Page 89 of Roped

Somehow this question is even more objectionable than the others and takes him a beat to answer. “Seven years.”

My eyes go wide and I gasp. “That’s… a long time.”

His eyes narrow.

“Why?” Then, “If what you had was so uncomplicated and simple, then why haven’t you—”

“Because it’s lonely,” he bites out.

And I swallow down my emotions for the umpteenth time tonight.

“It’s empty,” he goes on. “It doesn’t fuckin’ mean anythin’, and I ain’t a randy teenager anymore who wants to revenge-fuck his way through town to drown out the tragedy that changed his life. I hated every single second of it, and I ain’t lookin’ for a repeat. And now you know everythin’. Every little secret of mine. That enough for you?”

“I—”

“Now, I don’t wanna chitchat, you get me? If you’ve changed your mind and wanna get outta here, you can’t. But only because it’s stormin’ out there. I’d rather you stay here where it’s safe. But I’m leavin’.” He grits his jaw for a few seconds before continuing, “May have waited for this moment for fuckin’ seven months, three weeks, six days, nine hours, and nineteen minutes; may have dreamed about it, prayed for it, fuckin’ wished for it when I haven’t wished for anything in over a decade; and you may have made me come in my pants while watchin’ you more times than I could count, but I ain’t gonna force myself on you. You already know that. And I ain’t gonna beg. But after tonight, if you even think about comin’ near me, I’m tyin’ you up in your room and lockin’ the door until this goddamn torture is over. Do you understand me? After tonight, you don’t even look in my direction, yeah? Or you won’t like the consequences.”

I don’t think about it; I just do it. I climb out of bed and walk the three steps that take me to where he’s standing. I stand toe-to-toe with him, my neck craned up and my eyes looking into his. They’re still angry, but every once in a while, there’s a glimpse of pain in them. A glimpse of torture, anguish. Loneliness. He thinks I’m going to leave now, after I’ve seen every part of him. After he’s shown me every single inch of not only his body but his soul. His monster soul, according to him. But instead of leaving, I kneel down at his feet and his breaths stutter. I put my hands on his thighs, on his strong, powerful thighs, one of them bearing my name about a hundred times, and they flex under my touch. Because he may be a monster in his eyes, but to me, his soul is pure beauty.

Nothing is more beautiful than the man I’m in love with and no one can tear me away from his side. Not until it’s really time for me to go.

I don’t look anywhere else other than up in his eyes, even though I want to. I want to take my time studying him, studying every ridge and line of his magnificent body, finally look at those scars he got for me. I’ve seen the one on his shoulder, but only in passing. I want to study that hard thing between his legs, which I can see, through my peripheral vision, is throbbing. That I can smell because I’m this close to it and it smells delicious. Musky, spicy, maybe even a little sweet. The best of both worlds.

But I don’t. For now, I keep my focus solely on his face.

Slowly, still looking in his eyes, I slide my hands up and grip his sides. Touch his scar, rough and coarse but his, with my hands. His entire body flinches at this, but I’m not deterred. I don’t even know if someone has touched him there, on his scar, let alone done what I’m going to do. Which means it’s going to come as a shock to him, but he’ll be okay. I watch his eyes flare and go dark as I inch closer to him, to his scar. His jaw clenches when I’m so close to his skin that he can probably feel my hot breaths on it. But before I can put my mouth on his body, he breaks into action. He grabs my soaked braid and yanks my head back, stretching my neck.

Then, growling, “What the fuck are you doin’?”

I keep my grip on him tight as I reply, “Getting down on my knees like you told me to.” His brow furrows and it looks like he’s going to say something, but like before, I don’t care what he has to say and I continue, “So see, the problem is, I’m not really good at math. I can’t give you the exact figure, down to the second, as to how long it’s been since I’ve been thinking about you and dreaming about you. I’m not very good at stalking either. Or breaking into your barn when you’re not there and hiding cameras so I can watch you twenty-four seven. I can’t even open the door to your room, let alone sneak into it without your knowledge. All of this you already know, but what I’m trying to say is that I may be a slouch in certain areas. I get that. I also get that you have a lot more experience than me, even though you haven’t been with anyone in seven years. You know what girls want, but I am a girl too. And I read somewhere that men are idiots. They think they’re all tough and strong and smart, but girls are smarter. We’re tougher and stronger. Not all, mind you, but some. Me. Sometimes you have to tell men what you want or they’ll never figure it out. So this is me telling you: I will get down on my knees for you. I will let you do whatever you want to me, but I’m not going to turn around. I’m not going to close my eyes or whatever you think I should do so I don’t have to look at you or your scars. Because as it turns out, I like to watch too. And you are my favorite thing to watch. You are the only thing I ever want to watch. Is that clear enough for you? Or do you want me to explain it in more detail, how if I’m yours, you are mine. Mine. You belong to me. Every part of you is mine, and even you don’t get to take that away from me.”

Then I can’t help but add, “Oh, and one more thing. Turns out, I also have a taste for blood. Because I want you to tell me the name of that girl when we’re done. The one who ran from you. Because I’m going to hunt her down and I’m going to make her pay.”

She’s the one who made him believe he didn’t deserve anyone. She made him choose a life of loneliness, and I hate her for that. Loathe her for that.

I’m so immersed in my angry thoughts maybe that’s why I don’t see it coming. I don’t notice his abs flexing and him leaning down. Or that he lets my hair go and pulls me up to my feet. But that’s not all; he picks me up off the floor and makes me climb his body until I’m wrapped around him.

No, I don’t notice any of that until it’s already happened. And by then, he’s kissing me. It’s not a kiss like before where he was eating me up, devouring me. No, this kiss is all hard presses and choked breaths. It’s like he wants us to become one. He wants to crawl inside of me and never leave. Which is great, because I want to crawl inside of him and never leave. I want to stay with him forever, kissing him, touching him, loving him. This is how we make it back to the bed. All kissing mouths and tangled limbs, my soft curves sliding against his hard muscles.

Entwined and roped.

When he breaks our kiss, I say fiercely, through panting breaths, “I’m going to kill her.”

Settled between my thighs, a current of amusement runs through his previously angry features. He frames my face with his hands and presses another hard kiss on my mouth before rasping, “Reckon you need to calm down, darlin’.”

I make clumps out of his drenched hair and say, “And I think you need to give me that name right now because I don’t think I can wait until the end of this.”

He looks deep into my eyes and presses another kiss on my mouth, this one soft. “No.”

I tug at his hair and kiss him back; mine is hard, though. “Why not?”

His eyes rove over my features as he caresses my flushed cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t want any other name on my lips now that I know yours.”

God, why does he have to say these things and make me love him harder?

“You’re beautiful,” I blurt out, my heart in my eyes.

His own eyes flare and there’s genuine surprise in them, shock, before he mutters as if to himself, “Christ, she really believes that.”