Page 117 of Watched

I was a terrified seventeen-year-old who was certain my career would be over that day, all because I refused to suck a man’s dick. Sergio helped me, more than I could ever thank him for. He’s in his early thirties now and has always been a righteous captain who bears all responsibility for his team. I didn’t feel as though I could confide in my parents about Jayce’s advances, so I never told them, but I don’t regret how things turned out. I’m proud of myself for not bowing down to Jayce.

The jet moves toward the runway and I look down at my hand curled around Rain’s, my knuckles white. I retreat them, watching Rain’s hand regain its colour. “I’m-I’m sorry.”

He snatches my hand, interlacing our fingers as we take off. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, Rome?”

“You have no grounds to lecture me on honesty,” I retort. He tugs at his hair, mussing up the strands. “Don’t kill him.”

“We both know I’m going to,” he snaps.

I stare into his dark pools. “I said, do not kill him. He’s got what he deserves.”

“And you?” His voice cracks. “For fuck’s sake, Rome, you’re carrying too much shit on your shoulders. Just…goddamnit, tell me these things.”

“It’s difficult for me!” I shout, tightening my fingers around his. “Can you please understand that letting you in isn’t easy for me?”

Rain has evoked a turmoil of emotions within me. He speaks fluently to a soul that was certain it would be forever misunderstood, and that is bloody terrifying.

He rests his head back against the seat, running a frustrated hand down his face. “You have a wall up, and I understand why, but I’m your boyfriend, Rome. You need to let it down eventually.”

A scowl contorts my face, and I dig my fingers in between his knuckles. He grunts, looking at his hand captive in mine. “I have been,” I grit out. “It doesn’t help when you lie to me.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“It’s the same fucking thing, Rain.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head. “Don’t you dare give me some bullshit definition that supports whatever argument you’re about to give.”

A smile peeks through his stern expression. “You know me so well.” I narrow my eyes, and he sighs. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you the truth.” I arch a brow. “I lied to you, and I vow to never do it again.”

“And?” I press. His brows furrow. “You weren’t backing away from him.”

His smile widens. “You’re so hot when you’re jealous.”

I release his hand and undo my seatbelt. We’re at altitude now, and the jet is steadily on course for London. Undoing his seatbelt, I wrap my hand around his throat, shoving him back into the seat as I straddle him. “Did you want him touching you? Is that it?” The possessive rage tightens my grip.

“Jesus,” he chokes. “I’m going to come already.”

I ghost his lips with mine and whisper, “Answer me. Did you want him touching you?”

“No. I hate the thought of anyone but you touching me.”

I’m furious with him, but I fear my current rage stems much more from my internal conflict about my repressed feelings. My morals have gone haywire. I’m not ignoring the blood on his hands—I’m excusing it. I’m fucking justifying it.

I’m falling in love with a beautiful criminal.

I can understand why he went after Ezra Smith to begin with. Rain was helping people. He’s taken every precaution to keep me and my family safe. Me, Mum, Indie, and Kilah were all gifted new phones Rain had apparently made secure and untraceable. Connor’s dead, and he sure as shit deserved it. And Jayce—has he suffered at all? He’s not changed or learnt from his mistakes. He’s been walking around for three years, acting as though he didn’t try to blackmail a seventeen-year-old. How many people have fallen victim to Jayce? Looking back at it now, I doubt I’m the only one.

What qualifies death? That damn question echoes in my head, over and over.

“Baby?” Rain whispers against my lips, and I realise I’m panting. “Talk to me,” he urges, eyes searching mine.

I press my lips to his, and the built-up pressure in my exhausted body falls away as I claim his mouth in a deep, slow kiss, feeling his skin pebble. He whimpers when I grind myself against him. “If you keep doing that,” he mumbles into my mouth, “I’ll come in my pants.”

His filthy words only encourage me to dry hump him like a horny pubescent. The knowledge he’s wearing my jersey, with my number, and my last name staking claim over him makes my hard dick throb.

My fingers tangle in his hair to pull his head sideways, and I graze my lips over the sensitive spot below his ear, thrusting my hips harder.

“Baby,” he whimpers, lifting the hem of my shirt to dig his blunt nails into my waist and pull me harder against him.

I move my mouth to his ear. “You’re going to come for me, and then you’ll sit there with a reminder of who made you explode from a simple fucking dry hump.” His hooded gaze locks on mine from the corner of his eyes, a blush covering his cheeks. As I move my hips in a hard, slow rhythm, he groans, fighting to keep his eyes open when I tighten my grip in his hair to nod his head for him. “Yes, Rome,” I encourage.