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But nothing.
The only other place would be…
Heading back upstairs, I enter Jake’s room, hearing him in the shower as he gets ready to head out on his fishing trip, and kneel down, looking underneath the bed, tables, and inside the sheets.
I didn’t take them off anywhere else but here or my room.
Where…
And then it hits me.
I wince. “Ugh, Jesus.”
Charging over to Noah’s room, I find it empty as he and Kaleb still work out in the shop, and start looking in his bed, in his pillowcase, under his pillow…
So nasty. Please tell me he wouldn’t do that. And with five pairs? Is he fourteen years old, for crying out loud?
But after minutes of searching, I still don’t find anything.
I slam his pillow down on the bed, losing patience. They didn’t just sprout legs.
Then I raise my eyes, remembering the only place I have left to look.
Kaleb.
My pulse starts to race. He wouldn’t do that.
Would he?
The idea of Kaleb wrapping my little red panties around his…
And then stroking it… I…
I’m warm between my thighs all of a sudden, but I shake my head. It’s still a violation. And since his room is the only place left to look, I’ll violate him right back.
Leaving Noah’s room, I shut the door and head toward the narrow, dark stairwell as the shower still runs in the bathroom. I hesitate only a moment before pushing myself up the stairs, my heart hammering at the idea of going somewhere I haven’t once seen yet.
And at the idea of him catching me. I’d have to be quick. His temper sucks.
I twist the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked from the outside, but it gives, and I enter, immediately seeing sunlight streaming in through the far window. Thank God. I don’t want to have to turn on a light and have him see it from the outside.
Stepping in, I close the door softly behind me and look around the large room, suddenly forgetting why I’m here.
I exhale, a smile playing on my lips. A large bed sits between two windows which must be the gables on the west side of the house—the same side my balcony faces right below him. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, spilling with books that are stuffed and stacked into every available space. Vertically, horizontally, on top of each other… Nothing has a dust jacket, and I know some of them have to be very old. He doesn’t read all these, does he? I’ve never seen him read.
A Persian-style rug covers the floor, the visible dark wood scuffed and unpolished, and a small fireplace sits a few feet down the wall from the door I just came through. I walk over, seeing the charred remnants of logs he’s burned. I inhale, smelling the burned bark as well as something else. Almost like patchouli. Or bergamot.
A table sits next to the wall with the belts and his supplies for working them, and I find more books on the floor next to his bed. The walls are pretty bare, but they’re not the lighter timber used in the rest of the house. This room looks like it’s something in the upstairs of an Old English pub. I’m surprised I don’t see old paintings on the walls.
I walk over to the table, picking up a few of the animal bones and searching for more information. This room says so much.
And still, so little.
He likes leatherwork. He likes to read. I don’t see a TV, a computer, or any electronics, though I know he has a speaker up here or something, because I hear his music sometimes.
It’s cozy, though. Dark, warm, and comfortable—a big, cushioned chair sitting in the corner of the room with another stack of books sitting next to it.
Walking over to his bedside table, I open the drawer, finding only an old copy of The Three Musketeers, a pen, and some condoms. I pick up the book, smelling it.
