling it’s only bothering him because he knows I love him yet refuse to say it.
But how can I tell him I love him when a little part of me still hates him? Or maybe I just hate what he’s done to me—and that I don’t hate him despite it.
“Severen is going to be here the whole time,” I say quietly. “Our schedules work out pretty well, since most of his midterms are online.”
“It’s not enough,” he argues. “I trust Severen with my life, and I trust him with yours, but he’s only one man, and we don’t know how many people Lionel has helping him.
We still don’t know who threw the box at the window, and it’s really fucking hard to keep you safe when we don’t know who we should keep you safe from.
Maybe you should ask Barry to get another agent to watch over you or something. Someone who’s trained and can see—”
“I’ll ask him,” I say quickly. “I get it. Lionel is clearly escalating, and I’ve been thinking about it.
He’s said before that he has friends outside of prison, and even though I don’t remember him ever bringing any of them around when I was a kid, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. But I’m also wondering if it’s someone he connected with in prison.
Maybe someone who got out and benefited from Lionel’s nonprofit or something?
I could see why they might feel like they owe it to Lionel.
Or who knows, Lionel could’ve found an abundance of ways to gain favors from prisoners over the past decade.
If the man is anything, he’s resourceful.
So you’re right—we have no idea who we’re dealing with. ”
He nods slowly, but his concern has only deepened. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned a possible ex-con stalking me, but it’s exactly why it’s stupid to continue to reject extra help from Barry.
Until the black box, I convinced myself Lionel wouldn’t possibly risk having so many people help him, but clearly, I was being na?ve.
Despite it still feeling wrong, I can’t claim to know Lionel best. He’s spent over a decade in prison.
Who knows the ways he’s changed over the years?
It’s obvious I no longer recognize the monster I once knew.
Without thinking, I lean forward and press my mouth against Dread’s, driven purely by the inherent need to ease his worry.
Except, it’s a huge mistake, because as soon as the first spark ignites, it’s impossible to let it die. I grasp either side of his face, moving my lips with his in a slow, sensual dance that leaves us both breathless.
I’ve trained for this moment, and he was built for it. Neither of us needs to come up for air, content to drown so slowly in one another, we’ll never feel the agony in dying, only the peace in ascending.
His muscles swell with tension, and I can feel him restraining himself.
His hands tighten around my calves, as if to both keep him grounded and refrain from moving them elsewhere, to more dangerous places.
For once, he allows me to lead, despite his constant need to dominate me.
It’s rare for him, and it makes it all the more gratifying when his lips part for me and I lick his tongue.
His immediate whimper tastes divine, making it impossible to resist going back for more. His grip becomes bruising, but I hardly feel it in the wake of inhaling his staggered breath.
It’s criminal how my body lights up for him, how it gives no fucks how battered I feel after the past thirty-six hours of him fucking me in every position he could think of.
Orgasms were becoming painful, and I was getting incredibly lightheaded from trying to temper my screaming so as not to wake the entire building, which included a lot of holding my breath.
He even depleted his phone’s battery at one point from the array of pictures and videos he took, and I’m positive some of them would even make the fucking devil blush.