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Besides, jail really doesn’t sound fun.
I caught this man looking through my sketchbook—a total invasion of privacy.
And then he was all, like, Fuck your fingers in front of me, and I was, like, Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Why not?!
And then he covered my engagement ring in his jizz.
And I freaking liked it.
No. I loved it. It was the driving force behind my orgasm hitting so fast.
I’m losing my mind.
“How could this be worse?” I pace around, balling my hands at my sides. “I just let you—the same dude who wouldn’t let me escape the other night, even though you know damn well they are going to kill me once they get what they want from Beckett—do whatever the hell we just did—”
“You fucked yourself in front of me and let me blow my load on your fingers,” he mutters in that same unimpressed tone he always uses. The man sounds like a grumpy asshole ninety-nine percent of the time. “That’s what we did. Quite simple really.”
“Fuck you!” I hiss at him. “You don’t get it! I need to get out of here. My brother needs me. My friend Poppy needs me! Her brother overdosed. I need to go home and be there for them!” I throw my hands into my hair, dragging them through it with aggravation. “My brother has been through enough in his life. Now, he’s going to lose me. The only family member he has left.”
Standing quickly, he takes a few large strides toward me, tilting my head up with his fingers on my chin. “Dove, you should know by now that I would never let anybody hurt you.” His expression is serious as can be. “I’d burn this entire fucking country down before I let someone kill you.”
“Then, why won’t you let me leave?” I whisper, tears gathering in my eyes. “Just let me go!”
“What do you think was going to happen that night if I let you take off?” he snaps. “You really think that Enzo wouldn’t have had people on every fucking corner and every street looking for you?”
“He doesn’t even want me,” I whisper, my lips trembling.
“No, he doesn’t. And for that, he’s fucking crazy,” his deep voice rasps. “But I’m really happy that he doesn’t.”
“I don’t understand you,” I say, sighing.
“Just trust that I won’t let anything happen to you,” he answers, his eyes roaming my face. “I need to go before the others come looking. I’ll figure out a way to get you home. Till then, please, for the love of fuck, just lie low.”
I study his face, looking for any sign that this is a trap. I know I can’t trust him. I shouldn’t anyway. But right now, what other choice do I have?
So, reluctantly, I nod. “All right.”
“Good girl,” he utters, brushing his thumb on my bottom lip before slowly dropping his hand and walking out of the room.
Once he’s gone, I collapse on the bed, putting my hand on my forehead. Because what the hell did I just do?
And why do I already want to do it again? Only this time … with his fingers inside of me instead of my own.
Among other things.
My favorite part of the day has always been in the afternoon, right when the sun starts to go down. It’s not complete darkness yet, and the light still touches certain parts of places, but it’s calm and usually quiet.
It’s cold out today, yet here I am, bundled up and out on the property. A property so gorgeous that it takes half a dozen landscapers and yard workers to keep it maintained. Yet no one walks around it. Nobody looks at the flowers planted or the small duck pond that I’m sure was man-made and not natural.
What’s the point of it all? If everyone here is too greedy to even pay attention to it, why not just let it all become overgrown? Who cares if there’s a garden so big that it would take half of the day just to see every flower? That’s what I want to know.
Here I sit, with my sketchbook, on the wooden bench in the center of the beautiful flower garden. Usually, when I pass through on my daily walk around the property, there are a few people gardening, so I don’t stop. But now, everyone’s gone home for the day. And it’s just me, the flowers, and some bees buzzing.
I tuck the pencil back into my new pouch with the others and zip it shut. A pencil case and drawing supplies, which undoubtedly cost more than I’ve ever spent on art supplies, mysteriously showed up in my bedroom yesterday. I didn’t have to ask who was behind it. I knew it was Hudson.
Closing my notebook, I run my hands along the worn leather and breathe in the cool air, letting it spread through my lungs in an attempt to cleanse me of any negative energy I’m carrying.
It doesn’t work, proving that sort of thing to be bullshit, but it was worth a shot.
