As we step down the center aisle, scanning for our seats, I feel it again. Eyes tracking our every movement. Whispers breaking out in soft bursts as we pass. It crawls up my spine, that old instinct to shrink and protect Ashton, to pull away—but he just keeps walking with his chin held high.
My fingers tighten around the popcorn, then loosen as I match his pace.
We find our seats near the middle. Ashton carefully wedges the massive drink into the holder while I settle the popcorn between us. He bumps his knee against mine, a small, grounding touch.
Then he reaches in, grabs a single kernel, and presses it to my lips.
I open automatically, smiling as I chew, savoring the salty, buttery crunch.
When he pulls his hand back, he licks the salt from his fingers—slow, deliberate—his eyes locked on mine. The slight curl of his lips, the lazy flick of his tongue as he sucks on his thumb. Heat coils low in my stomach.
This man…
“You’re such a tease,” I growl, my voice low.
Ashton snickers, shooting me a wink. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
I huff with annoyance, subtly adjusting myself. “You better.”
The opening scene abruptly explodes across the screen—noise, chaos, and light flooding the dark. Ashton leans in instinctively, his focus locking onto the movie as he chews on a piece of sour candy. His shoulder presses into mine, his hand warm and steady on my thigh, his eyes glossed over like he’s completely absorbed. The shifting light flickers across his face, catching in his eyes, softening the sharp lines of his expression.
But despite everything unfolding on-screen, I can’t take my eyes off him.
When I look at him, I see my future—and that’s far more exciting than anything playing out in front of us.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ashton
ThebellonCryptid’scollar jingles outside the door as he paces the hallway, banished from Troy’s bedroom. Troy chuckles against my lips, his cat’s offended meows muffled through the walls as he kisses me deeper, guiding me back toward the bed.
He tastes like salty popcorn, milk chocolate, and the faint trace of cigarette he smoked during the drive home from the theater. I hate that filthy habit—I really do—but there’s something about the way it looks on him that gets under my skin. The image flashes in my mind: his tattooed arm draped out the van window, fingers loose around the cigarette, the other hand steady on the wheel as he exhales a slow stream of smoke into the night.
My boyfriend is sexy as hell.
He carefully unfastens my sling, the way he’s done for the past few weeks whenever we’ve been intimate. His eyes linger on my cast for a moment, assessing, before he begins to remove my clothes piece by piece, gently tugging my T-shirt up and over my head. He unbuttons and unzips my jeans, then slowly pulls the denim off my legs. Every movement is cautious.
Once I’m standing in only my boxers, his hands drift over me, featherlight at first, like he’s still afraid of hurting me. His fingertips trace along my ribs, where the bruises have finally begun to fade, my skin returning to its usual tan. There’s something soft in his expression as he takes me in, something almost reverent.
“Better,” he whispers, more to himself than to me.
I swallow, my breath catching as his touch lingers, warm and grounding.
Then he shifts, stripping down to his briefs in one smooth motion before turning back to me. His hands find mine—careful of my arm—and he guides me toward the mattress. I let him, my body pliant beneath his direction, trusting him completely.
He lowers me onto the bed with the same gentleness, hovering over me for a moment as if giving me time to settle. Then he leans in, closing the distance between us, his lips meeting mine in a slow, deep kiss.
“I’m so damn proud of you,” he murmurs when he pulls back, his breath warm against my face. “The way you handled yourself tonight with your parents. The way you stood up for yourself—and your siblings.” He shakes his head slightly, something like admiration written in his expression. “You deserve so much more love than the scraps they gave you. Do you understand that?”
His words hit hard, lodging somewhere deep in my chest. My throat tightens, emotion rising too fast for me to catch. I can’t find the words, so I just nod, reaching up with my good arm to tuck a stray piece of his mullet behind his ear.
“Tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, “I want you to show me just how good you can be.” His gaze searches mine. “Think you can do that, blondie? You gonna behave for me—do what I ask?”
Fuck.My stomach flips at his words, heat coiling low and sharp, sending my thoughts spinning.
Instead of answering, I lift my hips, rutting against him, my arousal pressing insistently against his thigh.
Troy chuckles softly. “Gonna need you to use actual words,” he says, voice gentle but firm.
