Chapter 18 #2
The bluntness startled a real laugh out of me. "Yeah, well. That's why I left him. Sure, he was rich, good looking, knew exactly how to please me, did that thing where he bit my neck in just the right spot, but he was never around. Probably out fucking some bimbo."
Matt’s jaw flexed. "Some people are hard to explain."
I ignored the cryptic comment. "Doesn’t matter now. Soon as I’m out of here, I’m going. First thing. Disney World, here I come."
"Alone?"
The question was quiet. Too quiet.
"What?"
"You said ‘first thing.’ You gonna go alone?"
I stared at him. The idea of Matt Spencer wandering around Magic Kingdom was absurd. But then I saw it—the tension in his shoulders.
"You—" I swallowed. "You’d want to?"
His Adam’s apple bobbed. "I’ve never been either."
The admission hit me hard. Matt Spencer. Gorath. Never been to Disney World.
"You’re serious."
He nodded once.
"Okay," I said.
His breath caught slightly. "Okay."
Then his stomach growled. Loudly.
Matt froze, eyes widening. I burst out laughing.
"Oh my God. Gorath. The indestructible Gorath is hangry."
His scowl deepened, but there was no heat in it. "Shut up."
"Make me."
For a second, he just looked at me. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, and he laughed. A rough, rumbling sound that transformed him. He looked beautiful.
Then it was gone, walls back up. But I’d seen it.
I cleared my throat. "So. You gonna feed me, or what?"
He turned toward the fridge. "What do you want?"
"Surprise me."
The first bite of the taco was better than it had any right to be. It was suspicious. Food this good usually came with a catch, like a fifty-dollar price tag or a bout of food poisoning that made you pray for death.
I chewed slowly, eyeing it like it was evidence.
Matt watched me from across the table, his frame folded into the chair, taking up space like he was born to it, and the rest of the world was just renting.
"Good?" His voice was gravel.
"Yeah. It’s annoying." I took another bite. "It tastes like joy. I’m not used to joy. I’m used to microwave burritos that taste like wet cardboard and despair."
"Microwave meals are a crime against humanity."
"Microwave meals are survival, big guy. Says the guy who probably hunts his own cows with his bare hands."
He laughed. "I do grill my own vegetables. And my own meat. And my own—"
"Okay, caveman. I get it. You make fire. You cook beast. You want a gold star?"
"I am usually better at cooking for myself than others."
"Yeah, well, I can tell Donovan is the one that likes cooking for the group. His food tastes like a hug. Yours tastes like... aggressive protein." I wiped a drip of salsa from my lip. "So, pop quiz. What’s your favorite Disney movie?"
He leaned back, the chair groaning in protest. He considered it like I’d asked him to solve a physics equation. "The Lion King."
"Let me guess. You relate to Mufasa. Big, stoic, dies tragically?"
"Nah. Simba. The part where he’s running from his past, thinking he can’t go back. That he doesn’t deserve to."
The taco tasted like ash suddenly. I set it down.
"Okay, wow. That is surprisingly deep for a Tuesday night. You just took a cartoon about singing lions and turned it into a therapy session."
"You’d be surprised what a man thinks about when he’s got nothing but time and a weight he can’t lift."
I exhaled. "Fine. You want mine? Hercules."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Because Meg is the only Disney princess who understands that men are trash until proven otherwise. 'I'm a damsel, I'm in distress, I can handle this.' That is my biography." I swirled my wine. "And because Hades is the hottest villain. Blue fire? Runs a dungeon? Daddy material."
Matt chuckled. "You’ve got a type."
"Oh, and what’s that?"
"Dangerous men with bad reputations."
I set my wine down harder than I meant to. "Excuse me. I don’t have a type. I have a rap sheet of bad decisions. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. I have standards now. They’re low—like, 'must not currently be incarcerated' low—but they exist."
"Standards," he repeated slowly. "Like what?"
"Like not being a fucking liar," I snapped. "But hey, if you’re volunteering to be vetted, I’ve got a list. It’s longer than the health code violations at my last waitressing job."
"I’d read it."
"It’s not a fun list. It’s a survival guide."
"I didn’t say it had to be fun. Just honest."
The silence stretched tight.
"Fine," I said, leaning back. "Rule number one: No bullshit. If you’re gonna be with me, commit. Don't treat me like a Netflix free trial. None of this half-in, half-out shit."
