RAIN
Chapter seven
Idrop my empty glass to a table beside the door and follow as Rome reaches the stairs, all frantic and paranoid.
I wanted to make him fall apart in my hand that first night, but I realised once he started trembling the psychological damage any further action would have on him. I know I’ve already fucked with his psyche a lot. I mean, I didn’t actually hurt Connor. I just spiked his drink so he’d pass out.
Taking the pack of gum from my pocket, I slide a piece into my mouth and quicken my pace. Rome’s wide eyes look over his shoulder; due to his attention on me, he stumbles down a step, catching himself on the wooden railing.
I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling his back to my chest. He grunts from the impact, and my eyes roll back at the incredible smell of mandarin and bergamot.
Everything about him just makes him digestible.
Even his hair smells like fucking coconuts.
He’s presenting himself as a tasty meal I’m fighting myself not to devour. I know he isn’t out of the closet yet.
His father was all but holding a light to my face, asking why I was a fan of Rome. Uh, because he’s a God, because he looks fucking delicious, and right now, he’s trembling in my arms.
I press my mouth to his ear, enjoying the shudder of terror I force upon him. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, shall we?”
“N-no.” He pulls at my arm. “I don’t feel well.” I wrap my other hand around his throat, relishing in the bob of his Adam’s apple beneath my palm. “Stop,” he whispers. “Please let go. Someone will see.”
“Come in another room, and I will.”
His shoulders slump with defeat. “Fine, just…please let go.” I release him and nod to the door at the bottom right of the stairs. “That’s a closet,” he informs sheepishly, rubbing his neck.
I was barely applying any pressure; he’ll need to become accustomed to me choking him.
I smile, nodding to the one on the left.
His eyes close for a moment, and he blows out a breath.
I fall instep beside him and block his exit when we reach the bottom.
He glances around to ensure no one witnesses me follow him into what looks like a small conference room.
I lock the door behind me as he practically runs to the other side of the room, his erratic breaths drowning out the rain pattering on the large window.
“You look good, if I haven’t said that already.” I have, but he needs to hear it. His ass looks delicious in those pants.
He folds his arms across his chest. “What do you want?”
“I’ve explained that already. Is it better in here? You’re not as anxious?”
“You’re here, so yes, I still am.”
The gum moulds to my teeth as I smile. “Sit down, Rome.”
“I want to leave.”
“You can—after we talk.”
He looks at the chair before hesitantly dropping to the end of the large table. Mine screeches against the hardwood floor as I pull it out and drop myself down, crossing my ankles and lacing my fingers on my lap. “Favourite colour?” I probe.
“You want to play twenty questions like a teenager?”
“You’re only twenty. Not that far off.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-four. You were born on February 26th at 2:08 PM, meaning you’re younger than me by three years, seven months and twenty days. Fun fact: I was born at 4:44 AM.”
He folds his arms over his chest again, trying to shelter himself from me as he peers out the window to the safety of his car.
When Dad informed me there was a sponsor-owner event being held, I wasn’t going to not invite myself.
I cock my head. “When did you start playing soccer?”
“Football,” he corrects in the harshest tone he’s used thus far.
“Football then.”
“When I was four, but I was practically born with a football under my arm.”
“Back to my first question.” I dip my chin. “Favourite colour?”
“Don’t have one,” he grumbles.
“Come on, baby. We’re doing a get-to-know-you session. Open up a little. Mine’s green, like your eyes, and yours is?”
“White, I guess.”
“Noted. Favourite hobbies?”
His eyes narrow. “I thought you would have done research on me, considering you’re very good with a computer.”
“I have. I know your family, coaches, associates, everyone within your circle. I know you broke your arm when you were eight and had pneumonia when you were thirteen, but there’s only so much superficial bullshit you can find out about a person.”
I’ve been solely focused on dissecting his life the past week, which included thoroughly sifting through the three-hundred-and-sixty-two pictures on his IG, mostly soccer related.
Sorry, football.
There’s only one shirtless picture, which was posted a month ago, and it gained my attention for over an hour.
I took in every flexed muscle and the tattoos up his left arm that extend across his chest. The ink on his shoulder thoroughly intrigued me.
It’s a picturesque snow-covered mountain with a lake below.
The water continues into the next tattoo, pouring through the cracks of a skull.
I had called thirty different tattoo artists trying to decipher it, then spent hours researching it.
I’ve put the question about it in my mental heart-shaped box labelled: Questions for Rome, that I’ve just now coloured white.
I’d transferred every photo of him to a file on my computer so I could relish in his eyes. They have a small explosion of hazel around the pupils, and the outer ring is a deep green. They’re literally a representation of life.
“Sooo.” I smile. “Hobbies?”
“I don’t have any,” he groans, acting fed up with this conversation. “I work, that’s all. That’s what I like.”
Impressive is a very light word to describe his career.
He was fast tracked to Champions League as soon as he was of age, and then Premier League.
He’s also earned MVP of almost every team he’s played on and has an eighty-seven percent success rate of winning every championship he ever played in before being drafted into the top league.
I may be a little biased, but Rome was the reason they won.
You can bet your ass I’ve watched every game he’s ever played that was available on the internet.
He bows his head. “You were the one who sent in the information about Brian Long.”
“Sure was.”
He lifts his eyes, staring through his brows. And fuck, it’s only making my cock thicken. “Why?”
I lean forward, clasping my hands on the table. “He was targeting you and your team. I thought you would be happy I assisted in removing someone who was targeting you.”
“I don’t need your assistance in anything.” His thick, pink lips roll between his teeth, those captivating eyes moving from the silver chain draped around my neck to the Patek watch on my wrist.
“Like it?” I ask.
His gaze cuts back to mine. “I’m not impressed by your watch.”
“Not what I asked.”
“No, I don’t like it. I also don’t like spoiled rich kids who walk around with a chip on their shoulder, believing they can have whatever they want.”
My lips turn up in a smile. “Anything I have or want, I work for.”
His Adams apple bobs. “I-I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not offended. You aren’t the first to take a look at what I wear and assume it’s all because of my father’s money.” He sinks back into the chair, gaze lowering to his lap. “I’m sure people assume the same about you.”
The apprehensive flutter of his lashes is bewitching. “Please, just let me leave. I truly don’t feel well, Rain,” he whispers.
An audible groan tumbles from my lips, and my cock twinges at hearing him say my name for the first time. “I can suck you off. Might make you feel better.” His head snaps up, eyes horrifyingly wide. “That was a joke, baby.”
“You lack humour.” He leans forward. “Let. Me. Leave.”
“Fine,” I groan, pushing my seat back to stand. “I’ll leave, and then whenever you decide it’s been long enough, you leave. I’ll be watching to make sure you get home.”
“I know your name now. I’ll go back to the police about you.”
“Go ahead.”