My eyes dart to the closed—locked?!—door, and they widen as I consider his words. “You locked… why would you do that?”
“Look at me,”Atticus demands once more, and without a second thought, my eyes shoot back to him. “You’re such a good listener, Cam. Like you’ve been waiting for someone to guide you your whole life.”
That truth hits far too close to home, and it makes my head spin and my eyes water.
“I’ll tell you why I locked the door,” he continues. “I did it because I wanted you alone. Without interruption.”
“Why?” I think I have an inkling, but without those exact words, I’ll never let myself believe it.
I’m too afraid. Too scared of being hopeful and then being crushed, or of being right and it ending in my own destruction.
“Can I kiss you?” Atticus’s words punch me right in the stomach, all the blood in my body rushing south so quickly I’m immediately dizzy. And not from the alcohol.
The largest part of me is immediately screamingyes, as if I haven’t been suppressing and denying myself for my entire life for a verygoodreason. Then there is the smaller part, the one demanding that I run. To protect myself.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I answer quietly, my chest heaving as he stares down at me with heated, narrowed eyes.
“Why is that?”
“I… Well, I…” I can’t seem to push the words out. Tofindthat reason with the object of my obsession right in front of me.
To tell him that he can’t because it’s not right. Because I’m not worthy. Because it’ll show me that it doesn’t matter how far or fast I run, my own desire will always win.
Atticus watches me with curious, assessing eyes. “You don’t like making decisions, do you? You don’t like being unsure.”
Slowly, I shake my head. How he read that from this singular encounter, I’m unsure. But he’s not wrong. Fuck, he’s so right that I’m terrified.
“Then, can I? Can I make these decisions for you and take away all of this panic and uncertainty?” Atticus asks.
Is it that easy? Is it really that simple to let him take control? I mean, if he could do that foreverythingin my life, I would be stoked. But no one wants to father a grown man, and would I truly feel no panic if he decides for me? Tokissme?
Without answering any of my own questions, without a second thought, I slowly nod.
Atticus lifts a hand and brushes some of my hair from my forehead.
“That’s good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and something inside of me shatters. Just falls apart completely.
I am nothing but broken, fragmented pieces of myself as Atticus dips his head, his breath ghosting my lips. A small, scared noise leaves me.
“Shh,” he coos, his nose brushing mine. “Just feel me; forget everything else. Listen to what I tell you and continue to obey like the obedient, pretty thing you are.”
I guess it really is this simple. This easy.
As soon as the command leaves his mouth, I melt, his presence and the alcohol working their magic as I submit to his desire and my own.
Then his lips brush mine, soft and sweet at first, just a teasing thing. And suddenly, hard and devouring, like he’s starving and can’t get enough of how I taste, of the noises I’m feeding him.
As he licks at the seam of my lips and grips my waist with his large hands, I have no choice but to open for him.
To obey.
Atticus Chastain is completely in control of my every movement, my every thought, and I’ve never felt so relaxed. So sated.
His tongue rubs along mine in a hot, wet slide, and we both groan at the contact. The warmth. The overwhelming need to taste and suck and devour.
Atticus is completely controlled in his movements, yet still frantic. As if he’s fighting against himself as he kisses me—as if he can’t decide between methodically stroking the inside of my mouth and ripping me to shreds.
“You taste so lovely,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to lick up my jaw.
