Chapter Three #2
Still, I don’t move. Not even when the silence downstairs sets in as everyone retires. Instead, my mind reverts back to the day Kristin and I first moved in together. We’d pooled our savings to buy necessities but still couldn’t even afford a bed.
“Someday, we’ll move out of this place,” she told me that first night while we lay on a futon, staring up at the ceiling, feeling incredibly proud of ourselves.
“I’ll become a model and earn millions upon millions of dollars, then we’ll move out of this place and into a nicer one.
We’ll meet guys and date. Oh Rosie, I can’t wait to fall in love.
My guy will have muscles for days and a charming smile. What about yours?”
“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “I’ve never thought about it. Growing up, I just wanted to find a job and give my parents something better than the life we could never quite escape. Now, maybe I’ll give it some thought. I’d like him to be strong and have a nice smile too, I guess.”
We giggled at that, giddy with joy at our newfound freedom and a home of our own. The same home that now has been trampled by monsters and violated by strangers.
I swipe a hand over my wet cheeks, tempted to burrow deeper into the covers, but I force myself to climb out of bed. I’m parched, and after all the tears, I could use a glass of water. Maybe a little walk will help with my restless mind.
The hallway is dark when I step outside, and all the lights are turned off.
The house is quiet, a hushed stillness that tells me Beau and the dogs must’ve gone to bed.
I tiptoe down the stairs, careful not to make a sound and alert them.
I have every intention of grabbing a bottle of water and going back to my room, but as I push the kitchen door open, the faint moonlight filtering through the window catches my eye, and I freeze.
There, by the window, is the silhouette of a man perched on a stool, his profile turned toward the inky blackness of the night. A glass rests in his hand, dark liquid catching the faint moonlight—whiskey, I can smell the peat.
He doesn’t move, not even when I enter the kitchen and I know he can hear my footsteps.
I feel a twinge in my chest as I move deeper into the room, my eyes on the solitary figure as I grab a bottle of water from his fridge, open the cap, and take a sip.
He doesn’t move, not even when I over and take the stool beside him, turning to the open window and staring out at the wide expanse of the dark clouds.
“Thank you,” I whisper, rolling the bottle cap between my fingers as I watch the night. “For letting me stay here with you. I know I’m not your responsibility, but you’re helping me.”
“Anyone would have done the same.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, turning to the man. “I’ve been in this world long enough to know not everyone stops when someone falls. Some people go out of their way to trample and kick you while you are down.”
This time, he turns too and fixes those dark eyes on me. For a couple of heartbeats, he doesn’t say a word, simply stares at me, and I feel my pulse grow heavy and quick in my ears. Something about that penetrating look undoes me, adding to the storm of emotions already churning inside me.
I look away first, squeezing my thighs together at the sudden ache and clearing my throat. I smooth my hair in a nervous gesture, confused by the way heat creeps through me beneath the weight of his attention.
“I spoke to my cop friend this evening. They’re making progress, but not as quickly as they were hoping,” he tells me, pulling my focus back to his.
“They believe your friend isn’t the first girl this group has kidnapped.
They found other items at the house belonging to other women. They’re working to ID them.”
“Oh God,” I whisper, horrified even though a part of me suspected this to be a trafficking ring. Still, getting confirmation only makes it worse.
“They seem to believe that these people target women who don’t have a family or someone who would look for them.”
“Does that mean they’ve been watching us, stalking us? Did they know about us before they approached Kristin?”
“It’s possible,” Beau says, making me gasp. I push off the stool to pace, but he catches my wrist before I can, stopping me. “They were wrong this time, Rosalie. Kristin has family. She has you.”
“But she’s still gone!” I cry out. “If…oh God, if only I’d stopped her, then she wouldn’t be out there with those horrible people. I was getting ready for work, and she was out with that horrible man and h-he…oh God…I can’t—”
“Breathe!”
My chest feels tight, like it’s being squeezed by an invisible hand.
Breathing feels like trying to pull air through a straw, and the command barely penetrates my subconscious.
The room starts to spin and the edges of my vision blur right as calloused fingers take my face and force me to meet those intense, green eyes.
