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“Tell me something good about you,” I ask, my words whispering across his lips.
A smile tilts there, and he kisses me slowly. Briefly.
“How about I show you instead?”
Twenty-Two
Atlas
The elevator doors are enormous slabs of intricately cut mirrors that show our reflections in disfigured, jagged pieces that somehow still don’t take away Rowan’s dangerous sex appeal. It sparks between us, and I see him smirking at me in the artistic mirror. My body thrums louder with every light that flickers on with each floor we pass by. The elevator carries us in tense silence, and I feel him brush closer against my side, his body alighting mine until I turn to him. My lips part as he dips his head low. His demanding hands push through my hair, and he turns my head roughly to one side, revealing the length of my neck for him. Warm lips brush so faintly against my skin that I tremble in his arms. The whisper of his breath skims my ear, and then he says,
“We’re here, Little Bird.”
My lashes flutter back open just in time for the doors to part, opening up to reveal the darkest foyer I’ve ever seen. The black walls are lined with stained trim, and the door to the apartment is large and commanding.
“Thisis your apartment?” I ask, carefully taking a single step out in case he’d like to tell me he’s just fucking with me, and we’re actually at the wrong place.
“You expected something less than a penthouse?” he guesses, and I part my lips to argue as he opens the front door for me, but my words die on my tongue the moment I’m standing in his space. And holy fuck, is it a space. The living room sprawls out to overbearing dark windows that have heavy shades drawn down over each of them, the city firmly shut out from the luxurious life he’s secretly living.
“I just thought...” I lift my hands from my sides, but I don’t know what to say.
“You thought I was a criminal who lived on the streets.”
I turn to him and his cocky smile that’s lazily tilted at one side.
“I mean... I was worried how long you’d been living in my closet, Rowan Stone.”
His laughter is this delicious rumbling sound that lingers in my own chest. My own amusement brightens under the light of his. His strides casually eat up the space, and then big hands are on my hips. He walks me back slowly, and then the cold wall is beneath my back as his hard body melds against mine. My heart struggles to beat. His lips brush over mine, consuming me with the dominating feel of his affection.
“Your closet is my summer home,” he jokes quietly.
“Had I known you were there, I would have started to charge you rent, rich boy.”
His breath fans across the top of my head, warm and inviting. “Ask me for anything, and I’ll give you the world.”
It’s hard to think or speak or even breathe when his entire energy is all wrapped up around mine. The words are a force of nature that wreak destruction through my very soul.
My chin lifts, and the pressure in my chest grows with each second that ticks by as he holds my gaze but never fully closes that infuriating space between us. I almost whimper with want, and I have to fight off the maddening urge to pull him closer.
“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re desperate, Little Bird.” And then pulls away, capturing my hand in his and pulling me from that perfect wall that I really wish I was getting my brains fucked out against right now.
He shakes his head at me with a dark and taunting smile.
“I haven’t even shown you the best part.” He turns his back on me as he guides me through the darkness of his kitchen. Dim light haloes down from beneath the cabinets, making the black countertops shine with glints of sparkling highlights. The dining room is blanketed in that same sleek black, my attention catching on the stark wall that looms over the long white table.
Everything is so moody and gorgeous. It’s like I’m living in this broken man’s soul, and I get the feeling that it’s lonely here. Isolated and unseen. I wonder if that’s why he hid away behind my life for so long. Like maybe even being within the shadows of my own life made him feel less alone. And if he finally revealed himself to me, it was so he could finally feel seen.
My fingers squeeze around his just as lightly, but then he’s looking back on me with flashing excitement in his eyes. There’s a brief moment as his hand lingers on the door handle where I worry that the room he’s about to reveal is some fucked-up shrine of all my old Facebook photos and discarded panties with a vow of eternal love written across the wall with his own blood.
I mean... not a total deal-breaker, but it might be awkward for a bit.
He pushes the door. It glides open without a sound. The carpet is soft and quiets my footsteps as I enter another darkly painted room. But this one isn’t tragic and brooding. It’s carefully decorated with intense emphasis on the hanging decor like I’m stepping foot into a museum. Lights shine beams of golden halos over glossy black frames. Beneath the glass are professional pictures of a player in heavy gear and striking action shots. I spot the words NHL Hall of Fame across the closest one. It’s the next one, though, that dawns understanding through my mind.
Donovan Stone, NHL Hall of Fame.
“Is this your father?” My fingers graze the sleek frame, but I get the feeling an alarm will go off, and security might leap out of the shadows if I actually lay a hand on any of these memorabilia.
“Yeah. He was the greatest.” Rowan’s smile is faint. Tainted by something he doesn’t seem to want to admit.
