Chapter 19
Roman
Ren left earlier this morning to go home before her interview. Since then, I’ve changed the sheets on both beds, done two loads of laundry, gone to the gym, cleaned my already clean kitchen, vacuumed the pine needles that had fallen off the Christmas tree, and gotten my car washed.
Now that I’ve exhausted every possible distraction, I’m left sitting on my couch, staring at my phone on the coffee table as if the harder I focus on it, the sooner it will ring.
I promised myself I would wait for Ren to text me first after her interview. A promise I already broke once to wish her good luck, even though I’m sure she doesn’t need it. The desire to be near her consumes me. And scares me.
Because what happens when these five days end?1 A desire like this doesn’t come with an expiration date.
I knew the first night I met her that I’d break all my rules for her. But does she even want me to?
There’s a reason I’ve avoided dating since Cass left. My job—my life—is dangerous, turbulent, and unpredictable. Under the best of circumstances, it would be selfish to pull anyone into my world.
And Ren’s circumstances are far from ideal. She recently got out of a terrible relationship with the world’s biggest idiot, got fired for no good reason, and just found out that she grew up as an unknowing participant in a sick experiment.
She shouldn’t have to go through all that alone . . . . No, no, I’m just trying to justify wanting her for Christmas, and New Year’s, and every day after that.
And who am I to think I could support her? She doesn’t need someone who sneaks out in the middle of the night to take care of business that he’ll never share. Right now, I can’t imagine not putting her first, but I’m sure it will happen. It’s what I do, who I am.
I fucked up the moment I agreed to her proposal.
My phone lights up with a notification, and I practically leap off the couch to grab it.
Ren: I’m gonna go for a run to burn off these post-interview jitters then jumping in the shower, but after that I’m free.
I read her text and realize accepting her proposal wasn’t the moment I fucked up.
Roman: Leave your door unlocked.
I fucked up the moment I thought I could walk away after only five days.2
My heart thumps as I place my hand on Ren’s front door handle. I don’t know why, but a part of me half-expected to find it locked. So, when it seamlessly turns and I open the door a crack, my anticipation is laced with relief.
Stepping inside her townhouse, I understand her offense at my undecorated tree. A mirror in the foyer is wrapped in fresh garland, instantly greeting me with its classic holiday scent of pine needles and happy memories.
Like the front windows of June Bug, she’s hand painted a little snowscape on the glass.
Snowflakes fall from the top of the mirror onto the charming winter scene at the bottom.
On one side, a man drags a freshly cut Christmas tree behind him, while two kids in a sled fly down a hill on the other.
In between them stands a little family of snowmen.
Even though my childhood, growing up in New Orleans, couldn’t be further from the scene she’s depicted, there’s something nostalgic about it.
I always went to bed Christmas Eve praying for a white Christmas.
I wonder what Christmas on a corrupt hippie commune is like and make a note to ask her. After our shower, of course.
The entrance opens up to the living room, where the couch is draped with a green and red plaid blanket and all the pillows are holiday themed with embroidered reindeer or jolly holiday phrases.
From here, I can look straight back to her kitchen.
There’s a Santa-shaped cookie jar on the counter and back doors framed with fronds of holly.
Then, of course, there is her tree, an absolute spectacle with not only ornaments, but ribbons and tinsel too.
And instead of average string lights, there’s probably two dozen little candleholders clipped to the branches with electric candles.
Beautifully wrapped boxes already sit underneath.
It looks like the same person wrapped them all, and there are no tags or cards I can see.
Are they gifts or simply more decorations?
The idea that the boxes could be empty when her heart is so full makes mine hurt.
I follow the sound of running water and off-key singing up a flight of stairs and down a hall.
3 As I draw closer, I’m struck with the domesticity of it all as I imagine coming home to this very soundtrack.
Knowing it won’t be, I don’t expect the following pang in my chest, hollow and aching.
I do my best to ignore it when I find, what I assume, is her bedroom.
It is somehow exactly how I pictured it, a mix of messy and tidy. The laundry basket is overflowing onto the floor, but her bed is made neatly with several throw pillows. Instead of curtains, the canopy bed frame is wrapped in more Christmas lights.