“Breathe,” he commands again, his thumb stroking my cheeks in such a soft way despite the darkness in his eyes. “Breathe, little bird. Slow…with me.”
I try to follow his lead, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, on the rhythm of his voice.
Slowly, so slowly, the tightness in my chest begins to ease, the spinning slows and the edges of the room start to come back into focus.
His hands remain on my face, stroking me, grounding me, and in turn, lighting a fire underneath my skin, one that shifts my focus and aches to be soothed.
I move first.
I’ve barely caught my breath, but I move into him, pressing my lips against his, tasting the whiskey on his lips.
For one horrifying moment, he freezes against me, and I’m convinced that I’ve lost my mind and made a terrible mistake.
I am about to step back, apologize, and flee back to my room when a hand snakes into my hair, grips tight, and I’m pulled hard against him, his warm mouth slamming back on mine with enough fever to shock my body into a swarm of emotions.
I gasp against his lips, my sex growing wet almost instantly. It’s an unfamiliar feeling.
I taste the whiskey on his lips and on his tongue when he deepens the kiss, shuddering against him when his thumb strokes my earlobe in such a soft contrast to the fire burning between us.
I begin to tremble with need unlike anything I’ve felt before, scaling my hands over the man’s torso, bunching my hands over his shirt and yanking him against me.
Wanting…
But I’ve never done this before. I’ve never kissed anyone, much less someone with the intoxicating taste of whiskey on their tongue and eyes that undo me like a frayed thread.
I can feel the thickness of his manhood pressed against me, hard and heavy.
Just the thought of something so large inside of me scares and intrigues me in equal measure.
It sends my head swimming, dizzy with feelings I don’t fully understand.
Still, I want…
“Beau…”
“You taste so fucking good, little bird,” he rasps against my lips, moving his left hand between us and making me whimper when he runs the back of his hand over my neckline and down until he’s touching my breasts. “Fuck, you feel so good. Tell me I can touch you. Goddamnit.”
“Touch me.” I need it. Christ, it doesn’t make sense, but I need it—him—like my next breath. “Touch me, please. Beau!”
His hands slide under my top, cupping my breast as he strokes and pinches my aching nipples with his thumb. I cry out, pushing into his hand as every thought in my brain scatters, replaced with a desperate kind of need. Desire unlike anything I’ve felt before.
Here it is, the distraction I’ve been craving. The comfort I’ve been seeking since my best friend went missing, perhaps even longer.
There is guilt that, in a time like this, I would want this with this man, someone I barely know, but I let myself take and be taken.
I scale my fingers over his strong muscles as his hand leaves my breast and slides down my stomach, moving lower, popping open the button of my jeans.
His eyes meet mine with a question in them as he slides that rough, calloused hand inside my panties and lowers it until he’s touching my core.
Fingertips delve into the wet valley of my feminine flesh.
I gasp, gripping his shoulders when he strokes my wet folds, jumping when his finger grazes my sensitive clit.
Those dark eyes find mine as he rubs over my opening, sending a fresh wave of need rocking through me. I gasp when he dips his finger into my sex, and my legs instinctively lock around his hand, clenching hard as my body reacts to the intrusion.
For one long second, there’s silence. Long and awkward, but even that does little to ease the need burning inside of me.
“You are a virgin.”
It’s not a question, and I’m not quite sure what answer would be favorable.
“I don’t want to stop,” I say instead. I’m not embarrassed by my virginity.
I never gave much thought to sex when all my focus was on building a life better than the one I had growing up.
I’m not a hopeless romantic like Kristin and haven’t allowed myself to get close to anyone who might keep me rooted in one place.
Now I find that I don’t care. Not when life has proven to be this unpredictable.
I just want to feel something—anything other than the piercing helplessness lodged in my chest.
“Rosalie—”
“Please,” I whisper, gripping his hand when he goes to move it. “Please don’t stop. Please…”
“Fuck!” He growls, stroking his thumb over my clit, those eyes locked on mine as he does.
“Oh God,” I cry out, dropping my head to his broad shoulder, my breathing tight and shallow but different somehow than before. This time, I make no effort to steady it. Not even when he yanks my pants and underwear down my thighs and a soft draft blows against my exposed sex.