Page 114 of Watched

“When the fuck has he seen you naked?” Rain’s voice booms across the room.

Xander’s smile turns mischievous. “Plenty of times.”

Rain’s blazing gaze narrows on me. “The only person who is ever allowed to see that giant fucking cock is me. Am I clear?”

I snatch my water bottle and stalk toward Rain. When I ghost his mouth with mine, his breath audibly hitches. “You want it? Beg for it.” I brush past him and head upstairs to call my mother and sisters for the third time today.

My steps slow out of the wardrobe when the soft melody of piano keys echoes through the silence. Quietly opening the door, I walk down the hall toward the familiar sound. When I’m standing at the threshold of Rain’s studio, I realise what song he’s playing. Better Days by Dermot Kennedy.

Of course, he knows my favourite song.

Goosebumps flow over my bare torso as I lean against the door frame, continuing to listen, the lyrics playing in my head. My heart skips, and I snap straight when the sound halts.

“Come here,” he commands. I stay rooted in place, debating whether to retreat. “Now, Rome.”

Drawing a deep breath, I hesitantly step into the room. A lamp identical to the one in my bedroom glows behind him sat at the piano. He nods to the chair, and, despite my brain telling me to leave, that wretched part gravitates me toward him. He stands to grip my shoulders, forcing me to sit where he just was. I nervously rub my thumbs against my fingers when he takes a seat behind me, forcing me to inch forward to give him room.

Why can I not just scream or throw this chair at him? Why is my heart not racing out of anger instead of nerves? Why am I drawn to him?

His breath fans my cheek, arms gliding past me to rest his fingers on the keys. The beginning melody starts again, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I watch his fingers move with ease, his leg grazing mine each time his foot pushes the peddle below.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers.

I swallow the lump in my throat and close my eyes, heart thrashing in my chest. It’s like he deliberately knew it would tug at my heart. Screw him, because it’s working. I’m relaxing back into him, my hands sliding onto his thighs, and I’m forgetting every fucked-up thing that’s happening in my life. All I can focus on is his body against mine and the song.

He’s a prick, an asshole, a bloody fucking wanker, but the thought of him doing this for anyone else boils my blood.

“I will spend every day of my life fighting to be worthy of you,” he whispers in my ear, and my heart stops. “You can hate me, try to banish me from your life, and I will come crawling back, begging for you. I don’t give a fuck how desperate or pathetic I look. My life is nothing without you.” The warmth of his lips heats my cheek, the soft kiss unwanted by my brain but craved by every other part of me.

We’ve only known each other a few months, so why do I feel like letting him go would be the worst decision of my life?

Chapter forty-five

ROME

Aaron Weston may be a prick, but he’s right about one thing: anger is a great motivator. I dominated training this week, despite having Rain’s eyes on me every second, and we just won 4-9. After three years in this league, I’ve learnt to shut out certain noises—the ones tonight were a few boos whenever I was in control of the ball. The first time made me uneasy, but when those hateful noises continued, it only motivated me to prove who I am and why I deserve to be on this team. Not only to the crowd, but to my team and myself.

Sergio grips my face, and I let out a laugh when he shakes me around like a rag doll. “Fuck ‘em all, mate.”

I push him away with a wide grin. “Get off me. You smell like ass.”

Through the crowd squeezed into the change room, I catch Rain’s eyes narrowed on me as he stands beside Blade. Rain said he’s holding back on confronting Aaron about his newfound knowledge until he’s got everything in order to make his move. What that is, I don’t know.

Someone taps my sweaty shoulder, and I spin around to see Polly, the team’s PR manager. She gestures across the room to a journalist and camera.

Fucking great.

“Just keep it simple,” she advises, like I haven’t been media trained since I was fifteen.

Swallowing another mouthful of water to drown the sudden nerves, I cross the room and take my position, plastering on a smile.

“Rome,” Henry Cornwall beams, and I nod in greeting. I easily answer the questions asked about how the game felt for me, focusing more on the strengths and grazing the surface of needed implementations.

“Before you go.” He swallows thickly, running a hand over his balding head. “How have you been handling the video broadcast on social media that resulted in your personal time?”

“That video wasn’t the reason for my personal time,” I fire back. “I had a foot injury that needed time to heal.”

He pins me with a condescending smile. “Do you believe this information about your sexuality will continue to affect your performance?”