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“Good, let’s go,” I say, grabbing her hand.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks, all defiantly, and damn, I like the sound in her voice.
“My bedroom.”
She stops in her tracks. “Don’t you want me to sleep in the guestroom like we usually do?” she asks. “I mean, after the first time we slept together, we haven’t been back there.”
“What makes you think we are going to sleep?” I say, raising a brow like a dare.
“I thought…” she says, biting on her bottom lip.
“You thought wrong. The clock is ticking, kitten, and I have stuff I want to do to you. Turn around,” I order, and she shakes her head while I corner her against the dinner table.
“No,” she replies, all in control, probably because she knows I love it when she pretends not to want me.
“Turn the fuck around,” I growl against her ear.
“No,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s fighting against her smile.
I grab her arms and turn her around, pressing her against the table.
“What are you doing, mafia guy?” she teases.
I slap her butt and she yelps. Turning her around again, she climbs on top of me while I kiss her senseless, taking her to my room to fuck her good.
I’ve never done this before with anyone, and we’ve been doing it for weeks now. Storm is almost free. I’ve been watching her sleep for hours, she’s lying on her side with her back turned to me. Another first. I haven’t had anyone sleep here before. What is it with her that’s different?
She pushes her butt against my cock, and I want nothing more than to shove her shirt up and reveal her ass to my hungry gaze. She’s all curves and bruised creamy skin, mostly by my hands. So fucking beautiful. She sighs and turns around, laying her head in the crook of my neck, while she stretches her tiny hand out against my chest. I stiffen, I’ve never slept like this before with a woman. After I fuck them, I show them the door. With her, I want to know everything. I wanted to know what she looked like in the morning, what she tasted like, what she smelled like. I want her to wake up with my dried cum between her legs every day. And this scares me more than all the deals that almost went bad. Scarier than the blood I’ve tasted on my lips. My own and others included.
Cat jumps on the bed and purrs while he makes himself comfortable at the foot, turning his little body and planting himself right between us, like we do this all the time. Like this is normal when I know it isn’t. Nothing lasts, nothing in my fucked-up world is permanent. Having her safely wrapped in my arms warms my cold heart. Because for a moment, I believe we have a future when I know we can’t. She’s going to go back where she belongs, and I will too, and this will be nothing but a memory. A good memory, but a memory, nonetheless, I think as I close my eyes.
I wake with a start and reach out, catching nothing but air. I sit up, and she chuckles, sitting in the comfy chair near the window with my sweater on and the sketchbook balanced on her lap. I run a hand through my hair and over my face. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost eleven,” she says, continuing to draw. At least I think she’s drawing.
“What are you doing?” I ask, scratching my naked chest. I never sleep in, and I’ve missed countless meetings because of Storm. The guys weren’t too happy about it, but they gave me room to enjoy my time with her—they know too that this will end.
“You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you, and then I went downstairs and found this new one between the things you ordered, and I started to sketch something.”
She runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip and keeps drawing, every now and then looking up to study me.
“Can I see it?” I ask, getting curious. I’m not interested in anything other than my own shit, so this is a first.
“Maybe one day,” she promises and gets up. And I have to stifle a groan. She’s wearing one of my boxer shorts again, with comfy black socks.
Scratching the back of my head, I watch her slowly walk up to me. I try to grab the sketchbook, but she pulls it back, and I start to pout. I don’t pout—fuck, what is it with this woman that has me acting like a lovesick teenager? This isn’t me, this can never be me.
I push up from the bed and she keeps looking at me. “What?” I spit out, pulling a shirt over my head. “I have to work,” I tell her, brushing past her into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. It felt like she wanted to kiss me, I think, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I can’t let her get close, not when I know I need to let her go. She doesn’t belong in my life, and I don’t belong in hers.
The doorbell rings. “What now?” I groan when I open the door of the oven. I’ve been sulking the whole day. After I took a shower, I hid in my study while she painted. I only came out to cook dinner.
“What?” she asks, glancing up from her seat on the couch.
“Could you see who it is?” I ask. I stop in my tracks. Why am I asking her like she’s my wife? echoes through my mind. It kind of has a nice ring to it. And I swear in Korean, burning my hand.
“You okay?” she asks, placing her sketchbook on the table, making a move to wet a towel for my hand.
“Yeah,” I bark, taking the towel from her and wrapping my hand up, grimacing because of the pain.
