Chapter 15 KATIE
KATIE
I don’t know which is more surreal, the fact that I’m being held captive on my bed or the fact that I am being held captive on my bed by a mostly naked man who looks like he has been sculpted from fine marble.
He kissed me, walked me upstairs to my bedroom, and gently laid me down on the bed.
I watched him undress in awe, his perfectly toned muscles flexing with each movement.
When he climbed onto the bed beside me, my ovaries exploded.
He kissed me again like he hadn’t just sucked the breath from my lungs mere moments before.
I could feel his arousal pressing into me, and I was all too willing to give in and let this man have me.
Then he pulled away.
He caged me between his arms, his hands tugging at my silk bonnet. “What are you wearing?”
I forgot I was wearing it. No wonder he pulled away.
“It’s for protecting my hair while I sleep,” I stammered, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me.
He chuckled softly; his eyes filled with amusement. “I’m all the protection you need,” he whispered, curling his body into mine as he pressed his lips against my neck. “Goodnight, bug.”
I underestimated his weight as he pressed against me, feeling the strength of his embrace. I was only able to move my arms slightly, wrapping them around his back, feeling every muscle and contour.
That was at 3 AM.
It is now 10.30, and he refuses to let me leave the bed for anything but using the bathroom and feeding my piggies.
Thankfully, I had a book on my locker that I could reach without disturbing him.
Aiden’s head is practically stuck to my chest, I can feel the sweat dampening my shirt as we lie, tangled together. It’s strange; this is the most intimate that I’ve ever been with a man, and we haven’t even had sex yet.
“Manson fan?” He mumbles, his head wiggling slightly as he tries to get comfortable. I chuckle softly, running my fingers through his damp hair.
“That’s a hard no. I don’t know why they stick him on these books. He was a cult leader, not a murderer. Bundy would be more appropriate.”
Aiden shifts his weight, his breath warm against my neck. “People did die because of him, bug.”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t the one holding the knife. Those other arseholes should be renowned for the crimes; all Manson did was give the word.”
“And that’s not enough?”
“If you told me to jump from a bridge or have barnyard sex with a goat, would you be responsible for my actions?”
Aiden laughs, his voice vibrating against my skin. “Ok, ok, I get your point. Manson shouldn’t be glorified for the actions of others.”
“Aqua Tofana,” I say, in my best Bailey Sarian voice.
Aiden raises his perspiring head from my chest, a damp smacking sound accompanies his movement. “Aqua what?”
“Aqua Tofana,” I repeat with the same dramatic flair. “A 17th-century poison made famous by the infamous Italian woman Giulia Tofana. It was a colourless and tasteless poison that she sold to women seeking to escape abusive marriages.”
“You really know your shit when it comes to serial killers.”
“What can I say?” I shrug with a smirk. “I have a morbid fascination with true crime and the dark side of history.”
Aiden stretches his arms above his head, a tired smile playing on his lips. “That’s why you got me.”
“You’re a serial killer now?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
Aiden chuckles, pulls the book from my hands, and tosses it over his shoulder. “The worst kind, baby.”
“Worse than Aqua Tafana?” Sliding my hands around his neck, I pull him closer.
“Poison is a woman’s weapon, bug. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.” Aiden’s eyes gleam mischievously as he leans in, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I prefer a more personal touch, you know? Something that leaves a lasting impression.”
How can he disturb me and turn me feral with just a few words?
“So what’s your M.O.?” I grin against his lips.
“Right now,” he sits up and pulls me with him. “It’s getting us into a shower. Then food.”
“No BTK reenactments?”
He grins at me, my legs wrapped around his waist as he carries me towards the bathroom. “Only if you ask me nicely.”
I don’t have a new build like Aiden, or a particularly lavish one at that. My house was built in the 1980s; the rooms are small, and the layout is outdated. But it’s mine. It’s home, and I’m halfway through its transformation into making it feel like my own.
I don’t have an en-suite, so Aiden is forced to carry me through my narrow landing and into my teeny-tiny (compared to his en-suite) bathroom with a laugh. It would have been cuter if I were shorter. My legs dangle awkwardly, catching the door frame as he navigates through.
He reaches into the shower, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature so he doesn’t singe his pubes or freeze his balls off. “Right, bug,” he spins to me, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “Strip.”
