Chapter 15
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Clara’s.
Lukas
Hatred boils in my veins, spoiling my mind. I utterly, utterlyloathemyself…and—yet—there are a few people I despise more. And they are the ones who hurtmy Clara. My precious, precious,perfectClara.
“More,” I whisper, voice raw.
“More?” Her blue, blue eyes hit me, wide, aghast. “Don’t you have an appointment at the recording studio tomorrow and need to be ‘on brand’ with your trench coat ensemble?”
“Recording. Audio.I’ll wear a shirt. More, Clara. Please.”
Her attention lowers to the rainbow of glitter she’s drawn across my chest. Little clouds. Bunnies. Frogs. She’s doodled hearts. She’s colored in my tattoos. She’s messed up trying to turn theain her name into a heart half a dozen times. She’s writtenClara’sall over me, and I needmore. I don’t want to see my skin ever again. I want to be pretty sparkly colors.
I want to behers.
Her pen returns to a place on my body, and I sigh as relief flows from the nib. Resting on my elbows in my bed, I toss my head back, let it hang off kilter while a shuddering breath leaves me.
Clara moves, and the mattress shifts. I lose myself in the knowledge that four days ago we were here, and she said no, and then the following day she somehow began to understand the abuse she’s endured—alongside learning that my feelings for her are violently romantic.
And now?
Now she’sback.
Back.
Here.
On my bed.
Touching, touching, touching.
Thank you, Clara. Bless you, Clara. Oh, Clara…
Gratitude presses on my seams, breaking holes in my body. From those tears, Ibleedfor her. She’s a song, a symphony, every precious, perfect thing.
And I am filth, staining her pure fingers.
But I cannot bring myself to care any more than I can bring myself to stop.
Her pen reaches my shoulder, and I cast a drowsy, subdued look toward it as she writesClara’s extra bread kneader. Very strong. #glutensprocessed
She underlinesprocessedthree times, then draws a little loaf before moving to my other shoulder.
A swear chokes me when the action puts her whole body over mine, settling her chest against me. I sink down, trying to flee the seducing weight. I can’t. And she is not deterred as she draws a heart, then writes her next review:
10/10 shoulder, would recommend, but not sharing
That’s right, cutie pie. No sharing. All yours.
It hurts to swallow.
She smiles when she moves back to take me in. A little giggle leaves her, and her eyes sparkle, and she iseverything. I forget myself with her. I can finally be free of the constant pound of my own thoughts in my own rotten head. Everything is vanilla and almond. Everything is her smile and voice.
She says, “You’re so pretty, King. Don’t drop your crown.”