Matt nodded once. "Agreed."
"Number two: You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle. I grew up in the system. I’m made of gristle and cheap vodka. I’m not fragile."
"Never thought you were."
"Good." I leaned forward. "Number three: If you hurt me, I won't cry. I will hurt you back. And I play dirtier. I know where you sleep, and I know how to use bleach."
The corner of his mouth quirked. "Noted."
"And four—" My voice caught, the sarcasm slipping for just a second. "If you’re in, you’re in. No disappearing. No ghosting. No going out for cigarettes and never coming back. Do not make me wonder if I’m crazy for actually giving a damn."
The room went still. Matt reached out, covering my wrist with his palm. His skin was rough, hot, and engulfed my entire arm.
"I wouldn’t," he said, low and certain. "Not with you."
I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve made a joke about his giant man-hands. But his thumb was tracing circles over my pulse point, and my brain short-circuited.
"You don’t even know me," I whispered. "I'm a mess. I'm a disaster waiting to happen."
"I know enough." His voice was a growl. "I know you’re smarter than you let on. I know you’ve got a temper like a lit fuse. And with a list like that... sounds like you are more into heroes than villains."
My breath hitched. "That is... the cheesiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Did you read that inside a fortune cookie?"
"Yeah." His thumb pressed harder, grounding me. "And I know you liked it."
I couldn't deny it. The way he was looking at me... it made it hard to breathe.
"You’re dangerous," I said softly.
"So are you." His free hand came up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "But I think we both know that’s not a bad thing."
I swallowed. "What are you doing, Matt?"
His answer was to lean in, slow, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His breath was warm against my lips, smelling faintly of beer and something darker, something him. “What I’ve wanted to do since the first time you called me ‘Gorath’ like it was an insult.”
“And what’s that?”
His hand slid up my arm, over my shoulder, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. Not hard. Not yet. But enough to make my scalp prickle, enough to make my back arch just a little, pressing my chest closer to his.
“Prove to you,” he murmured, his lips brushing mine with every word, “that you’re not the only one who’s been waiting.”
Then his mouth was on mine, and oh fuck, it wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry, like he’d been starving for this, for me, and now that he had me, he wasn’t letting go.
His lips were firm, demanding, his beard scratchy against my chin as his tongue pushed past my teeth, claiming me.
I gasped, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss, his hand in my hair tightening just enough to tilt my head back, to open me up to him.
I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve remembered all the reasons this was a bad idea.
But his other hand was on my waist now, pulling me closer, and the heat of him was overwhelming, the sheer size of him making me feel small in a way I never let myself be.
His chest was a wall against mine, his thighs spreading to make room for me as I found myself straddling his lap without even realizing I’d moved.
His cock was hard beneath me, thick and heavy against my ass, and I rocked into it without thinking, a whimper escaping my throat. Matt groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine, his grip on my hair tightening as he pulled back just enough to speak.
“Fuck, Amanda,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Every damn time you walk into a room.”
I should’ve had a comeback. Should’ve said something sharp, something to cut the tension. But all I could manage was a breathless, “Matt—”
“Shh.” His mouth found my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point before he sucked, hard enough to leave a mark. “Just let me have this. Let me taste you.”
His hands were everywhere, one still fisted in my hair, the other sliding under my shirt, calloused fingers tracing the waistband of my jeans before dipping beneath, finding bare skin. I gasped as his touch seared me, his thumb pressing into the dip of my spine as he pulled me tighter against him.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmured against my collarbone, his beard scraping my skin. “I knew you would be.”
I arched into him, my nails digging into his shoulders. “You don’t know shit.”
His chuckle was dark, triumphant. “I know you’re wet for me.” His hand slid lower, fingers teasing the edge of my jeans. “Aren’t you?”
I should’ve lied. Should’ve told him to go to hell. But the way his fingers were pressing against me, the way his cock was throbbing beneath me—fuck, I was wet. Soaking.
“Yes,” I breathed, and his growl was pure, possessive satisfaction.
“Good girl.” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my jeans, beneath my panties, and there—oh god, there—his thick fingers found my clit, already swollen, already aching. He circled it once, twice, and my hips jerked, a broken sound tearing from my throat.
“Matt, fuck—”
“That’s it,” he rumbled, his lips against my ear. “Let me hear you. Want the whole damn building to know who’s making you feel this good.”