I don’t know why, but I freeze, standing motionless in response to his command.
“You ok, bug?” Aiden asks with a concerned tone, his grin fading slightly. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch my arm.
A million thoughts fly through my head as his hand makes contact with my skin.
I haven’t shaved.
I don’t want him to see my jiggly bits.
I have cellulite dimples on my arse, not the cute kind.
My boobs are closer to my belly button than my chin without a bra.
In that moment, I feel a surge of insecurity and vulnerability, as if all my flaws are on display for him to see. I pull away, avoiding his touch and forcing a smile.
“Ok,” Aiden steps back as if reading my thoughts. “I’ll go first, but I’m going to warn you, I’m a grower, not a shower.” He boops me on the nose. “So don’t fucking laugh.”
I do just that, grateful for him interrupting my self-deprecating thoughts.
He makes quick work of his boxers, tossing them aside.
Aiden steps toe to toe with me, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Don’t hide from me, Katie.” His fingers tug at the edge of my shirt, gently urging me to let go of my insecurities.
I blow out a breath, lift my arms, and let the shirt fall to the ground.
Aiden’s lips tug into a soft smile as he takes in the soft curves of my body.
He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, whispering, “You’re beautiful, Katie.
” I feel him at the band of pyjama bottoms, his fingers begin to slowly slide them down my hips.
He drops to his knees in front of me, removing the last barrier between us.
His eyes lock on my Medusa tattoo, and his nostrils flare. He reaches out and traces the intricate design with his fingertips, and my spine snaps ramrod straight. You can no longer see my scars thanks to Cillian’s handiwork, but you can still feel the weight of my past etched into my skin.
Aiden releases a breath, his head pressing against my stomach as he takes in the sight of my tattoo. The intensity in his gaze tells me that he understands the significance behind it, and a sense of vulnerability washes over me.
He’s going to run.
They always run.
Maybe it’s for the best. He can leave before I get any more attached. But as I prepare myself for the inevitable rejection, Aiden surprises me by gently placing a kiss on my tattoo. “Who hurt you, baby?”
Nope. Not ready for this conversation. My windpipe is already constricting.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, desperately searching for a way to divert the conversation. Aiden’s question lingers in the air, begging for an answer that I’m not ready to give. “Who didn’t.”
Please, someone just glue my mouth shut.
He stays on his knees, his gaze fixed on the tattoo as if he wants to burn its image into his memory. His lips find the largest scar, hidden under one of the snakes coiled around the rose. “I told you my dad died when I was sixteen.” His hot breath whispers against my skin.
Aiden pushes himself up off the ground, his gaze still locked onto the tattoo. “What I didn’t tell you is that,” his eyes flit to mine. “I killed him.”
I know what he’s doing; he’s opening up to me in the hopes that I’ll trust him enough with my own secrets. What I cannot figure out is why he would tell me something so personal; we barely know each other. Is he trying to manipulate me, or is he genuinely seeking a connection?
He must take my silence for horror because he continues to speak, his voice wavering slightly. “He was an addict. He’d get shitfaced and disappear for days, even weeks, on end, and when he did show up, he’d end up kicking the shite out of me, Robbie, or my mother.”
“I can imagine.” I really can. It happened to me with both my parents. I know what it’s like to grow up in a volatile and abusive environment.
I don’t even notice him leading me to the shower; one minute we’re in the middle of my bathroom, and the next we’re standing under warm water.
“He fractured my mam’s eye socket and broke her arm two days after my sixteenth birthday.
” His hands are in my hair as he gently massages shampoo into my scalp.
“He disappeared for a few days and came back half-tanked about a week later. Mam was sleeping; the painkillers knocked her out, she didn’t hear him coming home.
Robbie was at a sleepover.” He brushes the suds out of my hair and rinses it thoroughly.
“I heard him coming and wanted none of it. So, I met him at the top of the stairs. He threw me down, and I tumbled to the bottom.” He gives me a warm grin as he reaches for the conditioner.
“It didn’t take me long to get back up. I didn’t feel the pain; I was too angry.
I jumped for him, using the banister as leverage, and pulled him back by the scruff of the neck.
He fell like a sack of shit and broke his neck on impact. ”
I reach out, wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him tightly. “And you never told anyone?”