The door to the en suite is ajar. I can hear Ren and smell floral soap on the steam, but I can’t see her yet. My cock is already growing at the mental images alone, water sluicing down the perfect slopes of her body.
I strip as quietly as possible, my pulse quickening. I lightly push the door all the way open and bite back a groan. Steam has fogged the shower glass some, but not nearly enough to obscure my view. Any mental images can’t hold a fucking candle to the real thing.
She turns toward me, and her singing is cut off with a startled sound. She must not have heard me, but in less than a second, her surprise morphs into a welcoming smile.
“Hi,” she says in that same bashful yet excited way she did when we ran into each other at the Den.
I step into the shower. “Hi.”
She moves out from under the stream and wrings out her long hair in a twist. “I was just about to get out,” she admits with a slight bite of her lip.
“No, you’re not. You’re staying right here.” I grab her rope of twisted hair and pull her to me. Her mouth falls open at the sudden tug as I crush our bodies together under the running water.
Her face, ruddy from working out, and her lashes, darkened by water, make her eyes look an even more vibrant blue . . . just beautiful. Her palms move up and down my chest and she gives me a look that says is that so?
A smile flits across her face as I bend down to kiss her. It’s a light one that I drag out, savoring the soft warmth of her lips. She melts into me as I wrap my arm around her lower back and let go of her hair to cup the nape of her neck.
When I finally pull away, her eyes flutter open, making a drop fall from her lashes, and she sways a little as if left unsteady by my kiss. It’s such a small movement, but it hits me like a wave.
In the corner of the shower, there is a small step stool with bottles. I move the shampoo to the shower floor and pick up the conditioner and stool. I set the stool back down toward the middle of the shower, then pop the lid of the conditioner.
Ren watches me with heavy breaths and hooded eyes. The way she looks at me makes me feel like a king. I drizzle a small amount of conditioner onto my cock, and her brows pinch slightly, like she’s unsure of where this is going.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about fucking your thick thighs since I got your text.”
The small crease between her eyes relaxes, but she still asks softly, already a little breathless, “How?”
“Step up here, beautiful. Back to me.” I nod to the stool. It doesn’t budge on the stone floor as she stands on top of it. Good. “Hands on the wall.”
She doesn’t have to bend over much to place both palms on the tiled walls. I use one hand to spread the conditioner over my cock while dragging my other hand down the beautiful slope of her slightly arched back.
The water beats down on us both from the side. I nearly close the distance between us. Her breath catches when the head of my cock just kisses the place her two thighs meet. My own lungs lock up as I grab her hips with both hands and nudge my dick deeper.
“Move your feet closer together,” I order in a deep, rugged tone. She presses her legs together, hugging my cock with her hot, wet thighs, and I groan. “That’s it. Perfect. That’s fucking perfect.”
My grip on her hips tightens as I take an experimental rock backward then forward, making sure that the stool remains steady. She’s now a little more than half a foot off the ground, making her just the right height.
“Fuck . . .” My length glides smoothly between her thighs.
I repeat the movement again, a bit stronger, and she moans softly. Again a little harder, and her fingers flatten against the tile. I thrust in and out. As I increase speed and force, her soft mewls get louder and louder.
“God, you just love being used, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she responds so needily that I can’t help but grip her pillowy flesh harder and fuck her thighs with heavy punches of my hips, making her rock forward again and again. The sweet sounds she makes every time my cock drags across the front of her pussy are fucking addicting.
Chasing them turns my grip bruising, my fingertips digging into her soft skin. I don’t even realize it until she exhales quietly. “Ow . . .”
“Shit, I'm sorry,” I say, immediately pulling back and lightening my hold.
“No, no,” she says almost desperately. “Don’t stop. I want it. Please, Roman, don’t be scared of breaking me.”
And fuck, do I want to break her. I want to obliterate the memory of any other man’s touch. I want to ink my fingerprints into her beautiful curves. And when I make her shatter, I want to be the only one who catches her pieces.
But she isn’t mine to break and put back together for safekeeping. She’s only mine for three more days. I have to be careful. “Okay, but I want your word. Gimme your word so I’ll know when to stop.”
“Giraffe.” Even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s smiling.