Page 62 of Watched

“Who?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head before throwing back the blanket. “I’ll wash everything. I just need a shower.”

“Rain,” I press, following him to the bathroom. “You just scared the shit out of me, and you aren’t even going to explain why?”

He rips his boxers down, stepping into the shower. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, voice still rough and hoarse.

I’ve had nightmares before when I was younger, but I was never drenched in sweat. “Was that a nightmare or a memory?” I ask, taking a hesitant step closer. “You—you have an eidetic memory. Apparently, those who do can remember everything that’s ever happened in their life from age like…three.”

His hand fists before running through his wet hair. “When you live the life I do, everything is a nightmare.”

I swallow nervously. I actually feel bad for this bastard? He invites himself into my home, my bed, and then refuses to leave, and I feel bad for him right now? I shouldn’t care about him, and I’m ashamed that part of me is envious that he had two parents who loved one another and accepted him wholly.

He stays rigid, with his back to me, staring at the wall.

Fuck him.

“Can I join you?” My voice shakes with hesitation, because I’m not sure why I just asked that, why I have the sudden urge to stand beside him and give him comfort.

“Baby, you never need to ask that.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out before removing my clothes. My steps are light, and brimming with nerves as I approach behind him and place a hand on his shoulder.

He looks over with blank eyes before turning around. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising and start explaining.”

His jaw tics as he leans a shoulder against the wall and reaches out to pull me under the rainfall shower-head. I blink rapidly to rid the water invading my eyes.

“I want you to model for me,” he says with a soft smile.

“You—wait, what?”

“Nude.” He grins.

“No, absolutely not, and stop avoiding the topic.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then you’ll never sleep in my bed again.”

“I thought you were going to kick me out.” Bloody hell, I did say that, didn’t I? I will, after this shower. “I’ve seen your photos. You model.”

“For sponsors because I’m forced too.” I reach past him for the body wash.

He pins me to his hard body and snatches the bottle from my hand, placing it back on the shelf. “It’s no different,” he argues.

Wet lips capture mine, and my lids fall shut as a small moan slips free.

I’m fine when he’s not touching me—I have the mental capacity to stand my ground—but when his lips are on mine, my brain blanks, and I need to force it awake to stop whatever he’s doing. I couldn’t last night when he was on his knees in front of me and he started to kiss me. My brain shrivelled and threw itself out of my ear as he continued kissing and biting down my body. Once his mouth was on my dick, I was helpless. So many times, I felt ready to come, and he changed movement, making it cease painfully, but Christ, once I finally did, I couldn’t see. I was stunned for minutes afterward and could do nothing but lie there until it felt like my soul rejoined my body. He laid beside me the entire time, just stroking my hair. Then, the shame about what I allowed to happen crept back in, and I wanted to scrub it away.

I pull my head back when my lungs burn, lids fluttering open. I finally realise how long we’ve been kissing when I press my swollen lips together. I go to move and finally notice the ache in my fingers from digging into his waist, and then the fact that my concreted dick is pressing against his.

Shame devours me from the inside out, and I turn around, only for his arm to wrap around me. “What did I say about running away from me? And I still want to hear you say it.”

“I don’t belong to you.”

“Shall I remind you?”