Page 22 of Watched

I finally get a lung full of air when he releases my hands and slides off me. I wrap the towel back around myself, stalking to my wardrobe.

Idiot. I curse out my dick in my head, flicking on the light, and watch his grinning face disappear as I slam the door shut. Ripping the towel from my body, I pull on boxers, grey pants, and a white t-shirt, then slide my hand past the cashmere jumper on a hanger. My stomach plummets when I’m met with nothing but a wall behind. The metal hangers screech against the pole as I throw the items back.

My bat. Where the bloody hell is my bat?

Taking a deep breath, I gently open the door and step out.

“Looking for something?”

My heart jumps as I stumble backwards into the wall. Metal flicks in the light as he lifts the weapon. “You were going to beat me? That’s a little rude.”

“Get out,” I growl.

His expression changes from proudly condescending to extremely pissed off. “I told you,” he warns. I fist my trembling hands as he takes a step closer, pointing the bat at my face. “Don’t do that, Rome. I’m already so hard, it hurts, and you keep pushing me,” he finishes through his teeth.

I freeze, my body choosing stunned deer instead of fight or flight. Why can’t I fight him like I did his brother? Possibly it’s the knowledge there’s a hard metal object in his hands? But unlike when Blade had me pinned to a car, I was very aware of the weapon in my possession. Right now, I can’t think straight. I don’t think he would hurt me, but by the apparent rage in his corded body, I think it’s best I shut up.

He lowers the bat and my throat constricts as he steps eye to eye with me, engulfing me in his woodsy scent. “I don’t know why,” he says lowly, eyes searching mine, “but I jerked off today to the thought of your goddamn left eye.”

What the fuck? This bastard is sick.

“I haven’t come that hard since I fucked Alexa in the ass,” he adds.

I’ve learnt who Alexa is—his ex. He still has a few photos of them on his IG. One was prom, another was their high school graduation, a few others scattered throughout three years.

“I was protective of her,” he whispers. “But I want to kill anyone who comes near you.” He cocks his head, eyes scanning my face, like he can’t quite understand his own words. “Pick a movie, Rome.”

Chapter twelve

RAIN

He’s not touched his burrito, and I don’t like that he’s not eating. I’d found his dietary plan the first night I was looking into him, so I made sure to order one with ingredients he’s allowed in a low carb tortilla.

“Do you want me to get something else?” I ask, drifting my eyes to him sitting beside me on the bed, his knees tucked to his chest. Loose blond curls float with a shake of his head. “You’re not eating,” I press.

“Not hungry,” he mumbles.

I soften my voice, pushing the plate closer. “Please eat.”

“Get out of my house, and I will,” he snaps.

I sigh and push off the bed, sliding my feet into my loafers. I even made the effort to dress up for him tonight. The least he can do is recognise that.

“Where’s my phone?” he asks.

Taking it from under the mattress, I toss it to him. “Call the police. They won’t find me.” When I reach the doorway, my heart and still-hard cock beg me to go back and plant my ass on his bed. Instead, I look over my shoulder at him as he stares at the lit screen. “My world is dark and you’re bright. It doesn’t feel so heavy when I’m around you. But you’re horribly mistaken if you think you have any chance of being rid of me. You’re mine, Rome. Mine.”

His full lips part, captivating eyes locked on mine as the light from his phone disappears, leaving the colours from the television dancing across his face.

I go to step out but stop myself, not daring to look back and be begged harder by my body to stay. My voice sounds in the darkness of the hall. “What’s your favourite flower?”

Tension thickens the air, and I don’t expect an answer, but then a quiet whisper sounds over the movie playing. “Lilies.”

“Lilies,” I echo, a smile lifting my lips. “Understood. Goodnight, baby.”

The black iron gate glistens with rain as I drive through and then stop inside, waiting for it to close and the light on the tall, beige stone wall to flick red. White stones crunch under the tires as I take off down the quarter mile driveway toward our new fucking house.

Dad chose to move to London because it’s central to many of the projects they’re conducting throughout Europe, but I swear to fucking God, it doesn’t stop raining.