Chapter 10 #2
I shot my eyes up and away from his hands, panicking that he’d heard my thoughts. “Yes,” I whispered, enjoying the warmth in his eyes.
Five short minutes later, Alex placed a bowl of steaming pasta in front of me. Carefully. Gently. He set it on the counter slowly and quietly, as if he was serving royalty. I gulped down the saliva pooling in my mouth just from the aroma.
I picked up the fork—also attentively placed beside a knife on a white napkin—and stuck it into the bowl, watching the Parmesan cheese snowflakes melt into the hot sauce.
“Are you Italian?” I asked, noticing the way he twirled the pasta onto his fork with expert precision.
“No,” he chuckled, watching me and waiting for me to start eating.
“What are you then?”
He melted into a soft smile, holding the big bowl of pasta in one hand. “You’re very curious. You know this isn’t a cross-examination, right?”
“We can make it one if you want,” I proposed, salivating at the prospect of trying the pasta. “You can ask me things too. If you respond to some of my questions.”
But then I placed a forkful of the pasta on my tongue and the flavors all but exploded in my mouth. Either I’d been starving, or this was the best bowl of pasta in the universe. The slightly burnt garlic, the soft cannellini beans, the delicious carbs—
I settled back into the chair and shut my eyes.
“You like it?”
I nodded, still with my eyes closed, a little embarrassed by my own reaction to a simple meal. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t the food.
It was the effort.
No one had ever cooked anything so…indulgent for me before. My father would cook when I was younger, but it was always transactional. Food’s in the fridge. Get yourself some dinner, he would say on the phone while staying late at the office every night.
I took another bite, concentrating on the way the flavors seeped into my taste buds. And then one more forkful.
“What do you think of the sauce?”
I couldn’t open my mouth to respond to him because I was too immersed. Too busy chewing the garlic, sucking the pasta into my mouth, and slurping on the sauce.
Gorging on this moment.
Without a word, Alex served me more. “Have you been starving here all this time?” he asked, his tone tinged with concern.
“Nuh-uh,” I mumbled through the food stuffed into my cheeks and my unstoppable smile. “I know how to cook. I just didn’t realize villains were professional chefs too.”
“You think I’m the villain?” he asked, curious and amused, keeping his eyes on me.
I shot my gaze to his, my mouth full. “Mm-hmm! You kidnapped me and locked me up in this house!”
“Would a villain cook you homemade pasta though?”
Alex finished his bowl and leaned against the counter, the sight of him so homey and domestic in the kitchen ravaging my soul.
Was he the villain?
I looked down at whatever was left over in my bowl and no longer had any clear idea of anything.
“More?”
I felt drunk—like I’d taken a few shots of tequila. Was it the pasta? Or Alex in sweatpants?
“I’m full. Villains make good food. Thank you.” Heat crept up my neck and I merely stole a glance at him, deciding it was safer to look away.
Suddenly, it was very quiet between us. I sat on the chair, and Alex stood in the kitchen with his arms crossed, as if we didn’t know how to move forward now.
One second.
Two.
Five.
“Movie?” he finally asked, and I sighed with relief, petrified of my own thoughts and the warmth in my abdomen. “No kidnapping plots.” He strolled past me into the living room and picked up the remote. “What if you realize you have Stockholm Syndrome? I’d never leave here.”
There was so much to unpack there. I hadn’t thought about him leaving, and at the same time…why? He had to leave at some point…right?
“I think you may be projecting.” I grabbed my jar of coconut oil and migrated to the couch, slumping down into the soft cushions. “I’m not the one cooking for you or paying for Netflix.”
And that’s when he sat down on the couch too, because of course, where else would he sit if we were watching TV?
Watching. TV. With the man who kidnapped me.
Tall and broad, he took up half the couch while I held the coconut oil jar like a shield. My insides were shaking at how reminiscent this was of family life.
I turned my attention to him, wanting to blurt it all out. What the hell are you doing here? Why are you so caring, so gentle, so protective? Why are you making me question my morals? Why is there a fire inside me every time I look into your eyes? Why the fuck do you smell so damn good?
Why can’t I stop thinking about you?
But instead, I swallowed the words and warmed the coconut oil in my palms, running it through my hair.
Alex watched.
His body was turned to me, and he followed my every move with his eyes, the TV playing a random local channel instead of any movie.
“If you take a picture, Alex, it’ll last longer.” I bit my lip to avoid bursting out in a shameless cackle, but he wasn’t fazed.
“I have lots of video footage, Jade.”
A chill ran through me. Of course he did. I was well aware of the camera all this time. “Is that why you’re here? Got bored of staring at the screen?” My fingers tangled in my hair and I turned to him, the hungry look in his eyes tingling my toes.
“Not bored.” His voice was deep. “I just wanted the real thing.”
My mind stuttered. I felt it—the way my skin flooded with blood. I saw it—the way he slightly pulled back and focused his attention on the straps of my dress, like he had said a risky thing.
With shaking fingers, I reached into the coconut oil and then slathered it into my scalp. Quick, think of an answer fucking quick!
But no words came to me. No witty comeback, no remark that could get under his skin—nothing!
He watched me. Carefully observed all my actions. The way I existed beside him.
“Did you watch the digital version of me just as closely?” I asked quietly, anticipating only one specific answer.
He took a slow breath in and gave it to me. “I did.”
The TV flashed something, but neither one of us looked at the screen.
No.
Our eyes were locked.
“You like to watch?” I whispered, my oily fingers slipping in my hair.
Alex hesitated, averting his gaze for a second before—
“I like to watch you.”
I like to watch you.
My lungs scrambled to keep up with the beat of my frazzled heart. Jesus fucking Christ. I was in enemy territory. Before I could stop my wayward tongue, the words burst out of me.
“You want some?”
I pointed to the coconut oil, my whole mind lagging behind my actions. What the fuck was I doing?
But Alex didn’t lose any time. He sat up slightly and then—
“Yes. I love coconut oil.”
Not giving me an opportunity to process what I’d just done, he was already sliding off the couch and pushing the coffee table out of the way. Three seconds later, he was on the floor, sitting right in front of me.
Fuck me, I didn’t expect that. He leaned against the couch, his big shoulders crowding my legs, and was ready for me to put coconut oil into his hair.
So.
We were doing this then.
I gulped, wishing for nothing but a tequila shot to wash down this turn of events. I dipped my fingers into the coconut oil and paused. I was about to touch him—I was about to give a head massage to the man who kidnapped me.
I knew I didn’t have to. I knew I could say no. Play it off, crack a joke, or simply just walk away. So why wasn’t I?
Because why did I always have to respect some invisible rules?
I took a deep breath in and touched. His hair was beyond soft. Thick and luscious, and a tiny bit damp from his shower. I buried my fingers inside his mane, gently rubbing in the oil, petrified of this moment.
“Mmm,” he groaned, the sound reaching deep into my belly.
“You like it?” The question left my lips before my mind caught it. Thankfully, my voice wasn’t shaking.
Alex nodded, tugging my fingers with the motion of his head. “I do,” he whispered, stealing the air out of me once more. It was silent for a few seconds until my mouth did its own thing again.
“Your head’s huge.”